prof_of_cunning: (action - cough)
If he were planning on giving his class a final exam, Edmund would be ignoring that right about now to go over his budget (heading home by portal instead of a ship would eat into his treasure stash, but not enough to hurt, and it would get him back in time to perform a little strategic heroism for his soon to be ex ex employer) and plans for the next six months.

Since he already had their grades written up based on last week's class and was far too self-centred to give a toss about whether they'd actually learned anything from him, he was instead just ignoring Baldrick while he worked on his schedule for taking over the British Empire.

Not that Baldrick was there; Baldrick was outside in the hallway, duct-taped to the wall about six inches off the ground. Edmund was just ignoring him on general principle.

The door was, necessarily, shut, but not locked.

[Open!]
prof_of_cunning: (reading - book)
There was tea, there was no Baldrick (where Baldrick might be was anyone's guess, though if anyone's guess was "tied up in the janitor's closet with an apple stuffed in his mouth to muffle the shouting" then anyone was rather good at this guessing thing) and there was a rather sizable collection of gold coins spread across Edmund's desk.

He didn't need to recount due to concussion, unlike Some People. He just enjoyed it.

[OOC: Post is open, player door is cracked!]
prof_of_cunning: (reading - magnified)
Edmund was not sleeping at his desk this week. Oh no. He was instead studying a neatly-written list. He'd found it on his bedside table Monday morning, when he'd awakened slightly muffle-headed from dreams about needing to shop for a poufier wig to better show off his new crown, and calling off his engagement to that rosebush now that his dad had finally shuffled porphyrically off this mortal coil.

He'd managed to throw a boot before he saw the note, and shout "Baldrick, what did you let me DRINK?" before it registered that the handwriting was his own.

It started (after the obligatory "Dear stunningly attractive younger self") with

1. Go back to work for the Teutonic twit

and ended with

69. Profit!!

It was the 67 items in between (one of which was "Brush up on your German grammar") that he was still perusing with a fine-toothed magnifying glass, days later. Edmund appreciated the heads-up, of course, but he'd apparently got a lot vaguer about details once he reached middle age, or just overly-reliant on his stunningly attractive younger self's ingenuity. How, for instance, was he supposed to afford a Kevlar Vest (once he'd figured out what one of those was) on a teacher's salary?

[Open!]
prof_of_cunning: (sleepy - shirtless)
If anybody wanted Edmund today, they'd find him (after a late arrival due to not bloody feeling like getting up) collapsed over his desk, fast asleep, with a similarly slumbering Baldrick on the floor at...the hotel room, and Baldrick wasn't so much slumbering as out cold after Edmund threw a large pink rainboot (don't ask) at his head.

Edmund hadn't been up all night with a malfunctioning droidbaby, just a rather excellent bottle of brandy.

[Door is closed, but unlocked!]
prof_of_cunning: (smile - pleased)
Edmund in his office. Edmund was not green.

Edmund was not green because Baldrick had beaten him to the tea this morning, and after belting his assistant round the earhole with a baguette for it, he'd sussed out that the new skin-colour wasn't (sadly) a sign of incipient gangrene, but a reaction to the drink.

Edmund was quite pleased to be not green -- and rather chuffed that he'd hit on the brilliant idea of having Baldrick taste things for him in the future to avoid any of Fandom's little eccentricities that might have invaded the food.

He was, however, a little thirsty.

[Door and post open!]
prof_of_cunning: (dubious - whelmed)
Disturbing as the prospect of meeting the progenitors of some of his students might be, nonetheless Edmund could be found in his office today, thankfully sans Baldrick.

Not, sadly, sans toast crumbs in his hair. There were apparently some drawbacks to encouraging people who weren't himself to throw food at actors.

[Open!]
prof_of_cunning: (reading - book)
This time, he'd slipped up and let Baldrick follow him to the office. He could boot the man -- in the most generous possible sense of the word -- out, but instead Edmund chose to have him stand still in one corner of the room holding up the wastebin while Edmund threw wadded-up pages of Entertainment Weekly at it.

Well, at Baldrick's head. He was just allotting himself two extra points if they landed in the wastebin when they bounced off.

What do you mean this wasn't what office hours were for?

[Open like a small room containing a small, smelly man and a slightly larger, much less smelly man.]
prof_of_cunning: (reading - book)
It wasn't that Edmund hadn't found his office before now.

It was just the first time he'd been confident enough that Baldrick wouldn't wander in if he left the door open, to actually leave the door open.

Given that Baldrick was currently tied to a tree in the park with an acorn hanging off the front corner of his hat in hopes a squirrel might bite his nose off, Edmund was fairly confident today.

Thus his feet were on his desk, his tea was in his hands, and the door was propped open, drawing the unseasonably warm breeze in from the likewise open window.
prof_of_cunning: (with Baldrick - working together)
If the waves had let him sleep, he'd perhaps have cracked an eye open somewhat less grumpily when a member of the crew rapped on the half-a-plank that passed for a door. "Whatever it is, say it fast and say it from over there unless you want to see lunch on your shoes, which I'd advise against; it wasn't all that appetizing before I ate it."

"It's just we've found your luggage, Mister Blackadder."

ExpandThat was worth sitting up for. )
prof_of_cunning: (dubious - O RLY?)
The cleaning bucket he'd almost tripped over preceded Edmund Blackadder down the stairs, but sadly his petulant kick was too wobbly to arc it the full length of the kitchen and into Baldrick's head; he settled for tossing a half-peeled potato once he reached the table, but the bonk wasn't nearly as effective.

"Something wrong, Mister B?" Baldrick asked far too mildly for anyone who'd just had a potato lobbed at his head.

Then again, it was entirely possible, Edmund allowed to himself, that the thing had slid right off the surface of Baldrick's tangled, greasy hair, and never touched his skull at all. Perhaps only hitting him from close-up would have any real effect; it was worth further investigation, but then you'd have to get within the stench-radius. Science or sanity? The moral dilemma was vaguely interesting, but not enough to distract him from his irritation.

"I've just about had it up to here with that Prince," he said, stabbing a finger in Baldrick's direction as he reached for a cup with the other hand. ExpandOne more foot wrong, and I'll be handing in my notice. )
__
*In an utterly alternate history whose chief export and national dish is anachronism stew, so you know, give or take fifty years. Teatime is the important bit.
__

[Folded, spindled, and mutilated from the S3 episode Sense and Senility, with one line from Amy and Amiability and a heaping helping of alternate dialogue. NFI and NFB, obviously, but OOC is most welcome. Unless you're the deputy village idiot of Kensington.]
prof_of_cunning: (sneaky)
In an attempt to belie my own tweet from earlier re: accomplishing precisely nothing at FH tonight, Westward Character Info Post, Ho.

ExpandThe lazy, big-nosed, rubberfaced bastard: Edmund Blackadder, teacher (and Baldrick at no extra charge) )

Also on-island:

( The girl from another planet: Cally (no, the other Cally), sophomore ) (Is that a fake lj-cut you see before you? Why yes, yes it is.)

Off in the world:

ExpandThe boy next door if you happen to live in THE FUTURE with giant robots: Xander Carson, nee' Harris, Class of 2006 )

ExpandThe Girl Next Door )


ExpandOh yeah, me. )

Voicemail

Jan. 1st, 2000 09:43 pm
prof_of_cunning: (writing - taking notes)
"If you wish to leave a message for Edmund Blackadder, this is the place to do it; unless you're a debt collector or a member of the British royal family, in which case, sod off."

"What? Oh, right, that's me. If you want to leave a sausage for Sodoff Baldrick--"

"A message, Baldrick, and no one does. Shut up."
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