The Central bAAR

[Saithis]

She looks up at him contemplatively, thinking about his request, then shrugs. "I honestly have had little time to read before today, so I myself have to begin poking through and giving them a try. The Awards season means I would like to give out a fair ballot, after all."

[King_Richard_XI]

King Richard draws up a cake from the manifold folds of his cloak.
"Alas, I too have had little chance to read new writings of late. I am too busy celebrating my birthday."


[Yes, it is my birthday. ]

[RossN]

The newcomer can't help but laughing and grinning at this and raises his drink in a toast. "Well, happy birthday your majesty!"

Still chuckling he turns to Saithis and smiles. "Thank you anyway Ma'am, I guess I'll check them myself."

[Rauchen]

Rauchen stumbles out of the bathroom, preceded and followed by a thick cloud of smoke. Coughing, he looks up to survey the bar with glazed red eyes, not remembering walking into the bar in the first place. Unsure if anyone had seen him, he closes the door behind him and says, "Uh...Someone set a fire in the trash can. I put it out, but uh, I'd stay out of there till the, ah, exhaust fan sucks up all the smoke."

He sees a man holding a birthday cake and walks over, adjusting his leather jacket. "Dude, cake! Happy birthday." He promptly takes a butterfly knife from his coat and, without asking, slices some of the cake and takes a bite. He swallowed and said, "So, hey, I been working on this...whatchacallit...AAR, right?" He took a bite of cake and continued. "Thith ith over in the Europa Univerthalith 3 thection, aight? Called A New Era for an Old Town, An Oldenburg AAR." He swallowed again. "Haven't had too much time to work on it recently, since I've been doing some odd jobs 'round my neighborhood. It's narrative, though, so there's more reading than pictures. But pictures are worth a thousand words, so maybe there's just as much picture as reading. I haven't kept count of the words or pictures."

Rauchen takes another slice of cake and starts to walk away to the bar, but adds, "Oh, and Gela started a narrative AAR recently, but hasn't updated it in awhile. He does some good work, and has an interesting idea here, so go on over to The Hall of Mirrors and pressure him to get to work."

[Thandros]

" If Nobody minds me saying I've heard of a group of people over in that distant land of the Mount and Blade/Dlc AARs are trying to write one in the format of a Table top RPG. Might be interesting but it's a but out the Way . It's called Counts and CrossBows if anyone interested. I have a few Directions here If anyone is interested. The Adventures must go on a great quest to Defeat the seemingly unstoppable Bandit King as he seeks to take control of the land Calradia and make himself Emperor of it and rule with an Iron Fist with his legions of Bandits."

[Ober]

As people in the bAAR are having fun, cake, and other stuff, door opened once again. Old, ailing knight with sword and cross on its armor slowly approached the bAAR. After taking a seat and ordering one Teutonic Beer he turned to the rest of people, and with his heavy and hoarse voice said loudly:

Anyone here up to listen another one, old-fashioned For The Glory tale about knights, honour and faith? I have not heard any of these for a loong time. Is anyone still up to narrate or listen to them? Old knights like me don't know that, erm...EU3 ones...

With that strange kind of hope in his heart, knight started to slowly drink his beer and look at the window aimlessly, reminiscing all his past. "Good ol' times...hope anyone still remmembers them..."

[Dovahkiing]

While the revelry goes on and on in the bar a chainmailed man enters through the creaking door. He is holding a crown, but he does not wear it. He says, while getting puzzled looks from the others in the bAAR, "I am Dovahkiing, AuthAAR of two AARs. The first is a hybrid: On the one hand, a traditional diary format tale of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, called Diem Regis, the days of the Kings, and on the other hand a novel-like (sci-fi? thriller? even Dovahkiing knows not for sure) third-person 'framing story' about three 21st century people who are pursued by a mysterious Agent Eveard after finding the manuscript which is Diem Regis, and this framing story is called Diem Plebios, days of the commoners. This can be found at the thread: Dead men DO tell tales

The second is something more approaching a historical fiction novel, called Peers of the Realm, a Savegame AAR.
It begins from a savegame in 1207, and follows four characters who hold the fate of Britain and France in their hands, and perhaps that of the world...

Both works are basically independent of CK2, in which AAR forum they are, and are at least inspired by events in the game, both starting with 'game' events, and spinning a story out of them. The reason for this is that I haven't been able to play any game since Monday.)
Be sure to read, enjoy, and perhaps comment!

[DensleyBlair]

As he turns a corner in the dark alley, he hears a rustling. Pausing, he checks the air, instinctively putting his hand to his side and clasping his sword. Suddenly, he is set upon by two men, springing forth from the shadows with daggers. He turns, guiding his sword effortlessly through the crisp, night air - finding the stomach of the first man, affording himself no pause to watch as his would-be attacker buckled to the floor with only a few pathetic gurgles, clasping his middle with a look of disbelief.

Now he turns, the first attacker dead, and faces the second man. He raises his sword, smiling a wolfish grin.

"I'll give you one chance to run, and then I'll have you." His voice was deep, but gentle with its foreign lilt - like that of a true knight-king; brave yet subtle. You got the feeling that this was a man whose wit was as sharp as his blade. The second of the attackers dropped his dagger and turned tail, his heavy footsteps echoing through the night as he ran.

"Good riddance, you filthy bastard." He sheathes his sword, turning again to continue his journey towards the dim light at the end of the alley.

He reaches the oaken door, pulling his cloak further over his face as the cold air hits his cheek. The door opens heavily, creaking. The room is dark, damp-smelling. A small cloud of smoke rises gloomily from behind the bar. He gives out an exaggerated cough, spotting a man resting at the bar, pipe in mouth.

He coughs again. This time, the barkeep stirs.

"My humblest apologies, good sir, there's bin nary a soul 'round these parts of late."

"I can see that." Looking around, the room looked sad. Benches and tables where people of all life's walks once sat together and shared stories now lay empty, home only to a thickening layer of dust. "But you've got patronage now."

"Of course, sir. What can I get for you?" As the barkeep rustily turns to his large array of drinks, the cloaked man avails himself a seat at the bar. Scanning the drinks available, it seems you could ask for anything and not be disappointed.

"Gwîn a Bragawd, diolch yn fawr." The barkeep looks incredulous. "My apologies, I'll have an ale - Welsh, mind you."

"Certainly, sir. If you don't mind me asking, who might you be?"

"My name is Densli Blyr ap Rhys Dinefwr, prince of Deheubarth, but they call me Densli Clyfar, or, if you're Saxon, Densley Blair.

"My lord," the barkeep bowed in an exaggerated manner. "Be ye a warrior-king?" Densli laughed.

"A wit as sharp as his sword, if you listen to those who like me."

"And the others?"

"A head too big for his own good." They both laughed.

"Do you write, my lord?"

"Now and then. History seems to fascinate me - I've written of the tales of the sons of Charlemgane over in Francia. And then there's the satire..."

"Satire?"

"Ydy, about the Earl Sherwyn of Norfolk." He pauses. "But don't worry with such things. Now, my drink."

"Of course, sir." Densli drank slowly. As he drank, the barkeep amused him with tales of how the bar used to have even, and of the people who had passed through its dark rooms and doorways. Once Densli had finished, he stood, slipping a few silver coins onto the bar.

"Thank you, my lord." Densli turned to leave, swinging back to the barkeep:

"Diolch i chi, fy ffrind. Bydd yn ofalus!."

"And to you!" Densli was still laughing as he turned back down the alleyway.

[Revan86]

The tall, hooded stranger shakes off the cold as he enters the establishment, and lifts his hood off his head. At first glance he appears to be something like a monk, but it is obvious that there is no tonsure amongst his shaggy sandy-brown locks. Around his chin and round cheeks there are the beginnings of a beard, though it is notably thin and scruffy. Also, at his side... well, he couldn't be said to be armed, could he, with a useless toy like that? The only thing he had at his side was a bladeless hilt, too short to be an effective mace, but this was made of carefully-polished steel and had a single jewel set in it, not in the pommel but where the thumb would usually grip. Still, he went about fearlessly, in this place where everyone else was carrying armaments of more obviously deadly natures, like Densli's sword.

The bAARtender asks as he approaches, 'Where do you come from, stranger?'

The man leans forward, saying merely, 'the Republic.'

'That the Roman Republic or the Venetian Republic?'

'Just the Republic. Deralia, if you want to be specific - remote system.'

The bAARtender shakes her head. 'None of my business anyway. What'll you have?'

The man shakes his head in consternation. 'I'd get a Tarisian ale, but I'm afraid that market got killed when Taris got bombed to glass, and when I made a spectacularly bad investment in reviving the trade - now that poison's dearer than my life's worth, not that that's much these days.'

'Well,' said the bAARtender warily, as though the man had just been speaking a completely incomprehensible language to her, 'if it's ale you want, we have a number of brands on tap. Newcastle Brown, a couple of IPAs, Banks's, Bell's, Kulmbacher, Hofbräuhaus, Engelszell. What'll you have?'

'I... guess I'll try the Kulmbacher. How much?'

'Two shillings for a pint.'

'Ah,' said the man uncertainly. He fished at his belt, as though searching for his scrip, but then brought up his hand and waved it vaguely. 'I'm afraid I have only Republic credits, but Republic credits... will be fine.'

'What the hell are Republic credits?' asked the bAARtender warily.

This answer surprised the stranger, who knitted his brows and seemed to be concentrating on something just behind the bAARtender. 'Republic credits... will be fine.'

'If I don't know what they are,' she said, now annoyed, 'they aren't legal tender here.'

'Naff,' said the cloaked man, landing his hand on the counter, but gazing at the bAARtender with a mixture of frustration and appreciation. It was not often he found a non-Hutt so strong-minded as to be able to brush off his mind tricks.

'What's your name, anyway?'

'My name?' he asked absently. 'I've gone by quite a few of those. Hell. At this other bar I visited the Hutt in charge insisted on calling me "the Mysterious Stranger". Lass, I've been a dutiful and gallant Jedi Knight in my time, and I've been the most dreaded Dark Lord of the Sith ever to threaten this galaxy with conquest... but I don't know how long it's been since the galaxy quailed in fear or cheered in praise of the name of Revan.'

'You don't?'

'Memory problems. Amnesia.'

'Oh. Sorry.'

'Yeah.'

'I still can't get you a drink unless you pay me with more than a name.'

'Do you deal in stories?' asked Revan.

'Only if they pertain to Paradox Entertainment releases, and you look distinctly like a BioWare type to me. Sorry, establishment rules.'

'Ah, naff,' said Revan again. 'Though, come to think of it... on my quest to defeat the True Sith I did come across a rather intriguing history from your planet.'

'Oh?'

'Yes... a family called the von Danzigs. A couple of them (especially their patriarch, Mathias I) might have made worthy Jedi, all honour and duty... and one or two would definitely have made worthy Sith. Treacherous, sneaky bastards, a couple of them - cut a deal to your face, and then stick a vibro-blade in you when your back is turned.'

'I see...' said the bAARtender dubiously.

'The story starts in 1187, in a region of chilly mountainous terrain - the polity you now call "Austria", the city of Innsbruck. But it certainly doesn't end there...'

[Pj Fallon]

The Black Fitz stroad into the bar like a prowd hen. New AAR called A Tale of an Irish Free State: By Blood and Gold if your interested. Now ggive me power! I mean can I have a shandy plaese.

[Marshall18]

Hmm... a bAAR? Never been a big drinker, but the stories of legends that frequent this establishment draw me in.
Never been a very smart man, maybe I'll learn something new ...
"I'll have a glass of milk please" - I nervously ask

[Mr. Capiatlist]

The bartender grabs a decently sized glass from the chiller and fills it to the brim with a milk stout, his own recipe and 17% ABV, and hands it across the finely crafted wood bar.

"It is a quiet place," he grumbles, "but we do what it takes to keep it afloat." He returns to washing a glass with his worn-out and weary towel, "Read anything worth talking about lately?"

[DensleyBlair]

I've been reading a funny little tale of the Netherlands and Hindustan - really entertaining stuff, though Viennese politics are keeping me occupied nowadays. You can find it here.

Now, I'll have a bourbon, neat.

[BlackBishop]

A stranger enters the dim tavern, dressed in a crimson cloak and shining mail streaked with gold. His heavy boots echo through the quiet room as he approaches the bar, pulling his hood back as he takes his seat. He has a lean handsome face. His hair falls onto his shoulder, one side grey, the other red. He wrests his steel gloved hands on the tavern bar, his eyes looking wearily at the bartender.

"A man has a thirst. A man has not drank for a day and a night."

He grips the mug of ale served by the bartender and tips it back, drinking the amber liquid in long and slow swallows.

"A man must be off, war is coming. A man must fight but suppose others may join him. A man can be found here..." Pulling a scroll from his cloak, he wrests it on the bar, unrolling it and revealing a map. He taps his forefinger on a point on the parchment. Without a word he steps back into the shadows of the bar and disappears.