The Great Library of Palanthas

An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Gethsemane.

A little gully dwarf runs by and says 'Wordwrap is at 65. You change? 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 small volume on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Gethsemane' scribed in deep brown ink.



Author:  Gethsemane
Date    Mon Dec 31 04:28:18 2001


Subject  Gethsemane and Zuzanah Detraehl, from the Shadow (1)



Born to a spring tryst between a young Qualinesti and a younger
Human maiden,
Gethsemane and Zuzanah Detraehl were far from the product of a
loving
environment.

Their father left them not long after conception, never knowing,
and to this
day not knowing, of their existence.  Their mother went through
mate after
mate after abuse after abuse, and eventually the twins grew tired
of it.

They left their home in the crossroads of Jelek to travel to the
capital of
Neraka.

Zuzanah found work as an errand girl to an ailing dark mage,
bringing his
attention to the twins.  He agreed to teach them the paths of
magic, if only
to keep them from falling into the wrong hands.  Unfortunately,
the dark mage
no longer had the health of his youth, and they had learned on
the basics of
the craft under his tuteledge.

Gethsemane Detraehl is now a dusky-skinned boy of 17, with empty
eyes, and
hair that seems to trap the starry sky within it.  He's as tall
as some
barbarians, but slight of build and almost sickly.  The mage
always resisted
resisted the 'just another drone' mentality, and has nearly
killed party
members for referring to him simply as 'mage'.  His individuality
is sacred as
are his traditions what few remain.  Gethsemane has no
compassion, some would
go so far as to say no soul, and no love for anything save for
his craft.

The sole exception to that rule is his sister, Zuzanah.  He
values her as
merchants value their steel, and will violently protect her from
anything he
would view as unjust harm.  Zuzanah equals her brother in height,
but here the
similarities end.  While she is thin, her body is well toned, and
it it is
apparent that she is the more athletic of the two.  Her skin is
pale white in
comparison to her sibling, and her eyes seem to glow behind her
black hood, a
brilliant mix of green, blue, and gold.  Her smile is charismatic
She could
easily be mistaken for an elven princess, if not for her black
robes.

Her hair is light blond, almost white, and shines with any light
that touches
touches it.  She wears it in a long braid that hangs over her
shoulder, down
to her waist.  Many a man has mistaken Zuzanah for easy prey, and
they have
have met the consequences. While she looks harmless enough, her
temper has
been known to be deadly.  The only thing Zuz finds dear in her
life is her
brother, and even so, he feels her wrath when the wrong words are
spoken.
Gethsemane's protective nature clashes with her persistence of
independence,
and has complicated many situations.  Even so, she would never
leave his side,
and has been at that side for their entire 17 years.

Alone in Neraka, with nothing but what their former master left
them, the
twins found an old friend from their childhood... adventure. 
They wandered
desert wastelands, encountered Chromatic Dragons, and lived
through at least
ten different types of poisoning.  That was the only beginning...


'Getshemane of the Shadow, night of storms' to follow...



Author:  Gethsemane
Date    Fri Jan  4 11:05:06 2002


Subject  Gethsemane of the Shadow, Night of the Storm (2)



It was raining that day, and the figure in black looked out of
his window.

Sheets of rain slammed into the cobbled streets of Sanction
below, playing a
never-ending rhythm.  He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of
his nose, and
then looked down at the leather-bound book before him.  He stood
slowly, and
opened the pane of the window.  Looking out, he saw seasoned
troopers drilling
new recruits in the rain.

Hearing a knock at his door, he turned.  He opened it widely,
peering left and
right.  Nothing greeted him.  A loud crack of thunder echoed
through the city
streets, rattling window.  Gethsemane gathered his traveling
gear, and for no
reason more explainable than to find out what that bolt hit.

He took his favored warpony from the stables, saddled it himself,
and rode out
into the streets of Neraka alone.  Taking the slow wisps of smoke
smoke barely
visible through the rain as his compass, he skirted around
troopers and street
urchins alike.  Not ten minutes out of Neraka, and he already
felt
waterlogged.  The rain fell hard enough for bruises to form
underneath them. 
The roar of the raindrops steadily increased as the pony slipped
and skittered
its way along the muddy trail.

Gethsemane found what he was looking for... what that insane urge
led him to
through a torrential downpour.  In the middle of the wilderlands
amid amid mud
and brambles, towered what was once a beautiful and eternal oak. 
Now age,
violence, and weather had contorted it into a mangled piece of
tortured wood.

"Tis a pity, my sister was not here to see this..." at that
moment the crack
of a small piece of hidden timber from behind him alerted the
dark mage of
danger.

He spun his mount around only to catch two crossbow bolts. 
Gathering energy
energy around him, he shouted into the wind, "Come out into the
open, Filth! 
Die like the insect you are!"  The lightning veritably crackled
around him,
and his long starred hair flew behind him in the winds.  At a bit
of motion he
released it all in a surge of lightning that splintered a tree
and
disintegrated a highwayman.

With a sigh and a grimace, the mage began dislodging the bolts
stuck in his
shoulder and thigh.  Feeling a prickly feeling on his neck, he
turned on his
mount to witness his death.  An archer wearing black leather
stood at the edge
of the small clearing.  His bow was leveled at the mages chest,
an arrow with
a disturbingly black barbed head nocked and ready.  "Tis a pity,
my sister was
not here to see this..." and at that moment a look of shocked
resignation
registered on the archers face. He fell to his knees, then on his
face...

bowstring held still in death.  Gethsemane nodded to himself, and
after
finishing the grisly task of removing the bolts, walked over to
inspect the
body of the fallen archer.

He found the obligatory silvers, a gold or two, but stuck in the
back of the
archer was a small elongated dagger.  Black flames rippled along
the length of
the blade, and it seemed to suck in what little light was there
in the night.

Etched in Elven along the blade in light blue read, 'Thanasiao es
Cynlurai,
Cynlurai Cynlurai es Thanasiao'.  "Death is Beauty, Beauty is
death... A
lesson hard learned...

and a mystery unsolved." The mage glanced to whatever hidden
figure might be
beyond the woodline, watching over him.  He then mounted his
pony, and lost
consciousness as he let it lead him back home to Sanction.



Author:  Gethsemane
Date    Tue Feb 19 11:56:32 2002


Subject  Peace... of a sorts



The futile sounds of sand hurling itself against the wind resound
into the
depths of the earth.  Several floating lights illuminate the
chamber, but they
flicker, and sometimes dim into nothingness. Three huge granite
cisterns cast
dancing shadows throughout the huge chamber.

The chamber itself is easily a hundred feet tall, and sixty feet
in diameter. 
Echoes from the raging sandstorm above dance along glass walls.

Gethsemane sits alone in his chamber letting his new homeland
serenade him to
sleep. He lays his head against the travel-worn pack that has
been his pillow
for close to a month now.  The smooth finish fo the smoky glass
that is his
bed shimmers in the half-light.  The mage ignores the shadows,
the annoyingly
hard bed, and the lack of "human" contact.  Tiroth comes and
goes... but
without much conversation.  He brings with him darker things than
shadows:
plague, disease, and demons from the abyss.  The occasional
acolyte will
follow Tiroth through the gates that this mage opens, but they
talk little and
respect Gethsemane for the power that he is.

Gethsemane finds his comfort in his shadows.  The shadows
flitting so
capriciously along the walls aren't merely products of light and
cistern.

They are living , thinking creatures, to a degree at least. 
Their hard chill
caresses bring warmth and comfort to the mage as he tries to
sleep.  These
enemies of life and light and darkness are his friends.

The "Lord of Shadows" lies awake, listening to the whispers of
his family, and
the echoes of his homeland.  Sometimes... in the middle of the
night, when
only those two sounds are present, the world slips away from him.

His life bleeds into his cold glass floor/bed until he, too, is a
shadow.

Those nights, like this one, Gethsemane finds contentment and
real
happiness...

but those moments are fleeting, and too few and far between.

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.'
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