An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Bathrak.

A little gully dwarf runs by and says 'Wordwrap Off 65 80.'
The gully continues 'Eyes hurt? Turn Color OFF!! (regular story dates)

Astinus says 'Enter the main library here to view only the author list.'
Astinus gently places a brief catalogue on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Bathrak' scribed in brilliant orange ink.

Author:    Bathrak        
Date:      Tue Oct 31 14:49:37 2017
Subject     HSQ2017 - Bathrak's Bumblings

What few, coarse have have taken root on the back of your neck stand on
end. Years of fighting, killing and pillaging have honed that natural sense
of danger, but nothing prepared you for this. The Commander, or so the
warmage ogre leader of your den has taken to calling himself, heard reports
and received magical scrying on this cave, but seemingly nothing could
penetrate the muck and the ooze. Not only looking for a way to prove
yourself, but also being one of the few ogres that The Commander didn't see
as a threat, you were chosen to personally see to the scouting and likely
eradiacation of whatever this cave hid. Taking four goblins and a hob as
your lackeys, you descend into the tunnel.

Deeper. The tunnel slowly declines into the ground, and remarkably remains
large enough to continue fitting your flabby ogre body. The hardest part of
the journey, so far, has been -not- eating the petulant little goblins as
they continuously scamper off thinking they've found some long lost treasure
from the Cataclysm. The hob has kept pace rather well, though any critter
with a heartbeat sends him into a blind rage, and he has darted off out of
sight at least a handful of times. 

Cramped. The tunnel has started thinning out, and the rocky ground has
turned into a wet, mushy padding. The walls exude an intermittent green
ooze, like a dying plant and smelling little better. At least this is
comfortable for you. Despite the smaller size of the tunnel, the smell and
feel is almost like home. As the walls narrow further, the green slime seems
to allow for easier, lubricated passage. Two of the goblins tried to eat it,
and have been left behind. 

Bored and bickering, the last of the two goblins start fight, after
argument, after little squabble. You can see in the Hob's eyes that even he
is debating tearing off one of their arms just to beat them into submission.
How far does this tunnel go? It has been at least half the day, and you've
missed four good meals. The tunnel cramps further, and it begins to feel as
though you're forcing a spear into a keyhole. Ahead the tunnel ceases
becoming narrow, and even with your darklight vision, the tunnel seems to
end. Entirely. 

The last of the two goblins, and the hobgoblin, press ahead while you are
forced to lean into the decline and hope the oozing walls provide enough
lubrication to slip though... *pop*. Like a forest bear strugglign after
honey, your form almost simultaneously becomes stuck, and relieves itself
through the end of the tunnel, hitting a smooth stone floor with a loud
thud. You can't see the goblins anymore, but even more disturbing is that
you can't hear them, either. The hob, you hear just fine, though mostly it
is the groaning and popping of a dead body being crushed by the immense
weight of an ogre. You're alone, and you can't even tell where you plopped
out of the wall. Rummaging around for a long time, you strike flint to
steel, and your oily torch gags to life. Even with its yellow-orange gaze,
all you can see is darkness on all sides. A few lumber steps to the left,
you can see a wall, dripping and oozing with the same green lubricant as the
tunnel but thick, at least two ogre-fingers thick and almost pulsing. The
three hairs on your neck tingle again. 

Turning around with a gagging torch in one hand, and your broken halberd
raised and ready to strike, your eyes settle onto more vast nothingness. You
look up, you look back to the wall, you turn around again. Nothing. The
hairs still tingle, and you can hear something. A chanting, maybe? No, a
chant would be harmonious. This was the sound of a hundred voices, all
talking over one another in the most irritating uproar you've heard since
that village in the Khalkists thought a battle cry would frighten you. Those
were enemies you could see. You could smell them, and you could taste their
blood. Here there is nothing but darkness, ooze, and rampant chattering of
unseen voices. Clapping your hands to your ears, you lumber away from the
wall but the sounds become crazed and heightened. The sound has begun to
fill your ears, your head, your mouth and even your nose. Plopping down on
the ground, plant your head to the ground as if to block out the screams,
when something cold and moist boops you on the nose. Opening your eyes, you
see nothing, until you look further down. 

A ragged gully-dwarf female with hair in all the colors of refuse looks up
at you, wearing a lopsided grin and not much else. Holding up a rat-skull
bucket, she says "Trick or Treat Big Bad Bathrak!" You've stumbled into a
Gully-hole, with no noticeable way out. The Commander seems to have gotten a
laugh at your expense, but you have one way out. Closing your eyes tight,
you whisper a prayer to the Lord of Bones, giving up on life in the midst of
being stuck in Gully-town forever. 

Chemosh has forsaken you. 

The Storytellers of Ansalon, The DragonLance MUD

Astinus points to the massive wall of books behind him and bids you to make a selection.

Authors: All|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z
Astinus sighs as he recants 'We saved 868 books from Ansalon from before the great Cataclysm through today.'