The Central bAAR

[Lighthearter]

Well hello again fellows! I'm just back from a tour in the United States Military District - you want to know what that is? Classified! Just hope you never get shipped out there!

Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, I was about to say that I've awakened my dark talents in sorcery and the foul arts of necromancy I was taught by that charming old man in the USMD and used them to zombify . . . I mean resuscitate the SolAARium. Hop on over there and help me sustain the black magic!

-L

[Wave]

A young man steps in from the door, he is used to the feeling when he arrives to the place where nobody knows him and everyone are staring at him and looking like "who the heck is that guy and what is he doing here??". Surprisingly nobody seems to do that and faces seem to be friendly.

He steps closer to the bartender and quietly says "whiskey, no water, no ice, just whiskey, a full glass so I don't have to come and get another one immediately"

With the glass in his hand he walks into the corner table and leans to table with his elbows and holds the glass with his both hands in front of his face. He doesn't know a crap about whiskies nor what is good and what is bad whiskey, he just starts sipping it slowly and listens others talking.

Quarter an hour later when the glass is empty he decides to join the discussion

"Good evening ladies, in case here is any, and gentlemen. I come from the AAR-Land of Rome, therefore most of you will not know me but I have something to suggest for everyone to read. The most entertaining AAR I've ever read, mostly because of the writAARs' comments on each other but still a real masterpiece. We three kings written by three kings Peter Ebbesen, Jarkko Suvinen & Wyvern."

"I also might as well introduce myself, I'm Wave, not very well know writAAR from Rome AAR land. At the moment I'm working on AAR to show my mod to people, if anyone is interested it can be found from the said AAR land and it'll be eventually updated again."

[WelshDude]

A Welshman on the corner of that circle looks thoughtful. "I don't have Rome myself and thus don't venture to their AAR land, as much as I am in awe in those three and particularly Peter Ebbessen, I'll stay off it. Still good luck with your AAR"

"But now, I have a suggestion that I hope will find traction here, and that I would absolutely love. An interactive bAAR. A home for readAARs and writAARs of our interactive community, where we can joke, applaud victories, announce new interactive aars, bemoan defeats, and get ourselves drunk under the table. There's loads of deserted buildings here, just waiting to be opened."

[AllmyJames]

"A Tale of Ancient Rome? And with several players?" The by-now slightly-tipsy Cajun newspaper-man nearly falls off his stool with excitement. "Sign me up!"

"My first love is the ancient world, but Paradox has so far cruelly taunted me with their inadequate efforts to portray it. I do own Rome Gold but it has merely collected virtual dust on my hard drive since I fired it up and was immediately put off by the monarchical representation of the Roman Consulate. Perhaps this will inspire me to dust it off..."

[Iain Wilson]

"You're damn right, Mr Cajun Newspaper man - I got Rome Gold too, and I've done next to nothing with it! It'll be interesting to see if multiplayer Rome is playable."

[Wave]

Wave leans back as he notices people talking and feels bit more comfortable and sure about himself.

"As far as I know the multiplayer is still working, altough I've never been able to use the metaserver but connections with hamachi and LAN work. Perhaps we could think about something like new multiplayer AAR as that one, even if it's great, has been collecting dust for a long time as it was written 2009 or something."

[Qorten]

Qorten leans out of the shadows in the corner of the bAAR as he hears this talk about a Rome:VV multiplayer AAR.

"I wouldn't mind joining you if it were on a suitable time for me. Drop me a PM if you guys get serious."

He orders another beer from Stroph and retreats into the shadows.

[AllmyJames]

Looking curiously at his fellow bAAR-rats, James finishes off his latest drink and asks "say - do any of you have a recommendation for an AAR en francais? I know there's a whole forum full of them" (with this he pre-emptively glares at no-one in particular to head off smart-mouthed replies) "but I figure the best way to improve my knowledge of the language is to read something I'll enjoy. So - any ideas? I'm pretty flexible regarding the game or writing style, as long as its good!"

[Wave]

Well my French is quite rusty but I took a peek there..

EU Rome AARs are always recommended especially if they look as good as this
http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/...e-je-fous-lAAR

and something that had over 100 000 views, not quite sure what it was but looks and smells like an AAR
http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/...-Doomsday-1.3a

[Johan11]

The man with the chandelier is fading out of view, half transparent.

Reacting again after a long, long period of silence, he opens his mouth, swaloows a fly, gags, spits out the fly, and say:

"Good have my times been on the Paradox forums, but all good ends. These last months there has been less and less interesting stuff to do. Now that Prawnstar's done with the Horde, the only thing I check on is Flagland. As such, I think it is safe to presume you won't see me that much until CKII comes out. It has been nice knowing all of you. We'll probably meet again, when I get the spark back."

With that, the man with the chan disappears, leaving only a small danish flag, a mocking comment and a very strange chandelier in the corner he had occupied for the last months.



Sincerely, everybody. Goodbye.

[Malurous]

A man, unseen until now, leans out of the shadows in a dark corner to bid the Dane farewell. You're shocked that you never noticed him before, seeing the considerable amount of bling-bling he wears.

"Good luck in your future endeavors, Johan11. Perhaps we meet again when the time is right."

The man disappears back into the corner, though now that you know where to look, you can spot a hint of sparkle.

[Wave]

The young guy has got another glass of whiskey but now almost spills it all over himself

Oh mine.. Prawnstar has finally finished his rebel trouble and I haven't checked it since months

also good luck in the future Johan11, I remember I've seen you around somewhere a couple of times but can't say for sure. Hopefully we'll see again

As he again moves back to his table someone may have heard him mumbling
hmm.. One more Finnish readAAR or writAAR out here who I see first time...

[AllmyJames]

Weel, Merci Wave, for the recommendations, I'll check those out.

And au revoir Johan - if CKII is as good as it promises to be, we'll no doubt see your face again!

[Malurous]

You notice that the Finnish patron you just saw for the first time was trying to hang himself by his bling-bling in his dark corner. Thank the Heavens everyone saw him just the night before thanks to his farewells to the Dane - you notice that the sparkle is going higher than it should be, and you're able to pull him down before anything tragic happens. Had he not spoken earlier, the sparkle would have been unnoticeable.

"Hmm, Wave, I've noticed you before alright. I've read some of your Roman adventures, even though I've been silent as I typically only speak my mind when I have the expertise, which is not the case when it comes to Roman matters.

Anyway, thank God for Paradox forums, they save me from the worst whatever the situation is. My fiancé (who I was fully expecting to spend the rest of my life with) dumped me a few hours ago, completely out of the blue. I'm not going to bother any of you with details (if you don't want to, that is - I fully welcome PM discussion if anyone feels like giving support to a random authAAR), but I figured that it's good that at least the bAAR knows what's going on if I happen to be absent for a long time. I don't want to bother AARland, but on the other hand, I don't want people to be confused if I don't show up. Because I might not.

Other people than Paradox forumites that are epic? Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Sibelius. They're doing an effin' good job as far as making a poor soul feel good goes."

[Alfredian]

"That is a very tough break Malurous. Commiserations. I hope things improve for you soon."

Turns to the rest of the bar:

"For those of you with less to handle, what about a quick visit to modern day Japan. WW3 is just kicking off and the pace is cranking up in Kaiser_Mobius' excellent HOI2 AAR."

[Malurous]

The Finn still appears distraught, but much less so than the last time he stepped out of his corner.

"I thank you for the kind words Alfredian. And in fact, I have just returned to AAR reading to some little extent so I'll check that one out. Sorry for causing a commotion in this fine drinking establishment earlier."

He walks to the counter, appearing to ponder his drink choice.

[WelshDude]

I've just started my first AAR (see sig), it's probably too bad for anyone to like, but if you do get spare time please pop along. I need all the support I can get!

[Gaijin de Moscu]

An old man saunters through the door. He looks vaguely familiar to the regulars. A few folks snap fingers, trying to recall his name. Jajin? Kajin? Baijin?

The man puts a stack of coins before the bAARman. "Let everyone have their favorite drinks," he says. "On me."

Then he leans against the bAAR, and watches football on the old plasma screen, the one he had lugged into the bAAR back in 2002.

[Stuyvesant]

Stuy sticks his head in the door, hearing a faintly familiar voice. Once recognition dawns, he tips his hat:

"Gaijin, always good to see you! A blast from the past in the best sense of the word."

[Director]

It is raining, on a street in a city where it always rains. The daylight is watery and wan, wavering uncertainly as gusts blow mist and drizzle, whip sheets of water down the empty streets. In the distance - far in the distance - towers lift themselves into the featureless gray. Nearer, lower buildings huddle and gutters gush rainwater into the trough of the streets.

The water at least is clean. The streets are clean, all refuse having been flushed away and no city-dwellers, if there are any, possessed of the energy to venture forth and deposit more. The skies are empty as a faithless promise, devoid of sun, moon and flying creatures alike. Other than the white noise of gurgling water and the faint moan of the wind, the city is silent; the windows that look out from the severe gray buildings are uncurtained and black.

Had there been an observer its attention would have been drawn to the small black dot of a man trudging determinedly along the sidewalk. He pauses, hunched under a vast wing of black umbrella, and rips off an impressive sneeze.

"Goddam imagination," he mutters, voice carrying only a few feet in the uncertain wind. "Everything's got to be dramatic. Bah. Looks like a bad crossbreed of Fritz Lang's Metropolis and film noir. One of these days, Director." He shakes his head. "One of these days you're going to outsmart yourself."

He lifts his eyes from the pavement and squints into a wind-blown spume. "If it's my imagination," he groans, "why am I the one getting wet? Storey's behind this. I don't know how, but that wind sounds just like him. Now. Where did I put the door?" He tugs on the nearest, a thick plate-glass number with nothing behind it but the blackness of an empty shop. Grumbling, he works his way down the row. None open. he kicks the last one, petulantly, and it booms emptily.

"Oh, for pity's sake," he snarls at last. "What do I have to do? Open up my laptop in the rain and write out a door?" He mumbles obscenities under his breath. "Fine, then. I'll try one more and if that isn't it, I'll... I'll..." The wind snickers. The figure hunches into his sodden overcoat. "I may just be talking to myself, but - Listen Self! I'm warning you! I'll write this into sunshine!" The wind dies and the drizzle pauses in apprehension. "Hot sunshine! Hot like summer in Alabama, with no shade and dry enough to leave four inches of dust over everything!" A trace of the old fire crackles, his back straightens, his hand waves. "DO NOT MESS WITH ME!" That said he marches around the corner of the block where the rows of industrial warehouses have given way to the genteel crumble of old red brick, wide green shutters, white columns and ornate black wrought iron.

"That's more like it." He marches up the steps to the wide wooden front door and grasps the latch, closes his eyes and whispers something under his breath. There is a shift in perspective, though our putative observer could not have said quite how, a smell of oil and brine and ozone. Director puts his shoulder to the door and heaves. The door opens silently but slowly, its massive weight pulling him inside. Scarcely has the man cleared the lintel before the oaken slab reverses course, slamming shut with a satisfied thud. Outside there is a pause, a single shaft of daylight and then the rain returns with a vengeance.

Inside, Director puts his umbrella in the elephant's foot stand. It vanishes into a protective jungle of canes, walking sticks, batons, parasols and more than one elaborately-carven staff. He pays it no further attention; as always, none other will be able to retrieve it, and it will be instantly at hand when time comes to depart.

"Membership," he chuckles, "has its priveleges." His overcoat comes off, along with his rubber boots, handed to a ghostly functionary who bows and vanishes. Warmer now in body and spirit, drier and therefore in much better humor, he passes from the entry alcove into the great hall. Gigantic suits of armor line it, each inscribed with the name of a hero of ages past. Banners fly overhead; interspersed among them are weapons, battle trophies, sporting cups, masterpieces of the taxidermists' arts and framed artwork of classic games. He takes his time, for there is no hurry now. Despite the solid ticking of the massive grandfather's case clock at the hallway's end, Father Time has no dominion here. He pauses before one particularly grisly animal's head, reaches out as though to stroke it nd demurs when the eyes appear to track his motion. "Good Lord!" he says. "A wlak! Who would have thought... Seems almost disrespectful, but... impressive! Impressive indeed!"

At the clock the hall opens to more hallways to the left and right. He does not hesitate; the sound of the revel carries faintly through the otherwise still air. Never has he seen these halls, these rooms, these pavillions and chambers, solars and dungeons and garrets, yet he picks his way through and past with ease. He has never been precisely here, yet he has always known the ways. At last he turns through an opening that is less a door and more a half-opened wall. Overhead the ceiling rises into the distance, yet the fog of smoke makes it loom oppressively near overhead. In a back corner, a band is cranking blues and jazz, rock and punk and funk and swing, all somehow at the same time. Couples are dancing to whatever they like. Across one wall is an enormous bar, backed by an equally large set of mirrors and glass shelves. Arrayed there are thousands of bottles, jugs, skins, porcelain jars and chemical retorts. Behind it stands Stroph, imperturbable as always. Flickering in the shadowed corners are the spirits of bartenders-once-and-always; perched on stools at the front are patrons of the spiritual sort.

Director sidles up. "Bacardi 8 and coke, twist of lime, please." The drink appears before he can finish his order; he smiles and Stroph smiles back. The service - as always - is faultless, the drink itself - the bite of the rum, the sweetness of cola and lime, smoothed by the deep cold of perfect ice cubes - is matchless.

"You're looking well," he says, and Stroph shrugs, smiles - you know how it is. "That's new." Director points to a red LED sign that runs across the top of the mirrors and wraps around a corner. "What is that number?" The digits flicker so fast no-one could read them; they leave only a blurred impression of a very large amount. "Storey's bar tab?" Stroph smiles but shakes his head, no. He leans in close. "That's just the interest." Then he's gone; a set of lovely ladies have come to the counter for refills and pick up trays of food while they wait.

Director ambles over where Gaijin de Moscu is seated but only waves hello; the Gaijin is deep in conversation with a man with black hair, coppery skin and a large hooked nose. "I don't care whether that's an Iroquois or old Smoking Mirror himself," Director thinks, "the Gaijin's busy. We can catch up later." Through a low archway a massive plasma screen is showing a soccer match in wall-sized splendor. The US and Britain are playing; both are wining. "Obvious fantasy," Director snorts, but he grins.

There's Stuyvesant through another doorway, pinned in his seat by an overly-ambitious female character. "I'm married!" he says. "You can't be unfaithful with a literary device," she croons, and leans in closer. Director saunters over and places his drink on the table. Somehow he now has a second which he slides across to Stuyvesant. The woman leers, then squeaks indignantly as Director gives her a playful slap to the fundament. "Time for that later, my dear," he says, and arches an eyebrow at Stuyvesant. "Unless of course you'd rather..."

"No! No. Um, a bit of a relief, actually," Stuyvesant confides, taking a pull at his drink. "I never knew that characters were so... so..."

"Independent? Cranky? Wilful? Obnoxious? Obstreperous?" Director rolls out the last word, takes a long taste of rum and sweetness, and sighs. "Oh, they have minds of their own. Or we're all schizophrenic lunatics with delusions of grandeur..." They share a laugh. "Half the work is setting up the framework and the rest is getting out of the way of the people you put in it. That or I've developed a split personality."

"And both of them are grumpy old bastards?" Stuyvesant asks innocently. They share a laugh and click their glasses in a toast.

"I've been gone long enough to miss the place a bit," Director allows a few minutes later. Another faceless servant glides by, tips another log into the fireplace and continues out another doorway. "It's grown, and Heaven knows it was a rabbit's warren in the old days. I've a bit of time to spare if anyone has suggestions for tales I might enjoy."

Stuyvesant nods, looks around. "And your own work? Not... not leaving it, are you?"

"No, no. Just... work, you know. And illness - surgery. The Real World."

Those words bring everything to a pause. People lean in through the doorways to stare.

"Sorry! Sorry. Stroph - a bit of assistance, if you please! A round for everyone! On m... On Storey's tab, of course!" The revel resumes; the dancing in the cross-wise chamber is shaking the floor. Or perhaps that's tha bassline.

"I've a bit ready to go. Not much... But a murder's afoot. Some surprise guests."

Stuyvesant leans closer. "A murder is always interesting. Whose, pray tell?"

Director shakes his head. "Something should be up this weekend, I hope... Blasted characters, you know, they have minds of their own. I'm trying to write in Teddy Roosevelt, and he's fighting me every step of the way! It's like wresting a bull moose!"

He downs his drink and stands. "I've been gone too long, but I can't stay until I've written a bit more to pay my way. Good to see you!"