FAF Is not just a lobby - Ideas don't die

[Delirium]

I just registered not but five minutes ago, only to say that I love this game, the lobby and the community. I don't want to play another RTS with some shitty dice roll or simplistic rock paper scissor mechanics. I don't want to leave the a-hole players, the annoying players and the many friendly players that populate our community.

I know the FAF Lobby is just a 'thing', but the idea that started it is still strong and a large majority of the players will still play the game that remains at the apex of RTS. The FAF project might die but FA will be around forever and we'll keep playing it, whether it be in FAF or another lobby.

I wonder if someone tried to kill chess...

[Tremarl]

i agree with such a sentiment. I also am very greatful to Zeph for all the work he has done into trying to create a community such as this.


Also yes people have tried to kill chess (Banned in Iran 1981 apparently) I'd post the citationn but forum says Its too "spammy". Google search should find it though

[SeraphimLeftNut]

It would have been more poetic if Zep erased all of his work and disappeared forever. Then maybe one day he would get FAF back under circumstances such as these:

A gust of wind burst into the room, flattening the candle flames. The
heavy curtain billowed out, the window was flung open. and high above
appeared a full moon--not a setting moon, but the midnight moon. A dark
green cloth stretched from the wind-ow-sill to the floor and down it walked
Ivan's night visitor, the man who called himself the master. He was wearing
his hospital clothes--dressing-gown, slippers and the black cap from which
he was never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he squinted
with fear at the candle flames and a flood of moonlight boiled around him.
Margarita recognised him at once, groaned, clasped her hands and ran
towards him. She kissed him on the forehead, the lips, pressed her face to
his prickly cheek and her long-suppressed tears streamed down her face. She
could only say, repeating it like a senseless refrain :
'It's you . . . it's you . . . it's you . . .'
The master pushed her away and said huskily :
'Don't cry, Margot, don't torment me, I'm very ill,' and he
grasped the windowsill as though preparing to jump out and
run away again. Staring round at the figures seated in the room
he cried : ' I'm frightened, Margot! I'm getting hallucinations
again . . .'
Stifled with sobbing, Margarita whispered, stammering :
'No, no ... don't be afraid . . . I'm here . . . I'm here . . .'
Deftly and unobtrusively Koroviev slipped a chair behind the
master. He collapsed into it and Margarita fell on her knees at
his side, where she grew calmer. In her excitement she had not
noticed that she was no longer naked and that she was now
wearing a black silk gown. The master's head nodded forward
and he stared gloomily at the floor.
'Yes,' said Woland after a pause, ' they have almost broken
him.' He gave an order to Koroviev :
'Now, sir, give this man something to drink.'
In a trembling voice Margarita begged the master :
'Drink it, drink it! Are you afraid? No, no, believe me,
they want to help you! '
The sick man took the glass and drank it, but his hand trembled,
he dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.
'Ma^el tov!' Koroviev whispered to Margarita. ' Look, he's
coming to himself already.'
It was true. The patient's stare was less wild and distraught.
'Is it really you, Margot? asked the midnight visitor.
'Yes, it really is,' replied Margarita.
'More! ' ordered Woland.
When the master had drained the second glass his eyes were
fully alive and conscious. ' That's better,' said Woland with a slight
frown. ' Now we can talk. Who are you? '
'I am no one,' replied the master with a lopsided smile.
'Where have you just come from? '
'From the madhouse. I am a mental patient,' replied the visitor.
Margarita could not bear to hear this and burst into tears again. Then
she wiped her eyes and cried :
'It's terrible--terrible! He is a master, messire, I warn you! Cure
him--he's worth it! '
'You realise who I am, don't you? ' Woland asked. ' Do you know where
you are? '
'I know,' answered the master. 'My next-door neighbour in the madhouse
is that boy, Ivan Bezdomny. He told me about you.'
'Did he now! ' replied Woland. ' I had the pleasure of meeting that
young man at Patriarch's Ponds. He nearly drove me mad, trying to prove that
I didn't exist. But you believe in me, I hope? '
'I must,' said the visitor, ' although I would much prefer it if I
could regard you as a figment of my own hallucination. Forgive me,' added
the master, recollecting himself.
'By all means regard me as such if that makes you any happier,'
replied Woland politely.
'No, no! ' said Margarita with anxiety, shaking the master by the
shoulder. ' Think again! It really is him! '
'But I really am like a hallucination. Look at my profile in the
moonlight,' said Behemoth. The cat moved into a shaft of moonlight and was
going to say something else, but was told to shut up and only said :
'All right, all right, I'll be quiet. I'll be a silent hallucination.'
'Tell me, why does Margarita call you the master? ' enquired Woland.
The man laughed and said :
'An understandable weakness of hers. She has too high an opinion of a
novel that I've written.' • Which novel? '
'A novel about Pontius Pilate.'
Again the candle flames flickered and jumped and the crockery rattled
on the table as Woland gave a laugh like a clap of thunder. Yet no one was
frightened or shocked by the laughter; Behemoth even applauded.
'About what? About whom?' said Woland, ceasing to laugh. ' But that's
extraordinary! In this day and age? Couldn't you have chosen another
subject? Let me have a look.' Woland stretched out his hand palm uppermost.
'Unfortunately I cannot show it to you,' replied the master, ' because
I burned it in my stove.'
'I'm sorry but I don't believe you,' said Woland. ' You can't have
done. Manuscripts don't burn.' He turned to Behemoth and said : ' Come on.
Behemoth, give me the novel.'
The cat jumped down from its chair and wh.ere he had been sitting was a
pile of manuscripts. With a bow the cat handed the top copy to Woland.
Margarita shuddered and cried out, moved to tears :
'There's the manuscript! There it is! '
She flung herself at Woland's feet and cried ecstatically:
'You are all-powerful! '
Woland took it, turned it over, put it aside and turned, unsmiling, to
stare at the master. Without apparent cause the master had suddenly relapsed
into uneasy gloom ; he got up from his chair, wrung his hands and turning
towards the distant moon he started to tremble, muttering :
'Even by moonlight there's no peace for me at night. . . Why do they
torment me? Oh, ye gods . . .'
Margarita clutched his hospital dressing-gown, embraced him and moaned
tearfully :
'Oh God, why didn't that medicine do you any good? '
'Don't be upset,' whispered Koroviev, edging up to the master, '
another little glassful and I'll have one myself to keep you company . . .'
A glass winked in the moonlight. It began to work. The master sat down
again and his expression grew calmer.
'Well, that makes everything quite clear,' said Woland, tapping the
manuscript with his long finger.
............
did the dog go to sleep.
The couch stood in half darkness, shaded from the moon by a pillar,
though a long ribbon of moonlight stretched from the staircase to the bed.
As the Procurator drifted away from reality he set off along that path of
light, straight up towards the moon. In his sleep he even laughed from
happiness at the unique beauty of that transparent blue pathway. He was
walking with Banga and the vagrant philosopher beside him. They were arguing
about a weighty and complex problem over which neither could gain the upper
hand. They disagreed entirely, which made their argument the more absorbing
and interminable. The execution, of course, had been a pure misunderstanding
: after all this same man, with his ridiculous philosophy that all men were
good, was walking beside him--consequently he was alive. Indeed the very
thought of executing such a man was absurd. There had been no execution I It
had never taken place! This thought comforted him as he strode along the
moonlight pathway.
They had as much time to spare as they wanted, the storm would not
break until evening. Cowardice was undoubtedly one of the most terrible
sins. Thus spake Yeshua Ha-Notsri. No, philosopher, I disagree--it is the
most terrible sin of all!
Had he not shown cowardice, the man who was now Procurator of Judaea
but who had once been a Tribune of the legion on that day in the Valley of
the Virgins when the wild Germans had so nearly clubbed Muribellum the Giant
to death? Have pity on me, philosopher! Do you, a man of your intelligence,
imagine that the Procurator of Judaea would ruin his career for the sake of
a man who had committed a crime against Caesar?
'Yes, yes . . .' Pilate groaned and sobbed in his sleep.
Of course he would risk ruining his career. This morning he had not
been ready to, but now at night, having thoroughly weighed the matter, he
was prepared to ruin himself if need be. He would do anything to save this
crazy, innocent dreamer, this miraculous healer, from execution.
'You and I will always be together,' said the ragged tramp-philosopher
who had so mysteriously become the travelling companion of the Knight of the
Golden Lance. ' Where one of us goes, the other shall go too. Whenever
people think of me they will think of you--me, an orphan child of unknown
parents and you the son of an astrologer-king and a miller's daughter, the
beautiful Pila! '
'Remember to pray for me, the astrologer's son,' begged Pilate in his
dream. And reassured by a nod from the pauper from Ein-Sarid who was his
companion, the cruel Procurator of Judaea wept with joy and laughed in his
sleep.
The hegemon's awakening was all the more fearful after the euphoria of
his dream. Banga started to growl at the moon, and the blue pathway,
slippery as butter, collapsed in front of the Procurator. He opened his eyes
and the first thing he remembered was that the execution had taken place.
Then the Procurator groped mechanically for Banga's collar, then turned his
aching eyes in search of the moon and noticed that it had moved slightly to
one side and was silver in colour. Competing with its light was another more
unpleasant and disturbing light that nickered in front of him. Holding a
naming, crackling torch, Muribellum scowled with fear and dislike at the
dangerous beast, poised to spring.
..................
There was silence again and both figures on the roof stood watching the
setting sun reflected in all the westward-facing windows. Woland's eyes
shone with the same fire, even though he sat with his back to the sunset.
Then something made Woland turn his attention to a round tower behind
him on the roof. From its walls appeared a grim, ragged, mud-spattered man
with a beard, dressed in a chiton and home-made sandals.
'Ha! ' exclaimed Wolaud, with a sneer at the approaching figure. ' You
are the last person I expected to see here. What brings you here, of all
people? '
'I have come to see you, spirit of evil and lord of the shadows,' the
man replied with a hostile glare at Woland.
'Well, tax-gatherer, if you've come to see me, why don't you wish me
well? '
'Because I have no wish to see you well,' said the man impudently.
'Then I am afraid you will have to reconcile yourself to my good
health,' retorted Woland, his mouth twisted into a grin. ' As soon as you
appeared on this roof you made yourself ridiculous. It was your tone of
voice. You spoke your words as though you denied the very existence of the
shadows or of evil. Think, now : where would your good be if there were no
evil and what would the world look like without shadow? Shadows are thrown
by people and things. There's the shadow of my sword, for instance. But
shadows are also cast by trees and living things. Do you want to strip the
whole globe by removing every tree and every creature to satisfy your
fantasy of a bare world? You're stupid.'
'I won't argue with you, old sophist,' replied Matthew the Levite.
'You are incapable of arguing with me for the reason I have just
mentioned--you are too stupid,' answered Woland and enquired: ' Now tell me
briefly and without boring me why you are here? '
'He has sent me.'
'What message did he give you, slave? '
'I am not a slave,' replied Matthew the Levite, growing angrier, ' I
am his disciple.'
'You and I are speaking different languages, as always,' said Woland,
' but that does not alter the things we are talking about. Well?'
'He has read the master's writings,' said Matthew the Levite, ' and
asks you to take the master with you and reward him by granting him peace.
Would that be hard for you to do, spirit of evil?'
'Nothing is hard for me to do,' replied Woland, ' as you well know.'
He paused for a while and then added : ' Why don't you take him yourself, to
the light? '
'He has not earned light, he has earned rest,' said the Levite sadly.
'Tell him it shall be done,' said Woland, adding with a flash in his
eye : ' And leave me this instant.'
.................
'We have read your novel,' said Woland, turning to the master,' and we
can only say that unfortunately it is not finished. I would like to show you
your hero. He has been sitting here and sleeping for nearly two thousand
years, but when the full moon comes he is tortured, as you see, with
insomnia. It plagues not only him, but his faithful guardian, his dog. If it
is true that cowardice is the worst sin of all, then the dog at least is not
guilty of it. The only thing that frightened this brave animal was a
thunderstorm. But one who loves must share the fate of his loved one.' '
What is he saying?' asked Margarita, and her calm face was veiled with
compassion.
'He always says ' said Woland, ' the same thing. He is saying that
there is no peace for him by moonlight and that his duty is a hard one. He
says it always, whether he is asleep or awake, and he always sees the same
thing--a path of moonlight. He longs to walk along it and talk to his
prisoner, Ha-Notsri, because he claims he had more to say to him on that
distant fourteenth day of Nisan. But he never succeeds in reaching that path
and no one ever comes near him. So it is not surprising that he talks to
himself. For an occasional change he adds that most of all he detests his
immortality and his incredible fame. He claims that he would gladly change
places with that vagrant, Matthew the Levite.'
'Twenty-four thousand moons in penance for one moon long ago, isn't
that too much? ' asked Margarita.
'Are you going to repeat the business with Frieda again?' said Woland.
' But you needn't distress yourself, Margarita. All will be as it should ;
that is how the world is made.'
'Let him go! ' Margarita suddenly shouted in a piercing voice, as she
had shouted when she was a witch. Her cry shattered a rock in the
mountainside, sending it bouncing down into the abyss with a deafening
crash, but Margarita could not tell if it was the falling rock or the sound
of satanic laughter. Whether it was or not, Woland laughed and said to
Margarita :
'Shouting at the mountains will do no good. Landslides are common here
and he is used to them by now. There is no need for you to plead for him,
Margarita, because his cause has already been pleaded by the man he longs to
join.' Woland turned round to the master and went on: ' Now is your chance
to complete your novel with a single sentence.'
The master seemed to be expecting this while he had been standing
motionless, watching the seated Procurator. He cupped his hands to a trumpet
and shouted with such force that the echo sprang back at him from the bare,
treeless hills :
'You are free! Free! He is waiting for you!'
The mountains turned the master's voice to thunder and the thunder
destroyed them. The grim cliffsides crumbled and fell. Only the platform
with the stone chair remained. Above the black abyss into which the
mountains had vanished glowed a great city topped by glittering idols above
a garden overgrown with the luxuriance of two thousand years. Into the
garden stretched the Procurator's long-awaited path of moonlight and the
first to bound along it was the dog with pointed ears. The man in the white
cloak with the blood-red lining rose from his chair and shouted something in
a hoarse, uneven voice. It was impossible to tell if he was laughing or
crying, or what he was shouting. He could only be seen hurrying along the
moonlight path after his faithful watchdog.
'Am I to follow him? ' the master enquired uneasily, with a touch on
his reins.
'No,' answered Woland, ' why try to pursue what is completed? '
'That way, then?' asked the master, turning and pointing back to where
rose the city they had just left, with its onion-domed monasteries,
fragmented sunlight reflected in its windows.
'No, not that way either,' replied Woland, his voice rolling down the
hillsides like a dense torrent. ' You are a romantic, master! Your novel has
been read by the man that your hero Pilate, whom you have just released, so
longs to see.' Here Woland turned to Margarita : ' Margarita Nikolayevna! I
am convinced that you have done your utmost to devise the best possible
future for the master, but believe me, what I am offering you and what
Yeshua has begged to be given to you is even better! Let us leave them alone
with each other,' said Woland, leaning out of his saddle towards the master
and pointing to the departing Procurator. ' Let's not disturb them. Who
knows, perhaps they may agree on something.'

Mikhail Bulgakov 'Master and Margaret'