The Great Library of Palanthas

An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Kaplan.

A little gully dwarf runs by and says 'Wordwrap 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 tattered paperback on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Kaplan' scribed in deep purple ink.

Author:    Kaplan         
Date:      Fri Oct  6 02:47:06 2006
Subject  The Truth

Sitting in this inn, he thinks to himself that truth is a concept that
doesn't really exist.  Abstract.  What is real is only what is happening at
any particular moment.  After that, it's gone.  A memory.

Time is always moving forward.  The truth that people chase after, they can
never catch it.  In a second, it's already gone.  In less than a second. 
Less than less than a second.

Even memory, it's subjective.  After a long enough period of time, every
memory is just a story made up by the person telling it.

Long after that elusive truth has slipped away into days, months, years&
all you have is that story that always seems better than the event that
took place.  Grander.  More dangerous.  Funnier.

More depressing.  Whatever that emotion you felt, it's inflated to the size
of a Gnomish airship the longer time marches after the fact.

Sitting in this inn, he thinks to himself that people always erase the
facts for the sake of glamour.  Twisting and distorting that truth they
hold so dear, for the sake of painting a better picture.

Dramatization.  What in the future they'll call creative license.  Based on
a true story.

Sitting in this inn, he thinks this is precisely why old people are always
prattling on about the good ol' days.  The golden, shiny past.  The real
truth is, the truth is always too much to bear.

It's always something you'd be trying to escape if you're smart.  Instead,
these idealists, they SEEK the truth.  It's a treasure to find at the end
of some long quest.  To those idealists.

Sitting in this inn, he thinks about the future.  In the future, they'll
look to the past, his current present, and call it the good ol' days.  The
time where everything was right.

The truth is, to those in the now, it is just as bad as it will be then.

In the future, authors and dreamers will try to capture all the details of
this wonderful period of time.  But they'll get it wrong.  They'll leave
out the details that would make it authentic.

They'll cut out the facts that would make this story true.  They'll change
what they don't like to make a utopia they can escape their reality into. 
The truth is, it's just as bad now as it will be then.

In the future, these authors will paint a scene just like this.  They're
will be someone sitting in the back of an inn.  Just like him.  In their
version, the inn will be "bustling" with noise.

Instead of being an ear splitting cacophony.  In their version, the smell
of cooked meat and boiled potatoes will give the inn its aroma.

In reality, the present, the now, in the only truth that really matters,
the place reeks of sweat.  Body odor from people traveling the road.  That
horse smell of manure.

The smell of wet leather from the outside rain.  The noxious odors of pipe
smoke, the sulfur stench from young mages who have spent all day practicing
spells, now just looking for a drink.

In the future version of things, the tankards of ale will be foaming and
ice cold, overflowing at the top.  The authors won't mention the cracked
and stained mug.

The fact that the ale has been watered down to make it taste more like
rainwater mixed with boot sweat.

When the hero in the story retires to his room, it will be luxurious. 
Straight out of a palace.  The hero in the story never has to sleep in the

The authors conveniently leave out the fleas and bedbugs, leaving red welts
on the bodies of the noble heroes in the morning.

Here in the present, in the truth, when the barmaid clunks the dirty mug
onto your table, she flashes you a smile showing only a handful of teeth. 
Her hair, it's matted with mange.

In the fairy tale version of how many years from now, she'll be shapely as
an hourglass and have dimples instead of scars.

Her eyes will shimmer with youthful exuberance instead of being cold an
empty, two marbles peering out of a face far too wrinkled for her mere
twenty something odd years.

No, no one wants to write about the truth.  That principle of truth they
seek, they only want to find it so they can change it to something better.

Author:    Kaplan         
Date:      Fri Oct  6 02:48:58 2006
Subject  The Truth (Part II)

No one wants to read about how that mage, exhausted after casting his
spell, he pukes up everything he's eaten for days all over the ground.

No one wants to read that after casting that chain lightning spell that
kills fifteen goblins and saves the heroes, no one wants to read that he
has diarrhea for three days.  Migraine headaches.

Who wants to hear about a mage urinating blood after the first time he
successfully casts acid blast?

That cleric, on his knees praying for his god to grant him a miracle.  That
cleric had to fast for three weeks.  Or sacrifice a goat.  A cow.  A

That cleric had to read from sacred books for nights on end, BEGGING his
god.  The truth is, even the gods don't give you anything for free.

He picks up his mug and takes a sip.  The real truth is, there is no truth.
 No great quest to go on.  The truth is, everyone just does what they can
to get by.  What they're best at.

.  If this were a story, our hero would be a noble, honorable warrior for
truth.  Chasing that dream of truth which can never be caught.

On a mission to rescue a fair maiden, a damsel in distress.  The truth, the
real truth is:  he's here to kill a prostitute.


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 824 books from Ansalon from before the great Cataclysm through today.'