Introduction by Bertrem

Astinus of Palanthas is gone.

There was nothing dramatic or startling about his disappearance. He departed from the library in the same calm, measured way in which he did everything in his life. That last evening I came to him as he sat quietly writing in one of his great leatherbound books in which all the events of Krynn—her joys and sorrows, births and deaths, triumphs and defeats—were recorded.

Around us the world shuddered, recovering from the terrible events of the Chaos War, when men and dragons battled in the great rift, when the sun seemed at last about to set for the final time upon our troubled land. None of this was reflected in Astinus's demeanor. His hand was as steady, his writing as precise and legible as it had ever been. Even from in front of the desk at which he always wrote, I could easily read the words upside down as if I had been standing at his shoulder.

This day 23 Holmswelt at Restful Hour climbing fourteen Bertrem entered my study.

As was my custom, I wished my master good night before retiring to my cell for an hour's meditation prior to sleep. He said and did nothing that indicated any change was at hand. As was usual with him he barely acknowledged my presence. Yet that was the last I saw of him.

When I arose the next morning and entered his study, expecting to receive my instructions for the day, he was nowhere to be found. I was so struck by his absence that I did not note, for a moment, the more terrifying fact with which I was confronted. The great books that had lined his room, the volumes in which his words were recorded, had vanished. The room was entirely bare of any books or papers whatsoever, and my footsteps echoed hollowly upon the polished floorboards.

Fearing some further disaster that had supplemented the terrible events of the Chaos War, I rushed from the room to summon help. It was then that I realized the magnitude of the tragedy. All the library was empty. Its contents, as well as its guardian, had disappeared into thin air. I must record to my shame that I became insensible and was only revived some time later by a brother who bent over, me anxiously, fanning my face with his robe.

As the days passed and Astinus showed no signs of returning, I was faced with the overwhelming task of reconstructing the vanished collection of the greatest library in all Krynn. Some books, of course, were irreplaceable, particularly those chronicles written by Astinus himself. These books, over which he had labored for as long as any of us in the library remembered, contained the very soul of Krynn. Here were her joys and sorrows, her wars and peaces, her births and deaths, the endless circle of the sun and moons across the sky. Here, patiently recorded in Astinus's pleasing hand, was the history of the great events that have shaped our world, from its beginnings through all its ages. If a reader wished to walk through the fabulous streets of Istar before its fall, if he wished to climb the mountains and see the founding of the great dwarven citadel of Pax Tharkas, if he wished to journey through the golden woodlands of the Silvanesti and Qualinesti elves or romp among the carefree kender of Kendermore, he could do no better than to consult Astinus's magnificent labor of love. Though thousands upon thousands of volumes vanished with Astinus, I account these tomes the greatest loss.

Prior to my master's departure, many hours did I spend in the solemn silence of the library's halls immersed in these books. I have not read them all—no living man could claim such an accomplishment—but I think I may say that I have read as much as any man of the history of our land and the story of its people, of its heroes, its villains, and its fools.

Nonetheless, one evening as I sat by the fire meditating on this wondrous history, I felt an odd sensation. It was a kind of lack, as if I hungered for something and yet could not say precisely what. After thinking for some days and seeking solace in my favorite seat in the library where I watched dust motes dance in the afternoon sun, I at last realized the cause of my discomfort.

Astinus, who sought to record everything that happened on Krynn exactly as it happened, was necessarily constrained to report the most important events, those that affected thousands or even millions of people. His is a history of great men and women and their deeds. Where it fails to satisfy, if I may suggest such a near-blasphemous thought, is in its ignorance of the lives of the common folk of Ansalon. These are the people who lived in their towns and villages year after year, century after century, their lives changing with the season hut not, perhaps, so affected by the world around them as we might imagine. I daresay there are many in Ansalon who have never seen a dragon, never heard the cry of a griffon, never trembled at the approach of a troop of draconians. Yet to read Astinus's history, you might think such things were as common in Krynn as flies in the summer.

The next day I approached Astinus as he sat, as usual, writing, the pen scarcely hesitating as it raced across the yellowed vellum. When I spoke to him of my thoughts on the ordinary lives of the people of Krynn, though, he stopped and considered carefully for a few minutes before replying.

"The people of Krynn," he said to me, "write their history with deeds, not pens."

"True, master," I replied, "but is that not an added reason that we who wield the pen should record their lives for them?"

"Nay, Bertrem," my master said. "History records the deeds of great men and women. In these books"—his eyes slipped across the many volumes that surrounded him—" I have recorded the story of the great events that shaped our world, from its creation to the present. The world balances between Good and Evil, and the lives of ordinary people are the fulcrum upon which we waver between these two forces. Yet always in the end, we find a middle course, a Golden Mean, that points the way forward. Their lives cannot change this course and thus have no place in my story."

I had opened my mouth to argue further, but seeing Astinus once more occupied with his manuscript, I thought better of the matter and retired. Though I did not entirely agree with his answer, I had to be content with it. Yet it did not satisfy me that future generations might be ignorant of the way their ancestors lived and died, the way they ate their food and tilled their crops, the way they learned their letters and rode to war at their lords' calling.

Now that Astinus has departed—the gods alone know where—I have decided to satisfy my desire. I have resolved to write a little book that will acquaint the diverse people of our land with how the common folk live: what they eat, what they wear, what they do for pleasure, and so on.

Having undertaken this labor, I quickly realized that such a task is considerably greater than one might think. Ansalon is a vast land, and since the depredations of the great dragon overlords, many parts have become isolated, and little information about them is easily available. In the case of the elven kingdom of Silvanesti, no information about the land has been available for twenty years, since the elves, or some power allied with them, have erected a magical shield around themselves.

For twenty years the land of Ansalon shuddered under the horrendous battle of the Dragon Purge. When, at last, the conflict between the great dragons ended and surviving mortals looked about them, they found themselves subjects in a conquered world.

Fortunately I was able to receive the able assistance of three members of the Order who volunteered to go forth upon the highways and byways and bring back to me reports of what they found. They have surpassed my expectations, and I trust their observations will be of value and amusement to my readers. Here and there in their reports I have added my own comments (here given as footnotes), but I have kept such interjections to a minimum, preferring to let my three reporters speak for themselves.

I must here acknowledge the considerable assistance of those who helped collate and copy in a fair hand the information I received not only from my three reporters but from others throughout the length and breadth of the land. For their research on the Knight's Quest game, I acknowledge the assistance of Mark Fletcher, Tyler Mix, Paul Randies, Mitchell Rawlins, and Frank Reinart. Many others helped with parts of the book, from copying to proofreading. But most, I am indebted to Paul Thompson, Nancy Varian Berberick, and Stan!

Astinus himself would be proud of you.