An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Ilkonis.

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 an enormous book on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Ilkonis' scribed in unearthly grey ink.

Author:  Ilkonis
Date    Mon Dec  1 19:24:00 2003



Subject  Part I - A beginning.



Every good fairy tale begins and ends pleasantly.  Its story is
wrought with
victorious champions of the "good" and despicable bearers of the
"evil."  It
is riddled with beautiful and marvelous sights of the land, and
tales of the
glories of far away places.

My story is no fairy tale.  It begins with a simple house in the
mountains to
the west of the Blood Sea.

Its views are of a churning, ever-violent sea of storms, and of
volatile
volcanoes, and of a hazy, dark city called Sanction.  There is no
true "good"
or "evil."

This home was built by the hands of a kind man, my father.  He
stood tall and
straight, his hands calloused and his eyes kind.  He always held
to the values
of right, and sought after the good of others, often times at his
own expense.
 He lived there with my mother, whose kindness dwarfed that of my
father, and
was over- shadowed only by her shy nature.  She was well-learned
in the arts
of healing, a women who followed the god- dess Mishakal, and
often aid people
in secret.  And for her kindness she was rewarded with suspicion,
and whispers
of "witch" were often spoken in the shadows.

My father was a fighter, a very skilled one.  He preferred the
style of combat
that used no weapons, only the weapons given to him by his god,
Majere.  His
weapons were his hands and feet.  However, he knew the use of the
sword, and
other weapons.  Men came from far to beg him for teaching and
instruction, but
he told them he had no desire to add more destruction to this
world.  And for
that he was hated, and his truly kind heart was ignored.

Into this household a child was born.  That child was me.  I
lived in that
house for the first few months of my life.  The brevity of my
stay there was
not of my choosing, or that of my mother or father.  For some
reason that I
may never truly understand, the foolish, petty hatred of a single
household
within the near- by village cost me my first home... and my
mother.

They came under cover of night, while my father was away.  They
knew that if
he was there, their attempt at murder would never be realized. 
So complete
was their cowardess in burning the house of a young woman and her
helpless
child.

My father felt something wrong in his heart, and raced back to
find his home
in ashes.  Within the smoldering remains, he found the charred
body of a
beautiful woman, clutching something beneath her.  Tears filled
his blue eyes,
and he fell to his knees in despair.  From there, a muffled sound
was heard. 
It was imperceptible at first, but growing in fervency.  The cry
of a child. 
Beneath the wasted form of my mother was a baby.

She gave her life to spare mine.

My father took me from that place to the north.  He had never
wished to train
anyone in the art of fighting.

His hopes for me had been to make me a healer, as my mother was. 
But she was
dead, and he knew no art to teach me but that of a fighter.  And
he had no
desire to release me to the world's teachings at my young age.

So he began to teach me of the honor of fighting.  And, when I
was old enough,
he gave me a sword, and began my training as a fighter.  But all
attempts at
the use of weapons were met with absolute failure.  My father was
becoming
discouraged quickly, thinking me completely unable to fight. 
Seeing my
father's frustration, I grew angry, and simply punched the wooden
doll I had
been trying to use for practice on with my sword.  The center of
the wooden
dummy nearly split in two, as the anger I had harnessed into that
single
strike was released in the blow from my first.  From that day on,
for the
first eighteen years of my life, I trained my body to be my
weapon.  I trained
as a monk next to the Blood Sea, where I honed my mind, body, and
spirit into
a dangerous weapon.



Author:  Ilkonis
Date    Mon Dec  1 19:42:01 2003



Subject  Part II - The Red Fist.



I would like to say now that I left his tutelage in a good state,
having
learned all that I could from him.

I would like to tell you that all of his kindness and goodness
had implanted
itself upon my heart and soul.

But that would be a lie.  Anger smoldered deep within my being. 
It made me
who I was.  I longed for vengeance against those who had stolen
the life of my
mother from her... from me.  The teachings of Majere never even
began to make
an impact upon my life.  I held to the belief in the honor of
fighting, and
learned all I could about the art of fighting.  But only so I
could one day
destroy those cowardly dogs.  I think my father sensed this
anger, but he said
nothing.  I heeded his words and, on the surface, absorbed his
lessons in
kindness...

For a time.

My father, however, could see this spark of hatred within me, and
was troubled
by it.  He had taught me how to channel my feelings into my
fists, and make
them truly deadly.  And he could feel something powering my
blows.  Not the
calculated fury of righteous anger, but the unbridled rage of
dark hatred in
my heart.  When he and I sparred, I was now hitting harder, and
faster than he
could.  He had taught me all he could about the ways of fighting.
 Now he
sought to remove this anger from me.  I lacked temperance, and he
knew it.

My father thought he could heal my anger.  So, he took me back to
where my
anger started.  He took me home...

to meet with those who stole my mother from him... from me.  He
presented
himself before this household with open arms.  Telling them that
all had been
forgiven.  Wishing that things could once again be right...  he
was naive
enough to believe that their cowardice had been dulled by time. 
The elder of
the house, backed by his three sons, came to my father's open
arms.  Right to
his heart.  But not with an embrace.  They met his warm love with
cold steel. 
They gave him the ultimate rejection.  And he never fought back. 
They laughed
at his folly, and expected me to be prey to the same weakness.

My character is not flawed by weakness.

Their deaths were swift: however, they were anything but
merciful.  I exacted
my revenge from them in their own treacherous blood.  My hands
became the
symbol of my newly chosen deity.  My hands became the Red
Fists of
Sargonnas.  Their blood ran freely in the streets, and all knew
who was
responsible for their gory deaths.

I was branded as "evil."  I suppose I am.  Whatever I was... I
was right.

I became a monk of evil, embracing the side of darkness.  I was
an odd mix.  I
was fully evil, caring little for the good of others, or for
doing works of
kindness and benevolence.  I never adopted the practices of
treachery,
cowardice and dishonor.  Battle was meant to be a contest of
honor, not of
sneaky and underhanded tactics.  I would not be like those who
killed my
mother.  But with the only person I had ever known now dead I
found myself... 
rather I find myself seeking a type of companionship.

Honorable evil.  Those words seem like they should never be used
together in
the same sentence.  But as I pondered a place where I could find
people who
held to such an odd idea, my dreams started to become troubled. 
In them, a
five-headed dragon, and a beautiful temptress whispered things to
me... things
about you, Knights of Takhisis.

So I come to you now, seeking to learn more of you.  And perhaps
find a place
that I can call my new home.

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 mentions 'We have had over 869 storytellers on Ansalon pen their epic stories here for all to read.'