An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Kevril.

A little gully dwarf runs by and says 'Wordwrap is at 80. 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 miniscule pocket book on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Kevril' scribed in dull green ink.

Author:    Kevril         
Date:      Sat Jun  2 19:21:54
2007
Subject     Malion

Coincidentally, I had just finished my second
week of boot camp.
Saige thought that it would toughen me up, as if I wasn't
tough 
already. Don't they know that scrawnies does not equate to
weakness?
Maybe in the physical sense of the word, compared to
that brute, Merek, but
mentally, I was as tough as they come.
You had to be tough where I come from,
weakness is death. That
was the motto of the orphan gang I came from, the NS13.
I could
tell you what that means, but then you'd have to join us, and
most
people wouldn't want that. But back to the relevant point...
 
The first week of
boot camp involved fighting techniques and a
specialized night session for
clerical spells for the Skull
inductees. Thorns' had a similar thing, warriors
got off easy.
After the first week was over, I was considered battle
ready,
still untested though. The second week was how to fight in a
unit, and
how to work alone in the field, somewhat contradictory.
We were taught to
survive on our own: hunting, fishing, tracking,
etc. They then related that to
tracking and hunting prey, the
sentient kind. I'm sure you're wondering how this
all ties in
to the coincidence I first mentioned. On the first day of the
last
week, we were blind folded and magically teleported to
an unknown place and had
to find our way back, bonus points if
someone brought in a victim.
 
I was
teleported somewhere in the Taman Busuk, not too far from
the camp, as I
recognized the landmark that was nearby the area.
As part of our training, we
were told to stay out at least three
days. I made my way down the mountain, when
I came upon a cave.
Figuring it to be a warm bit of shelter that I could use, I
lit
a torch and entered. At about the same time, another young man,
a teen
roughly my age, approached from a side tunnel. He was
wearing tattered grey
robes, and wore a necklace bearing an
upside down axe. Momentarily stunned by
the shock of encountering
one another, we merely stood there gaping. Then, I
backed out of
the cave, where I could use my spells more openly. He
followed,
and the fight that ensued could have only one victor.
 
I could tell
that I was infinitely more prepared than he. As I
slowly backed up, I muttered
various protection incantations.
My senses heightened three fold; I could taste
the cold that
eminated from the snow falling around us; I could feel the
pine
needles as they crunched quietly beneath my feet; I
could hear him muttering his
own incantations, far different
than mine; I could not hear the aide he had, a
wild hog,
until it was upon me and speared me to the floor. I managed to
wrestle
it off of me, but he had disappeared when I rose. I
slit the hog's throat,
intending to make it a meal later.
 
This is where the coincidence occurs.
Having just learned to
track, I was able to put it to good use, following his
foot
steps in the snow. Quickly, I scrambled down the mountain
after him to
another cave. I squatted above it, patiently
awaiting my prey, a spell at the
ready. I saw him poke his
head out and look around. I held my breath and drew
back
into the shadows. Apparently he felt it safe because he
emerged into the
open. I cast my spell upon him and
leaped down from my cover. He grabbed his
face, moaning
about the loss of his sight. Quickly, I cast another spell,
aimed
at dulling his intelligence. As he started to stumble
around, his instincts took
over, and he uttered words of
magic to some unknown deity that allowed him to
regain
control of his thought process. He dove back into the cave,
still
blinded. I prayed to Takhisis, for her divine power,
so that I might strike down
this foe. I grasped snow with
both hand and held them before me, staring deeply
into
the cave. Icicles formed from the snow and flew into the
cave. I knew
they'd found their mark, as his screams
penetrated the cold mist settling down
upon the mountain.
 
I entered the cave to find him writhing on the
floor,
bloodied and blind from Takhisis's cruel might. I lightly
healed his
wounds, so that he would live, albeit in pain.
Praying once more to Takhisis, I
magically bound my
peer and left him there, intending to bring him back to
camp
after my three days were up. I tracked back up to
the first cave and found the
hog with a layer of snow
upon it. It wasn't long before I had it ready to eat.

The night of the third day arrived and I brought the
remaining meat down to the
lower cave, ready to return
to the boot camp. When I arrived, torch in hand,
I
found the cave empty. On the floor, in bubbling blood,
was the mark of
Morgion. I dropped the meat and fled
from the cave, fearing disease. Fevers and
chills
corrupted me as I fell to the snow. Fortunately,
Takhisis is a powerful
Goddess. As I lay there,
praying to her, I became calm again, healed and pure.
I
continued my thanks to her as I finished my trek
down the mountain. When I
arrived at camp, I had
nothing to flaunt but my stories, and I told them
despite
all critics and non-believers. At that time,
a wizened Thorn mage came from his
tent, grey beard
and all, and confirmed my tale, stating a Vision
from Her
Majesty as his proof.
 
I have four days left before I graduate this awful
boot
camp. Then, I will be able to serve Her Majesty
completely. I am Hers, body,
mind, and soul.
 
24 Hours to Malion, this is with regards to my
warnote.

Author:    Kevril         
Date:      Mon Jun  4
22:25:57 2007
Subject     Dhavine

I wiped my blood-stained mace on his
torn, tarnished robes, more properly
termed rags.  As the acidic spikes slid
across his tunic, the threads pulled
apart like cobwebs.  One of the spikes
caught on his rippled muscles, and I
tore it free with ease.  The acid helped
with that.  I dared not rifle
through his pouches, nor touch his coin purse. 
Strangely, I found that this
minotaur was a zealot of disease, an affiliate of
the deranged cult of
Morgion.  This was his second follower I'd pursued in two
weeks.  

I magically bound his hands and feet, beyond what a carnival
contortionalist
would attempt.  The clearing we were in was small, too small to
accomodate
the disease that coursed through His fanatic.  The grass turned black
and
spiked, not dead, deadly.  Methodically, I kicked his unconscious body
to
the edge of the clearing, where the trees began to mutate into wicked
things.
 Not that I cared for this forest that played host to so many of The
Rustlord's
followers.  

The edge of the clearing was two fold.  It also served as the
beginning of a
steep ravine.  Finding a thick branch for leverage, I was able to
roll the
minotaur out of the clearing.  As the branch began to turn black and
barbed,
I threw it after the rolling sap.  The only sounds to echo out of the
small
canyon were of sliding rocks and the tumbling stick, both of which ceased
as
the two objects splashed into the creek.  

I abandoned the two and made the
return hike back to camp.  It was the final
day of my three week boot camp. 
Strength had descended upon me as quickly
as an aghar would a rat.  The past
week had been honing my strength, honor,
and clerical prowess.  Chain of command
was tossed in as an added bonus, but
all military recruits were expected to know
enough to follow orders.  The
camp had been my home for the past three weeks;
finally, it was over.  It
was the locus of strictness, it was the locus of
independence, it was the
habitat of enlightenment, it was the habitat of
unlearning, it was the abode
of freedom, it was the abode of bondage.  

24
Hours to Dhavine

Author:    Kevril         
Date:      Fri Jul
13 07:13:55 2007
Subject     The
Return


----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It
had been long since my feet left their impression upon the desert sands
of my
people.  Near to a decade ago, I left the place I called home for
foreign lands.
 I sought fame, riches, women; I sought what any tribal youth
dreams of but on a
grander scale.  The petty tribal quarrels resided below
the clouds of my
ambitions.  

Now, nearly nine years later, I return.  I bring no fame, no
riches, no
women; I bring maturity, knowledge, and the clerical talents of a
malevolent
goddess.  My adventures from Solamnia to Icewall, from Kothas to
Neraka,
have shown me the workings of a complicated world.  Listening to the
humans,
the dwarves, the minotaurs, has created a vast well of knowledge about
the
viewpoints of each race.  But my people do not care of the rift
between
mountain and hill dwarves, nor of the brutality of the minotaur's
colliseum.
They think only about fame, riches, and women.  

I have felt the
stirrings of the people that I have talked to.  There is an
anxiousness in the
air, a readiness.  Already, I have seen Knights gathering
their armies.  Enlist?
 Doubtful.  My usefulness goes beyond a pike holder
and a meat shield.  My Queen
has enticed me to join her Knights, but I am
not one for formalities.  I have
come to realize that I can make a name for
myself, leave my stamp upon Krynn. 


I am the stamp and my people are the ink.  With their blood I will make
my
mark.  They have no clue of my intentions; they cannot think past the
three
themes of their life.  Once I have gained the support of my tribe, I
will
bring the other tribes of Khur under my flag.  Coercively, peaceful
or
violently.  The more people the better, but only the strongest will
survive
in the end.  If the weak die in the process, it is nature's way.  

As I
have mentioned, the return is at hand.  I bring back various trinkets,
even the
armor of a Knight of Takhisis.  Riches and shiny objects impress. 
Thin wisps of
smoke float on the wind in the distance, invisible to the
untrained eye.  The
tribe resides in the same place it did almost nine years
ago.  My return should
be interesting. 


----------------------------------------------------------------------------

To
quote Sirrion: "Madness? This..is...Krynn!"

Author:    Kevril        

Date:      Wed Jul 18 06:27:47 2007
Subject     Tribal
Recognition

The return could not have gone better.  

Honestly, I
expected hostility of some sort.  Undoubtedly, I knew, the tribe
would not take
well to the desertion that had taken place so long ago.  I
returned, though,
bearing the captured armor of a Knight of Takhisis and
numerous trinkets that
awed and amazed them.  It amazed me to think how like
them I used to be.  My
worldly travels had changed that.  I sought fame,
riches, and women, but on a
far grander scale.  To be famous?  I'd rather be
infamous.  To be rich?  I'd
rather be obnoxiously wealthy.  And to have
women?  How many women resist
flocking to the powerful?  I explained my
travels in great detail.  Many of them
were too absorbed in my various
items, but a few of the smarter ones could see
my plan.  They knew that
glory would fall on the followers of my triumphs.  

It
was not long before word had spread to the closest neighboring tribes,
and men
came, curiously, trying to find what kind of deserter returned to
lead his
people to their deaths.  But upon our becoming acquainted, it was
obvious that
my men would rarely die, should they provide not to be weak. 
That was the
standard by which I allowed men to flock to: be weak and die,
the strong go to
war.  

While the men returned to their tribes to spread the word, I had a
meeting
with the shamans of my tribe.  Mine was a small tribe, most men
consisting
of shamans and healers.  The magic was strong in my community. 
The
warriors, the fighters, I knew, would come from the other tribes. 
Victory
was waiting in the wings.  

The meeting went smoothly.  These men were
not stupid; it was apparent that
they were aware of the fame, riches, and women
that were coming with this
war.  They accepted me as their wartime leader, with
which I was content
because that is the only thing I need them for.  

As the
shamans dispersed to spread the word, I was hospitably granted a
tent.  Outside
of my tent I left a parchment and ink on a table.  Each
morning, when I awoke, I
found more names added to the list and more tents
camped around mine.  My
numbers were swelling rapidly.  I was going to milk
my lands dry of fighting
men.  I held my stamp over Ansalon at the ready;
all I needed was the ink.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dedicated
to the Flamer.

The Storytellers of Ansalon, The DragonLance MUD

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