The Assassins' Guild - Week 0 News

It's midnight. You come across a pice of paper blowing blowing in the breeze. You pick it up and read it:

The game's begun; you ought to know

that Thunderbirds are Go! Go! GO!

The style seems familiar. Could this be a note from a certain poet?

And in other news, I came across a report at the bottom of my bowl of cereal this morning...

To my friend Lemony Snicket and whoever else may read this report:

I would like to firstly not introduce myself. It has come to my attention that the town of Cambridge has become a place where rather unfortunate things have occurred and will continue to occur, and so what I am here to do brings me no pleasure.

There is a man in your so called police force, Lemony, a Man With Glass Eyes, a high ranking member of the VFD, about whom, a small amount of information was entrusted to me. Because of this, I am placed in a rather delicate situation. On the one hand, it is my duty now to unveil the truth and inform you about the man you have working under your command, my duty as your friend and fellow member of the VFD and also as a concerned citizen.

While I am aware that many stories are soon to be told here and many of them will be tragedies, the difference is that I myself have become made aware of the specifics of this one, and so if I do not write the details and send these reports to you, nobody will. This place is soon to become a warzone, man killing man, woman killing woman and sometimes the two intersecting and killing each other, I'd imagine also, I would not be surprised if there are some things that are neither man nor woman involved. I will endeavour to do my small part in this as the chaos begins.

So, allow me not to introduce myself. However, I will be, in some detail, introducing The Man with Glass Eyes in the future.

I write this as a warning. While I do not yet know all of the details of this tale, one thing has become clear to me. This is not a happy tale, or a heroic one. This is not a tale of a man with no morals gunning down other men with even fewer morals as has become popular with the media these days, nor is it one of a hero struggling against the world and eventually emerging victorious. This is a story about a man, barely an adult, whose past I do not know about, who has had terrible things happen to them. From what I gather, there is no happy ending, there is no hope in this tale except what is provided falsely, hope that caused this man to continue onwards, luring him deeper and deeper into the dark places of this world.

This is not a pleasant story to read.

This is not a pleasant story to write.

But it is one that my conscience forces me to put to paper.

And the worst part of this tale is that this man is not alone in his suffering, just as the Baudelaire orphans are not. No, this world seems to thrive on the suffering of innocent people. There will be hundreds, thousands out there with tales equally as tragic, but this one has a position of power within our organisation, and so it falls to me to relate the tragedy relating to him.

I am very sorry to burden you with this, but you may, if you wish, choose to ignore my reports, place them in the bottom of a drawer and never look at them, or you may imagine that I am practising my writing skills and that the events I relate are merely fantasies within my mind. I will not hold this against you if you do, but my role is to provide the information. Once that is done, it is your choice what you wish to do with it.

Your friend, D.B.

The Man With Glass Eyes sightlessly looked out at the city from his third story window, idly wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was a way to avoid all of this. Perhaps all involved could be convinced to sit down and just talk it-

No, there were some people that even he would kill if he heard them again. And if he, the one who suggested the plan, could not follow it, what hope did the others have? With a sigh, he turned his key in his door and entered in to his abode. If there was somebody in here, he would have heard their breathing, so he entered with no fear. He locked the door behind him, rested his spiked walking cane against the wall and lay down on his bed with a sigh.

One thing was for sure, chaos was soon to break out, and he wanted to be nowhere but right in the middle of it. He had some debts to repay, after all, and if he didnt help to keep The Thing back, then he doubted that many others would step forward. Already, he suspected his so called "partner" of being a little bit too friendly with their shadowy leader; his enemies would soon be everywhere, and the leader of The Thing had already tried to corrupt him. Soon, he would be flung back through hell, but for now, for now he could rest, and he was grateful for that.

Gunshots woke him.

Well, so much for that idea. It seemed like his time of resting was now totally officially over. It was time to go see how bad things were going to get.

And so it begins my dear readers. Please, avert your eyes now before you read things that you may not be able to unread. If you continue, Creme Brulee, a truly lovely meal will be forever ruined for you. You may not be able to hear the word "snake" the same way again. The very concept of "corruption" might start to disturb you. You may find yourself with an overwhelming urge to leave this town. You might find yourself overcome with levels of paranoia before unknown to you. You may begin to see conflicts everywhere, where there are none, and you may, in the worst case scenario, be forced to picture many unattractive people you know personally wearing significantly less than they should in polite company.

If morbid curiosity drives you on, then you have been forewarned. Things only get worse from here.

-The man who will continue to do his duty, D.B.

The Man With Glass Eyes and a Wooden Leg wishes to set a bounty:

I am feeling reminiscent, dear umpire. Certain points from my previous game have stood out in my memory. One such hair-raising point during my grand adventure involved, well, an incident that I am not proud of, but which I do feel deserves some recognition. Because of this nostalgia that I am going through, I would like to set a bounty on myself. Should anybody be able to kill me utilising a weapon that has been licenced as 'the Cherry Hinton Chalk Pits Cliff' or something similar, I will endeavour to provide them with some sort of confectionary or baked sugary substance. In the interests of causing interesting things to happen, I would also like to offer the same to anybody who does something assassins related that amuses me sufficiently, as judged by an arbitrary measure.