The Great Library of Palanthas
An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.
Stories of Ansalon from the view of Tycho.
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 journal on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Tycho' scribed in brilliant red ink.
Author: Tycho Date: Fri Aug 7 13:05:43 2020 Subject Final Consideration: Into the Breach (White)
Tycho Tyrandus awoke, though he knew not that he slept. His mind was simply, again aware of his own existence and presence. The magi was neither encumbered by the daze that accompanies natural sleep, but neither did he feel refreshed. Tycho was, and without any second thought, there. The field in which Tycho awoke stretch outward, seemingly forever in all directions. The golden yellow grass was not unfamiliar to him, although he could not name the region in which he now stood. Acting only on some instinct, Tycho strode forward without knowing why other than he was compelled to move. He walked for a time, although the sun above did not move in the sky. But more concerning, Tycho could not calculate the position of the three moons that hung ever present in the sky. He still felt the flow of the arcane in and around him, and so knew that the gods of magic still granted the Gift. Perhaps, he thought to himself, the three walked the earth in some avatar form. Tycho walked straight, through the endless plains, until finally, a new monument broke the horizon. Unnatural, terribly and pulsing with some alien power, a thin rent hunt in mid air breathing out some foul fog. What existed through the rent could not be clearly seen, but something large slithered back and forth the fracture. Coming to a halt a safe distance, the mage took in the sight, curiosity but not amazed. As if this was to be expected in such a place. Tycho cataloged the appropriate actions, strategized whether to contain, heal or widen the rent. Lost in his thought, the mage did not see the other clad in white appearing by his side. Wizen and wrinkled, but speaking with wisdom in his voice, the other clad in white spoke. I can stood guard for an age. So long, that my vigil has been forgotten. Have you been called, but not by me, in this time of need. As if on cue, the rent pulsed violently and whatever resided on the other side became clear. As unnatural and horrible as the rent, a lithe hand with far too many fingers clawed at the edges of the fracture. Ichor oozes from the appendages, and wide-staring eyes embedded in the joints glared at Tycho. But Tycho remained unphased and replied to the other clad in white. I have been called, but I act of my own accord. This shall not come to pass. And with that, Tycho brought words of power to his lips and stepped forward. The crack of the arcane shattered the air, and Tycho battled to keep the hand at bay. The battle was terribly, scarring the land around the rent beyond recognition. Tycho wrestle the arcane to his will, shaping it to deliver destructio. The Hand retreated, its flesh lacerated and sloughing sheets of flesh that dissolved into fine black mist. Drained, but still standing, Tycho closed his connection to the Gift. The other clad in white nodded solemnly before speaking again. You are skilled, no doubt. Stand here, and guard this plane. For the sake of safety. But Tycho shook his head and countered. Others will come, perhaps has talented as I. I must press on, there is much I must understand. And Tycho strode to the rent and pushed his way inside. *** To Be Continued ***
Tycho Tyrandus stood on the other side of the rent, his boots slowly sinking into swampy loam, brackish water chilling his toes. Where the plain was perpetually stuck at midday, this realms misty dusk forced a painful adjustment. What more, there was a noise here, unlikely Tycho had ever heard. Deep, rhythmic pounding not unpleasant but deep in timbre. But oddly, it was matched by an arhythmic whining, high-pitched and flowing, as if some mockery of a melody. It was with surprise that Tycho realize that it was music he heard. Again, guided by some instrinct, Tycho pressed forward through the swamp. Squelching through grime and rot, huge gnarly trees appeared through the mist, each one bent and curled in impossible ways. Again, the place was familiar, but Tycho could not recall how. Tycho trekked on, the dusk neither growing deeper nor relenting. He could no longer trust himself to navigate back to the rent. And so, he pressed, seemingly drawn to whoever or whatever, played the strange music. The close he mage got, the faster the music played. Close and close, until it reached a fever pitch. There, a clearing with some pulsing light, Tycho knew that was where he was meant to be. He pushed through black and purple foliage into what was some primitive village. Ramshackle abodes made of all manner of crude materials encircled a gather. Some were huts made of the same peet from the swamp, others were propped up on precarious slits of black wood and secured with thorny vines. And in the central circle, Tycho saw what made the music that drew him in. The villages, certainly elven, but pre-historic perhaps, covered in runic markings and adorned with fetishes that pierced their skin. These elves were smaller their the race that Tycho knew well. He stood at least a head over most, though many slouched or curled in the back. They danced feverishly, pounding drums and blowing into horns made of some hollowed out gourds, ignoring Tycho completely. Tycho stood, transfixed, until suddenly a central elf appeared through in the chaos. A chief, or some sort, more fabulously adorned in fetishes than the rest. He cackled and howled in time with the music, but stared with a hunger at the Tycho. A final flourish brough the music to an abrupt stop. There was a moment where the villages finally acknowledged Tycho, and he them. The chief spoke, his words slurred, as if he was drunk. Interloper, why have you come? Tycho replied calmly. The horror survives. Unacceptable. Shrieking, the chief response. You cannot slay the horror. Not as you are. Tycho regarded the chief for a moment. Then how? Cackling again, the chief offered out his hand. Become like us. Tycho looked around, beginning to understand. The music, the rhythmic pulsing - power dragged from the fetishes and runes. These elves drew foul energy from this realm. Tycho addressed the chief. What price do you pay? The chief did not response outlaid, only holding up his outstretched hand. A wide-staring eye stared out form his palm, unblinking and ever roving. We are horror. Tycho sneered. Unacceptable. Thunder crackled in the distance. And Tycho rained fury down upon the village. Tycho knelt down beside the charred body of the chief. Lifeless as it was, it spoke in a rasping voice. Not as you are. And Tycho responded Then I shall become more. *** To Be Continued ***
The spongy ground of the village center quivered around Tychos feet, at first a subtle bubbling that grew exponentially more noticeable until Tycho could not stand any long. He pitched forward, hands outstretched to break his fall but there was no ground to catch him. Tycho fell, and fell, and fell some more, until there was no way for him to discern his descend expect for the constant feeling of nausea in his stomach. He strained to see around him, but there was nothing by the pitched darkness of the nothing into which he tumbled. No air, no deviation of the ground. Just simple weightlessness. And so, Tycho fell for a time until he could not remember what it was like to be still. And when he could no longer recall, he stepped and was surprised to see that he could traverse the nothingness. What more, his footfalls created a strange ripple, as if he had disturbed thick oil spread. Slowly, as if with great reluctance, the disturbance echoes across the nothingness. Tycho moved around, inspecting his surrounds, but could not sense - by touch or sight - any end to the void in which he existed. With nothing hold him back, Tycho wandered again, guided by some instinct to move. Tycho watched the ripples of his footfalls roll off into the distance, wave and wave disappearing to the inky void. It seemed an age before he caught sight of something at the edge of his vision. A ripple, traveling backwards toward him, disturbing the fall ripples he send outward. The discord was chaotic, and the oily void struggled violently at each intersection of ripples. Tycho halted, studying the changes in the texture of the void. Someone or something was approaching. ARROGANCE DEFENSELESS HUBRIS STAGNANT WHO ARE YOU? A noiseless voice reverberated in Tychos mind, the words overwhelming his senses and feeling him with utter dread. INSIGNIFICANT. PREY. BE DEVOURED. Finally, the source of the reverse ripples arrived at the edge of Tychos visions, blurred and distorted as it was. An ungodly number of arms, gangly, with an uneven gait, black skin pocked and sloughing off into fine black mist. And eyes, covering nearly every itch of its body, stretched wide and roving widely. But Tycho laughed to himself, small but merrily, as he could not see any mouth in which the horror could devour him. You cannot consume me. Simply impossible. He said. And the horror shuddered. Tycho rose, unsteadily at first, but with renewed confidence growing every second. He outstretched his hand until it obscured the horror from his vision almost entirely, then, crushed his fingers around the horror, as if forcing the void around it to collapse. The horror roared in fury, but soon replaced it with a squeal of agony. Smaller and smaller, Tycho forced the horror to collapse. The pressure cracking and splintering its many limbs until, the mage held a misshapen knot of oozing black mass in his hand. I am was not called to defend, nor will I am swayed to join. No, I am here to subdue. Tycho said, lifting the mass up to inspect. A moment of contemplate, before he shoved the withering black mass into his mouth and swallowed. *** To Be Continued ***
The spongy ground of the village center quivered around Tychos feet, at first a subtle bubbling that grew exponentially more noticeable until Tycho could not stand any long. He pitched forward, hands outstretched to break his fall but there was no ground to catch him. Tycho fell, and fell, and fell some more, until there was no way for him to discern his descend expect for the constant feeling of nausea in his stomach. He strained to see around him, but there was nothing by the pitched darkness of the nothing into which he tumbled. No air, no deviation of the ground. Just simple weightlessness. And so, Tycho fell for a time until he could not remember what it was like to be still. And when he could no longer recall, he stepped and was surprised to see that he could traverse the nothingness. What more, his footfalls created a strange ripple, as if he had disturbed thick oil spread. Slowly, as if with great reluctance, the disturbance echoes across the nothingness. Tycho moved around, inspecting his surrounds, but could not sense - by touch or sight - any end to the void in which he existed. With nothing hold him back, Tycho wandered again, guided by some instinct to move. Tycho watched the ripples of his footfalls roll off into the distance, wave and wave disappearing to the inky void. It seemed an age before he caught sight of something at the edge of his vision. A ripple, traveling backwards toward him, disturbing the fall ripples he send outward. The discord was chaotic, and the oily void struggled violently at each intersection of ripples. Tycho halted, studying the changes in the texture of the void. Someone or something was approaching. ARROGANCE. DEFENSELESS HUBRIS. STAGNANT WHO ARE YOU? A noiseless voice reverberated in Tychos mind, the words overwhelming his senses and feeling him with utter dread. INSIGNIFICANT. PREY. BE DEVOURED. Finally, the source of the reverse ripples arrived at the edge of Tychos visions, blurred and distorted as it was. An ungodly number of arms, gangly, with an uneven gait, black skin pocked and sloughing off into fine black mist. And eyes, covering nearly every itch of its body, stretched wide and roving widely. But Tycho laughed to himself, small but merrily, as he could not see any mouth in which the horror could devour him. You cannot consume me. Simply impossible. He said. And the horror shuddered. Tycho rose, unsteadily at first, but with renewed confidence growing every second. He outstretched his hand until it obscured the horror from his vision almost entirely, then, crushed his fingers around the horror, as if forcing the void around it to collapse. The horror roared in fury, but soon replaced it with a squeal of agony. Smaller and smaller, Tycho forced the horror to collapse. The pressure cracking and splintering its many limbs until, the mage held a misshapen knot of oozing black mass in his hand. I am was not called to defend, nor will I am swayed to join. No, I am here to subdue. Tycho said, lifting the mass up to inspect. A moment of contemplate, before he shoved the withering black mass into his mouth and swallowed. *** To Be Continued ***
Tycho awoke again, finding himself standing upright in a clean hall of expertly polish marble. The Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The stone was cool and refreshing, he could feel the soothing effects seeping through his boots. Nothing of the strange, soft loam or the inky blackness remained on his person. In fact, Tycho found that his recollection of his recent adventure were quickly fading. He could recall a harrowing journey, but could not say where he had been. Until now, the hall has been silent, not even the rustle of robes could be heard. But then, a slight whine as three figures materialized into view - each in a different way. The first appeared geometrically, as if some mechanical being unfolded itself into a wizened man robed in white. Opposite the white robed archmagus, another figure appear. A women, robed in black crawled out of a bubbling pool of sickly green ichor. And lastly, in-between the white and black robed archmagi, a third simply blinked into existence, red robes contrasting sharply against the grey-white marble. Tycho waited, knowing that he was being assessed. He wondered whether he would be reprimanded for his violence in that alien realm. Perhaps they would be understanding that his actions were necessary, but Tycho doubted that very much. Archmagi were not known to listen to untested apprentices. Finally, the red robed magi, an androgynous person, spoke. Tycho Tyrandus. You have been observed traversing into an alternate realm, in direct violation of a notice of our Order not test the boundaries of this reality. Tycho started to speak, eager to explain himself. But the red robed magi continued, speaking louder. Further, you are guilty of expunging indigenous life in said realm, in violation against directives against wanton destruction. Tycho snapped his mouth shut, knowing that this was not a trial. It was a sentencing. The red robe spoke again. Finally, you have been suspected of willfully harboring a credit threat against reality stability. How do you plead? Tycho was silent for a long time, staring intently at the three archmagi before him. There three did not flinch, and finally Tycho spoke. I plead guilty. The white robe nodded solemnly, while the black robe sneered. The red robe spoke again, with finality. Then you are charged, Magus, with the protection of the arcane against the threats that you have introduced. May Lunitari have mercy on your soul. Tycho blinked, stunned. Magus, no longer Adept. **END**
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 868 storytellers on Ansalon pen their epic stories here for all to read.'
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