An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Lyrra.

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 metal bound tome encrusted with jewels on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Lyrra' scribed in burnt brown ink.

Author:    Lyrra          
Date:      Sat Nov 14
06:11:23 2009
Subject     Lyrra Leaves Home

Lyrra
Creekplash left home at the tender age of seventeen.  Of course,
to say left home is very relative, since most kender have left
home for extended stretches before they can 
even walk.  Lyrra,
when she said that she left home, just meant that that was when
she left without intending to go back anytime soon.

Lyrra's
parents were farmers outside of Kendermore:  at least, they were
farmers during those rare seasons when they remembered to harvest
the disorganized patches of muddled 
vegetables they called their
crops and bring them to the free-for-all of the Kendermore
marketplace. But most of the time they were distracted by some
pressing journey or 
another and the vegetables were left to
either rot in the fields, be eaten by rabbits, or be pilfered by
the small clan of gully dwarves living in the muddy, brambly
ravine 
adjacent to the Creekplash household.  Kender of the soil
they were nonetheless, and Lyrra grew up with a great
appreciation for the stuff, often covered head to toe in it after
a day exploring the ravine with her filthy neighbors.

One day,
Lyrra was exploring in a rural pub a few miles down the road from
the Creekplash farmstead -- The Blight and Weevil, it was called.
 She was happily rifling through the 
possessions of the
bargoers, and picking up anything that looked interesting  the
inebriated did not take very good care of their things, after
all, and she just wanted to
make sure they didn't lose anything
really fascinating.

She was just acquiring a really cool fold-up
hunting knife from a hulking farmhand when the bartender beckoned
her over.  She skipped happily to the bar, hoping he was about to

give her something good - or praise her for taking such good
care of the drunks.

"This isn't the first time you've been in
here, kender," growled the bartender.  "You live near
here?"

"Why, yes!" Lyrra said proudly.  "I live in the farmhouse
just down the road!"

The bartender seemed to be cursing under
his breath.  Lyrra wondered why.  
"Listen..." The bartender's
tone suddenly became conspiratorial.  Lyrra clambered up onto a
barstool and leaned in to listen.  This must be important! she
thought.  "You are
a very special kender.  You got, um, let's
see...eyes that are a special color, and you got that birthmark."
 He pointed to a mole she'd always had on her upper arm.  "Do you
know what that means?"

Lyrra shook her head.  "No, what?"

"It
means that you're, uh, the chosen one!  Yeah, that's it.  You've
got to go on a quest!"

"Wow!" Lyrra breathed.  "I didn't know
that about me.  What do I have to do?"

"You have to go away,
far, far away, and, uh..."  He thought for a moment.  Lyrra
fidgeted impatiently.  Surely he couldn't have forgotten
something this important!  "Find
me the feathers of a mutterbird.
 You know what that is?"

"A mutterbird?" She stroked her chin,
poring over the lore of the natural world that she had gleaned
from her time exploring the ravine and the surrounding woods. 
"No idea!"

"It's a huge bird.  Size of a darned pony.  It's got,
uh, horns on its back.  It can't fly.  It's brown with big yellow
eyes.  And it can kill ya!"  His voice grew soft and
grave.

"Wow!  I'd like to see one!  A bird with horns!"

"That's
right.  And it's, um, it's so dangerous that you have to go steal
its feathers and bring 'em here.  If it doesn't have its feathers
it won't be so dangerous anymore.  The feathers are
poisonous."
Lyrra frowned.  "Are you pulling my leg?"

"Of course
not!  Why would I?"

"Well, then, if I'm the chosen one," she
said, hopping off the barstool, "I'd better go off on my quest! 
I'll just go home and pack some things.  Thanks for letting me
know!" 
And so she left, taking some of the silverware and the
bartender's dagger with her.  She'd need it when she faced that
dangerous mutterbird, of course - he'd understand.

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.'