The Great Library of Palanthas
An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.
Stories of Ansalon from the view of Elidar.
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 large book on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Elidar' scribed in rich purple ink.
Author: Elidar Date: Mon Jun 23 20:22:40 2014 Subject It's been a long time...
The way the rain beads up while still finding itself subject to gravity on every single windowpane within this backwater no longer amuses me. Only in solitude can one find bordome, and I have been so very very alone over the last few centuries in particular. The way the sun used to shine was satisfying, watching it peel over the green of the leaves of my home in Silvanesti brought me endless joy day after bliss-tortured day. I always knew even in my first fifty years when I was still a child, however, that it would someday reach a point in the debacle when it would no longer suffice. Then I discovered the Art. I truly discovered the Art. The pleasure, and nauseating illness caused by its use affects so few wizards and even then only those that walk upon the surface of this world. It is a disease that eventually endgenders a skill and dedication that render it no longer necessary, and it can be outgrown much as anything else that is...mortal. To be affected by it, means a career as a mage spent pining for the Art. One should never pine for that which it should be sought by. This is the problem with all your petty...relationships, was it? I outgrew it as I did all sensation. I no longer feel, I no longer need to feel. I do not need to feel, in order to act. In fact, it would have hindered me so often in the past were I not able to put my feelings aside that I would have accomplished nothing. Perhaps in the end, I in fact accomplished nothing in any case. But... Such is the nature of a continuum as to permit me opportunities until I choose to disregard it along with everything else. I feel the longing to leave my home plane, long have, and it has been all I've felt for some time. Ironically, however, this is not even technically the plane of my origin. That passed away too, along with everything else. My time spent with the fey folk in the other plane satisfied my curiousity. Power is in my nature, and once I had forsaken it altogether to be born and live in another continuum, I gained it back even more rapidly than I had acquired it here to begin with. The Art is no different here, than anywhere else, except that here it is simple. Both in study, application, discipline, and understanding. You will know me once more, but you can never know me truly as I do not know myself. I am ever changing but the same to you. All you see, all you can possibly know of me is no more than you can know the configuration of the rain on the glass at a given point. Pay attention. Always be paying attention, it is the closest to knowing anything that you can possibly hope to achieve, at least for the time being. I know you hear me, but you cannot respond until you learn to listen to the little music. The music you cannot hear to be able to appreciate not because it cannot be heard, but because you never learned how to listen. All you hear is words, you foget that to us all, they have a different connotation. They are rendered thus, inherantly meaningless, and you must learn to perceive the little music. This is for your own good, I've only ever asked one thing of anyone and the one who was able to do so paid no price that she was not willing to pay, and thus paid...no price at all. When she returns, this world will change. The decay of consistence will fade much as the little music has faded even from the memory of my people. Who, I wonder, remembers my name? Few are left who can do so. So few are left that all they can recall is the other. The first.
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
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