I trekked through the mists at 7 this morning, being desperately paranoid because anyone up at that time must be up to no good, collected an accomplice (to hold Sellotape) and set a bomb outside The Inquisitor's room. This was a crude device consisting of a balloon (volume measured as 1.5 litres) taped to the door,a detonator and a sign explaining to passers-by what it was. There is approximately a 50-50 chance of it going off (well, struggling with Sellotape in the dark, trying to be quiet, was a much more hit-and-miss affair than the test run). I await news.
And news wasn't long in coming... earlier than I expected, in fact.
Excerpts from an email conversation between me
and the Umpire last night:
Inquisitor: "Suffice to say, I won't be opening my door with the handle,
tomorrow morning...
Umpire: Probably sensible.
Well now, what should happen when I opened my door this morning, but a
loud bang, as of balloon popping?
So, the question is: Did he know something I didn't (quite possibly, since
I hadn't opened said door since the game started, and it could have been
planted at the time of the conversation).
No, I didn't actually know about the bomb at that time, I was just dispensing general advice.
Needless to say, I opened my door this morning standing behind a wall, putting me about 1.5m outside the bomb's blast radius.
PS: Sinners, Heretics, Witches, Scolds and annoying pets will all be given the oportunity to confess. Some posthumously.
mimbari...:
Having tracked my target at Corpus, I finally met up with a fellow
assasin who shared said target (and his accomplice).
After tracking down others of his targets, we returned to our meeting
place, where we got into the building - we asked for Laura, but we got a
friend. Following said friend, the three of us - believing it might be her
- saw her meet another girl. The pair promptly ran into the locked college
upon spotting us. Running round to cover the rear entrance, dagger drawn,
I was viciously attacked by my fellow assasin. Having sensed something up,
I parried his blow with my right arm, before backing slowly away and up to
my room. Changing disguise, I am now leaving to complete the hit. In the
fray, the accomplice was stabbed in the back by me, as I just saw her out
of my eye and thought they were attacking me together. Now, I am a one
armed assasin, going out to try and catch Laura again.
Sephiroth:
Ros and I decided to go outside and try to kill our respective targets.
I went at Bene't Street Hostel.
I found another assassin (from Cat's) who was trying to kill her as
well. We dind't manage to get inside the hostel so we decided to go to
Sidney Sussex to kill Ros' target, we managed to enter where he lived but
we were told that he was in London.
We came back at Bene't Street Hostel and we managed to get inside. We
finally found a girl, that we thought was the target. We decided to follow
her but she managed to escape in Corpus Christi.
Then I told Ros that since the assassin from Cat's had my same target I
would try to kill him as soon as he brandishes his weapon, which happened
when we were in King's Parade. I tryed to stab him but he was quicker and
he reacted stabbing Ros, which had nothing to do with our duel, on her
back. She stepped aside and we started to look at each other thinking
about who would make the first move. He stepped back a few times. I didn't
know whether I should have tried to throw my knife or not. When I decided
not to do so and try to kill him directly, he escaped in his college.
Ros wasn't armed at the time, nor was she the target of the other assassin, so he would be wanted. Except that by the time this report reaches the news, he's already dead.
At approximately 13:00 on this day, Sunday 14 Octocber, I proceeded with
utmost care and caution, flanked by several dastardly accomplices, to my
unfortunate target's habitual abode.
Upon my knocking, he most foolhardily shouted 'come in', a most
fortuituous invitation for me to kill him, was it not?
Hiding behind the turn in the staircase, I pounced as he came into the
corridor, and shot him down where he stood, semi naked (clad only in a
silken smoking jacket), and now dripping wet with various viscous bodily
fluids. The sexual metaphor will not be lost, I hope, on my reader, and, I
think, the role reversal will particularly appreciated by certain
feminists.
"Various viscous bodily fluids"? I hate to ask what the others were.
The victim then exclaimed 'but the game only started eight hours ago!' to which I replied 'well matey boy, the first kill was at seven last night. you should be more prepared'. He then thanked me for watering with care, and I left.
Dr. Giardia was busily rehearsing a speech on sexual health over a cup of green tea when he heard a knock at the front door. "Come in!" he called from the kitchen, as he shifted from the stool to welcome his visitor. He remembered that he'd left the door locked, however, having not been outside today and strode through to open it with his dressing gown flapping briskly behind him.
"Hello?" he said, somewhat bemused, to the empty landing which greeted his eyes. The visitor had obviously got bored and decided he wasn't in. Oh well. As he retreated back into his lair Dr. G caught sight of a shape bounding up the stairs. Could this be a fresher he hadn't met yet? What news, what news? Was it an emergency? And he in his dressing gown too, at one o'clock. What would the freshers think?
The shaped resolved itself into a young woman of healthy aspect. As
she swam into view so also did the water weapon clutched in her deadly
right hand. Dr. Giardia's speech flashed before his eyes - maybe he was
going to get away without delivering it after all.
There was a damp 'phoooossssssh' noise as the silenced weapon discharged
into Dr. Giardia's unprotected sternum. This was shortly followed by the
percussion of the Cat's celebratory dance on the landing.
A mere eighteen hours into the game and, Dr. G reflected, here he was
already being escorted off the pitch by the Grim Reaper. At least reading
all the rules could wait another term.
Corpus Hostium (Bun-Bun) reports:
Dear Sirs,
It is our pleasure and duty to inform you that the notorious wanted
criminal Richard Nicklin has been eliminated as of 13:38 this afternoon by
members of Corpus Hostium. Corpus Hostium (Mu) and Corpus Hostium (Bun
Bun) decided to walk over to St. Cath's to have a little chat with Mr.
Nicklin. Unfortunately, he was not in his room when they arrived. Even
more unfortunately, he had neglected to lock his room when he left. Mu
and Bun Bun had been waiting in his room for a few minutes when Mr.
Nicklin returned, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Mu heard this and
deftly opened the door, firing off three shots at point blank range,
making Mr. Nicklin life-impaired. Bun Bun alas, did not get off a shot
until Mr. Nicklin was hit at least twice and so graciously concedes the
kill to Mu.
Mr. Nicklin expressed annoyance but admitted that being wanted had
dangerous side effects and cautioned us against using contact
poisons.
"Obtruncere et omnino delere"
I've always believed that courtesy and good manners are an integral part of professionalism in just about every trade, so I decided that it would be plain rude to assassinate without provocation the charming young man smothered in shaving foam who answered the door. I daresay, had I killed him there and then, he'd have made a dreadful mess of that lovely blue carpet - not to mention his coffin interior.
However, on reflection I realised that while I'd shown mercy and compassion towards this young chap, I'd failed to see that I had in fact been in grave danger. You see the object that he'd clasped in his left hand was, despite attempts to conceal it in a mass of foam, a lethal weapon. This implement is well known to colleagues in my profession as a 'Mach 3' - a class of triple blade high precision instrument that 'does the job in just one stroke'. I was therefore, very lucky to be alive.
Hence I'm sure you'll be most understanding when I tell you that I returned to his place of residence after tea and shot him dead at point blank range.
Neil Morrison, aka H.Awkwind reports:
Lo and behold, H.Awkwind is no more. Never again will the strains of
"Hurry on Sundown" or "Ghost Dance" be heard emanating from the corpses of
the slain. For one of mine assailants had the temerity and audacity to
find out who I was in advance, thereby gaining an unfair advantage. Of
course, only a true disbeliever would fail to recognise their prey whence
the chords and melodies of "Earth Calling" trundled their whimsical way
through the ether of Blue Boar. For this foe had the nerve to knock upon
my door. Fearing that I had misread an scroll, and failed to identify the
exact number of moons before the behappenstance of the tournament, I
immediately attempted to escape into the 14th century. However, an large
obstacular ve'hicle had failed to reproach, and thusly I was denied.
Presently I had no choice but to unbolt the portcullis, and shine the
light of stoner rock music upon the unholy and vengeful one. Relieved was
I when my initial fears had been proved erroneousl; this adversary had but
one task repeating in their scunnerous mind - to proclaim to the warlords
that they had identified the enemy, and could begin battle. Hark, the
Valkyries cry again. I skilfully used the power of lies to not tell her
the truth, and all but a modicum of belief seemed to elude me. However,
the foe soon dispersed, although twice more before the witching hour I
spied the unsurruptitious attempts to locate my essence. I left mine abode
with good time to spare before the eleventh hour, and hasten'd to pastures
anew. The following morn, I awoke to a breakfast of finest wheats
afrost'd, with milk from the kye of the pure. This nourishment however was
taken in vain - barberously lurking 'mongst the catacombs was not two, not
three, but one assassins; the very same cad as had previously acquiesced.
Having mysteriously placed my implements of death in an closet
unreachable, I had no chance to escape, and was deservedly run through
with an sheath of liquid pale. The cannon struck true, and I fell unnobly
towards my coffin. No more shall songs of druids and love be heard in the
Trinity doldrums.
After a few minutes I managed to find his room and after a few moments I
decided to knock at his door. He opened it extremely cautiously. I handed
him the letter and went away. The letter was made in order to make him
understand immediately that it was poisoned.
I expected a reaction, which came almost immediately.
I was hidden behind the door that leads to the exit of the building, when
I heard his door being opened and then locked.
I waited a few seconds and then opened my door.
He was holding my letter with a piece of tissue unaware that the real
danger had yet to come.
Running towards him, I stabbed him to death.
At approximately 3:50 today, as I was hanging my black assassin's garb to dry over the back of a handy chair, a lone samurai came to my door. Distracted by the smell of dirty laundry and his fearsome battle cry of "It's Jaaaaaaaaames!", I stupidly opened the door, letting in a strange figure, with bandana and shining blade. A brief struggle ensued, during which several blows were made but none scored. Unfortunately, I let my guard down for a brief second, only to be caught by a swift hack to the side of the neck.
Andrew Westwood, a good though now sadly-deceased friend. Stabbed in the back minutes after helping with killing Martin.
At about 16 o'clock I was hearing a Knock on my
Door, I suspected foul play, therefore I asked:"Who is it?"
All my Suspicons disappeared, as a Voice from outside
replied:"Alex."
As I know someone called Alex, I replied:"Come in, the Door is
open."
The Door then openend, and the Bomb on it went off, blew up the two
People standing the Outside. Ooopsie, I must have forgot removing the
bomb, how cawazy. Hence they are dead, which is quite okay seeing as
he was an Assassin with his Accomplice. Seeing as I was still
quite suspicious, they would have died anyway, seeing as I had my cap
gun ready.
His name was Tim Gardiner. May he rest in Pieces.
We successfully blagged our way into a staircase on harvey court and proceded to room 9 where I knocked and called "Amy". Amy Sherborne quickly came to the door, and on opening I fired two rounds in quick succession.
There was a complicated event in Jesus involving The Inquisitor and various members of the Corpus Hostium. As the outcome was unclear, especially as to who got off the first shots and whether they hit, I have decided to annul the incident. All present survive and live to fight another day.
Today Fat Harry laid down his life in the cause of naivety; having spent his Sunday afternoon in the computer room he walked down a random dark alley completely failing to notice the stranger in the big coat...turning his back to scury off the stranger pulled an unnervingly small gun from his coat and pausing for a second to note the fragility of human life shot Harry in the back twice before retreating to find a kebab shop.
Here lies Fat Harry...a fresher, a dosser, a third rate assassin.
And from a very slightly different perspective:
At an quarter to Five, the Master went out upon the town. He selected a
pair of burgundy poulaines and a Fine Tricorne (made by the best tailor in
London Towne) from the Worr-Drobe and made an hasty exit.
The Master had nothing else to wear. Greed-E-Shoe had eaten everything in
the Worr-Drobe, extending his luxuriously soft velveteen tongue and
rasping on leathern plimpsolls and Handsome Wood'n Clogs until they were
worn away. This has given him great power.
But there was one thing Greed-E-Shoe did not Consume. The knavely
cornuthaum knownst to the erstwhile inhabitants of the Worr-Drobe as
Nor-T-Hat was, to be sure, far too naughty for his refined Tastes.
Indeede, so naughty was Nor-T-Hat that as soon as the Master had departed,
he slithered down from a'top his Pegg! and arrogantly opened the door of
the Worr-Drobe with his very tip.
'By Jesu!' exclaimed Greed-E-Shoe. 'Durst thou escape?'
'Ho!' replied the errant Fools-cappe. 'Not only shall I exit the confines
of this musty Closet, but I shall skewer to the death many Rogues!' Then
Greed-E-Shoe's shock turned to Greed, for he knew that there were many
things to Devoure in the Out-side. He followed Nor-T-Hat's slimy trail as
it oozed naughtily across the floor, downstairs, out of the Parl-Or
window, and into Places Unknown.
Greedily the mischievous vesst-ments scurry'd t'Dow'ning. Within mere moments, they spotted the Exotic Sighte of an Betrumpeted Rascal, and leap't 'pon him with an great Fervour. Greed-E-Shoe, clothen tongue lolling in agony, swivel'd about on Colin Dowse's caved-in Cheste, protruding all manner of Probosc'i and absorbing the goodness within.
One Danny Kong returned then with an great Sack of Spoils, but fled upon seeing Nor-T-Hat, flailing his Encoiled Taile impotently. Nor-T-Hat gleefully gave chase, and was rewarded as his prey suffered an "SPLEEN ATTACK". But 'twas not over until the bloodthirsty hellmet pierced the Sorry Fellowe's eyes with his beake-sharp prongs. Then, 'twas over.
Hmmmmm. I wonder whom these items of clothing could be.
It was only by chance, that following a subtle intelligence mission on a punt down the river, that I did enter the Post Room on the possibility of mail. Yet lo! What see I upon entering but my foe, one Ben Cumming by name, a figure not oft seen around the College. Knowing full well that he knew not of my deadly mission with regards to his life, I nonchalantly checked my mail and left again, as if to consult my friend. Still unknown to my prey, did I then enter again, and, strolling with the greatest of stealth and caution, did I verily plunge my steely blade into his very beating heart. What shock and alarm did cross his face, as for the first, and last time, he beheld the face of his nemesis. "Who are you?" The words were naught but a whisper, as confused he slipped slowly from the Earthly planer. I AM YOUR DEATH, I replied, and silently I watched in satisfaction as his miserable soul drifted forth to misty Hades. And yea, with my work complete I rerturned to whence I came, but know well I shall strike again, and often.
Thus, to all I, Mandos, Doomsayer of Aman, declare that at six of your Earth hours past the zenith of the Sun, I did end the short and pathetic life of Ben Cumming, lately of The College of the King's.
I vainly clutched at the creature's foul blade, as he twisted the knife
deeper into my dark mass, ever driving its point home to my heart. As the
last vestige of my life seeped silently into the floor of his lair, my
soul clamoured for freedom and alighted once more upon the pinion wings of
transcendence, my thoughts already blackened with loathing and contempt
for the failure of my foolish host.
I retreated once more to the void from whence I came, to the decrepit pit
of necromancy that first gave birth to my restless spirit. How long will I
toil in vain, ever seeking a more worthy host? How now may I gain
vengeance upon the sworn enemies of that which is barely termed 'my life'?
In the darkness I recanted my mistakes, and slowly consumed myself in raw
hunger. The fickle mortal notion of trust! This was the downfall of my
slothful host. Whimfully disregarding my dark council regarding the nature
of alliances, he deemed that a lackey may be required in his hunt for the
first of my victims. After a fruitless hour spent outside the dwelling of
said target, he retreated to Kings, unaware of the fateful destiny each
pondering step brought closer upon him. His mortal flaw brings a lesson to
all would be overlords, such that the mailroom is no place in which to
'hang around'.
Alack! Betrayed by the very lackey whom I was to kill upon the drawing of
his. The ferreted animal (he barely deserves the adulation "weasel"
proceeded to check his email inside said mailroom, knowing full well that
the electronic frequencies invovled would delay my latent psychic
perception for the vital second while my real killer struck.
Oh, to recount those deep staring eyes, I have looked into the abyss! And
I have found no respite. Mortals! I warn ye, beware this one, he carries
the blade of corruption, and fears not wear he wields its might. Would
that I had been approached by a lesser warrior, but nay, even my dark
powers, enhanced by the span of many moon spent feasting upon the warm
carcasses of my victims, born in dark ritual and nurtured in the very soul
of Hades, even my powers were in sufficient to save the life of this, my
last host, as he fell to the floor amidst his incantations, summoning
barely enough breath to utter the final doom upon his slayer's head...
"bastard".
Where now am I able to make use of my malign spirit force? Oh, my
nefarious plans thwarted in their infancy! To whom may I now turn for the
solace of a soul feast...
...I feel the cruel whims of fate beckoning me onward, ever carrying me...
toward... the Police Force!
Call me stupid, careless, and uninterested in my own life. A letter
bomb in my pigeon hole nearly got me, and there I was thinking it was
something from one of my friends.
I opened it, read the note, and accepted death. It was my next door
neighbour however that, seeing my glum expression, took the note, out
of interest, from my hands and had a read herself. What I had not realised
was that I had not activated the device, since I only took a small peek.
Instead she opened it fully and it activated in her hands: "I don't
believe" it said. I was a couple of metres away at the time.
For which mistake Orinoco finds himself the most wanted man in Cambridge.
I have been shot, deep in the gut of my stomach, no mercy was shown. he called at my door with great politeness, asked me my name, without breaking his evil smile punished me for my stupid response of yes to the question of my name. I am no more.
Crusher then visited another of his targets, who wasn't in. Then...
After a long and tragically violence-free walk around town trying (and
failing) to find two of my targets, I returned to my room for a cup of
Earl Grey tea. Within less than five minutes there was a loud knock at
the door...
I peered through the security hole to see a rather shady looking unknown
figure; knife in hand I cautiously opened the door, the evil looking man
asked my name. There was a brief pause, then a sudden rush -- he produced
a gun, I lashed round to stab him, disasterously hitting his gun. He
backed out, I shut the door, and the psychological game began...
He sat on the steps, still in view through the peep-hole, and readied
more weaponry, while discussing dishonourable deals with me. I offered
to talk, and gradually opened the door, this time with cap-gun at the
ready...
There was another flurry of activity, I let off several well-aimed
shots, he missed pitifully. He claimed I was not within a metre -- I
leapt forward, shot him three or four times in the chest, he hit me once
in the thigh.
A leg shot, of course, is never fatal due to the advanced medical skills of our highly-trained assassins.
This evening around 8.00 pm, A cloud of smoke was hovering in a room near some freshly cooked pasta, when suddenly another presence entered the room. When its first worries, that the intruder might be after the food, had dispersed, A cloud of Smoke noticed that he was holding a dangerous looking weapon, identical in build to one in the Cloud's arsenal. Instantly the cloud of smoke became a roaring thunderstorm, whirling about madly, stunning the intruder. In what can only be described as the unstilled thirst for blood, both arms and legs of the stranger were cut off, and with a final, powerful blow with a ceremonial sword A cloud of smoke sliced the remaining torso in half. When the dust had settled and A cloud of smoke was floating in mid-air, the 6 remaining body-parts a few feet below now turned out to be a friend of its, who had foolishly taken a close, somewhat too close look at one of its guns. Slighty lonely, A cloud of smoke drifted back to its pasta.
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