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.
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