welp here are three snippets that have been on my mind, with like a 2% attempt at Dialect
“Being
so tall does help, of course,” Carrot says, like he’s been
waiting for Cheery to point it out.
Cheery
is surprised. “Does it?”
“Humans have this idea that men are taller.”
Cheery
does a quick internal lineup which runs thusly, with a couple of ties:
Captain Carrot/Lady Sybil, Sergeant Angua, Sergeant Colon, Commander
Vimes, Corporal Nobbs/Sergeant Angua.*
*In
plainclothes, as it were.
“…Why?”
Carrot shrugs. “It’s just one of those things.”
“What things?”
“The Things Everyone Knows, only no one seems to notice they aren’t actually true.”
“I
think,” says Nobby, stops, looks away, drums fingers on table,
looks back up and doesn’t quite meet either of their gazes. “I
think, you know, you know when you’re talking about someone and you
don’t know who they are so you say – you say they, right? I
think I’d like – I think that’s what people should say about me, but
not because I don’t know, I do know, I just – I like the sound
of it.”
Fred
Colon frowns, and Nobby’s heart sinks.
“You’re
not back to bein’ an Earl again, are you?”
Nobby
blinks. Of the myriad responses they’d braced themself for, this
particular one hadn’t made the list. “What?”
“All
that Royal We business,” Fred says, waving a hand in an
explanatory sort of way. “Is this some kind of Sub-Royal They?”
Oh.
Nobby rolls their eyes, nearly laughing out of sheer relief. “You
couldn’t pay me enough to be a nob, Fred. I’m just a… Regular
They.”
Fred
looks them up and down. Nobby finds themself holding their breath,
and briefly wishes they hadn’t turned down Cheery and Carrot’s offers
to back them up in this endeavor. They know
Fred can be a bit old-fashioned about Things, but he’s…
He’s important, damn it.
Nobby swallows against the
memory of a too-large helmet slipping down over their eyes.
now, guys, i like daenerys and all … i’m just saying that Lady Sybil Vimes is my real queen and mother of dragons.
like if she were in danny’s place, she’d not only abolish slavery for real, but the former slavemasters would definitely be more polite, they’d sit up straighter and they’d eat all their vegetables. and her dragons would be much tamer.
she’d do it in record time too
lady sybil vimes sitting on the iron throne. someone write this!!
“It’s a little…sharp, don’t you think, dear?” Vimes tried, voice echoing
around the deserted throne room.
He disliked King’s Landing out of principle, it was all right there in the
very name. Sybil was in her element however, although it was hard to think of a
time when Lady Sybil wasn’t in her element. The world morphed to her, fitting
snugly around her form until it settled around her as though she’d always
belonged. He’d watched many a time as she’d made rich lords and ladies feel
like strangers in their own grand homes and now—
“I mean who on earth builds a throne out of thousands of swords. I know
Vetinari is a bastard for symbols and metaphorical meaning, but this really
takes the pis—I mean tart.”
“Yes, the whole place could do with a bit of a spruce up, don’t you think?”
Oh yes dear, thought Vimes, the manic edge to his thoughts
threatening to well up and bubble over into hysterical laughter. I dare say
if you got some curtains measured up you could hide the view of half a burning
kingdom, no problem…
He didn’t belong here. Neither of them did. But who could have ever
predicted that that bloody dragon would return? I could, said a
little voice in the back of his head. It had been waiting for all of this to
end. Not necessarily the dragon of course, but for the careful world he and
Sybil had built to shatter in a shower of fire and smoke and then the ice would
pour back into his veins and Sam Vimes would cease to exist, because whatever
man had existed before had died somewhere in an Ankh-Morpork gutter a million
miles away…
What was it the old wizard had said? Something to do with stories and
narrative need? About fitting into the holes of the pantaloons of the
multiverse?
It didn’t matter now…all that mattered was that they were here now, summoned
by whatever need had pulled them here and—oh yes—he looked up at the open hole
where the palace roof ought to be. Three dragons looked down, as attentive as
kittens with a ball of string. He tried not to think about the sound of their
claws scraping over the stone or the way their eyes moved to follow him if he
strayed too far from Sybil.
Mother of Dragons…
They’d shouted it through the streets, even as they burned. Mother of Dragons…breaker of chains, first
of her name Her Grace, Lady Sybil
Deirdre Olgivanna Ramkin-Vimes, The Duchess of Ankh …and Queen of the
Iron Throne…
“I know what you’re thinking, Sam.”
“Do you, dear?” Same asked, letting his eyes drift from the dragons to her
reassuring form, her blue evening gown streaked with soot, wig only just
slightly askew.
“You’re thinking you want to go home…and I can’t say I blame you, but until
the wizard chaps figure this out, I say we make the most of this… there’s a
whole city out there Sam Vimes. You saw the mess of it when they opened the
gates, you saw what those awful people did to their people…”
Vimes was vaguely aware of an audience gathering at the giant doors that
hung on their hinges. Fine looking people, or at least people who thought they
were very fine, rich robes singed and ruined in only the way a dragon burning
your city can do. And all of them cautiously livid. There was something
reassuringly familiar about that.
“Yes, dear. They do what all ruling classes do.” He turned his attention to
the gathering crowd. “They piss down and call it plumbing.”
An old man wearing chains opened his mouth to protest, “I beg your pardon—“
“Yes you bloody should!” snapped Vimes, reaching for the cigar behind his
ear that wasn’t there and beginning to pat down his pockets. “Call yourselves a
tyranny? My gods what a shambles. Vetinari would have a fit at the state of
this place. An absolute fit.”
Another woman, slightly older than Sybil, and almost as regal, turned what
could only be defined as a look
toward him. “And you both are, sir?”
“Oh do forgive me,” he said, with manic faux politeness, his ducal façade slipping
into place like an anvil on thin ice, “hadn’t you heard? I would have thought
that mob was awfully clear. This is the Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, First
of her name Her Grace, Lady Sybil
Deirdre Olgivanna Ramkin-Vimes, The Duchess of Ankh and Queen of the
Iron Throne. And I’m her husband—“ Commander
Vimes City Watch…the words died on his lips as new words funneled in
through the back of his head, poured down by the cosmos in rich vibrant hues as
the world finally knit together around him. He grinned and several people
backed away.
“They call me, the Kingslayer. And
I’m her Guard.”
Sybil smiled, that soft genteel smile that could light up rooms and made
people feel warm inside. Overhead the dragons spat white hot plumes of flame,
making everyone within a twenty foot radius feel very warm indeed.
“And you lot—” Vimes said, finally managing to pull a cigar from somewhere
in his dented armor, holding it up to the still sizzling air and letting the
tip self-combust into before taking a long heady drag—“have got some bloody
explaining to do.”
MORE
(I’d love to, but you see, I’m already working on the Star Wars Discworld crossover Au for @leahelizabeth89, and I have about 50 WIPS in my darft folder and…and…shit *down the bunny hole we go*)
This is the best thing I have ever seen. Oh god Lady Sybil would just spend her days making sure the dragons were comfy and would go on and on about what a hardy breed they were.
Can you imagine Vimes on the kings council?!Oh god what if the rest of the Watch got through as well.
WHAT IF VETINARI FOUND HIS WAY?!?!?!?!
I just MUST know what Vetinari would do in Westoros !
Oh god. I cannot breath I’m sitting here doing that scary laugh where there’s no sound because you can’t breath so you just flap your arms like a fucking seal. my face hurts from grinning. What have you done to me?
Probably the same thing @leahelizabeth89 did to me when she said “how do you think Star Wars would have turned out with Vetinari in it?” and I’m 3k down the plot tunnel, pickax in hand and flashlight strapped to my head.
As for more Westeros: Vetinari would walk in, picking his way through the crowd and great Sybil like the old friends that they are, and take his rightful place as the Queens Hand—after all he’s never wanted to be a King, so why should he start now? He’s invaluable of course, but it’s Sybil who guides the kingdom back to some semblance of sanity, through the kindness and patience wrought of years tending to creatures that tend to explode at random.
Little Finger would try to get the measure of Von Lipwig—newly instated to the Small Council as Vetinari’s spy—and come up short…of the hangman’s rope. As it turned out, he did not believe in angels. Neither did a lot of the small council, which was unfortunate, but not unforeseen. Spike takes over trade and the various different merchants guilds and foreign traders soon come to know the iron ring of her stiletto heels sparking over the exchange floor.
Arya Stark thought she wanted to join the Assassin Guild, until she sees the golden wolf following on the heels of the tall redheaded man who reminds her of someone she used to know…she makes captain within a year and walks the streets at night, taking light into dark places. The men and women she trains soon become known as Starkies—their motto Law Before Justice.
Hm.
Who else…Fred and Nobby never change. A city is a city and there’s still street theater to watch and and cigarettes to smoke. But they both agree after the first week they’d do almost anything for a pint of Winkles, the beer here is piss.
so. they made a new german discowrld essentials edition, with a new covers (which is good because the old ones are real bad)
and they are these manga-like ‘build a picture’ style, which i like
but. oh my god. look at that vimes
this isn’t samuel ‘worked the night-shift for 30 years, runs on coffee and spit, has probably not slept more than 3hours any given day’ vimes
this is the guy who played vimes in murder-mystery play, ‘inspired by real events’. hammy acting, horrible script, ‘Clues’ everywhere, heroic fightscenes, big speaches. Vimes threadened to shut the whole thing down for slander. Sybil probably got an autograph
I’ve been staring at this post for 15 minutes and I can’t stop laughing omg omg I’m seeing stars oh no.
Sybil invited the damn company to the house for their afterparty and you know it.
the actor earnestly explains at one point the fitness routine he undertook to ‘get in character’ for the part of the ‘heroic commander’ while pointing at various melon-sized muscle groups. vimes himself is sitting there shoveling something that’s 98% grease by volume into his face and also staring balefully. he’s never done a pushup in his life. he wouldn’t know a fucking pushup if it spat on him in the street. sybil is doing her absolute best not to laugh and her best is nowhere good enough. the actor, encouraged by the (presumably) admiring male stares and flirtatious female giggles, goes on to describe his hair-care regimen.
Nooooooo oooooonnnnne stops coups like Sam Vimes
Distrusts clues like Sam Vimes
No one lives off of Klatchian brews like Sam Vimes
He’s especially good at in-VEST-igating
My what a guy, that Sam Vimes
This post got better since I saw it last night oh my gods.
Thank you @roachpatrol I don’t think I’ll ever stop laughing now.
Sorry @roachpatrol for hijacking your post but that was just hilarious and i had to draw it….
(It’s hard to draw Vimes out of uniform! But I guess even he doesn’t wear armour 24/7…)
(Young Sam is like ‘daddy, I want an armour like that!’)
“I imagine he’d have the highest rat of homework handed in on time though, rumours of students being eaten or trampled by the Luggage would make sure of that.”
hard to be a master of dark magic when you’re unconscious from a half-brick in a sock lbr
Voldemort couldn’t take over a high school, he failed to kill an infant who would have died if pushed out a window, and even with magic he was – let’s admit – kinda the weakest villain ever.
The reason Voldemort tried to kill everyone? Yeah, it was because all the other villains laughed at him.
The only reason Voldemort had any power is because he was able to make stronger people do things for him. Without them he’s a complete dud.
And then we have Rincewind, failed wizard, kind of a loser, but amazing at being at the right place at the wrong time and saving the world. He has Luck on his side, and he’s friends with Death. Fate hates him, but Rincewind doesn’t need anyone else to be there for him. He’s gotten himself out of trouble more than once.
So, Voldemort either gets eaten by the Luggage, or whacked upside the head by a half-brick in a sock and then kicked to death by a very angry Rincewind who is justified in being furious that Voldemort passed wizarding school.
Of course, none of the Hogwarts crew would have survived old school UU, and Voldemort vs Ridicully would be laughable.
I still want to see “Sam Vimes arrests Voldemort.”
I want to see Ridicully vs Voldemort and Sam Vimes arresting Voldemort once he’s done being a newt.
Sam Vimes would not wait for Voldemort to be done with being a newt. Sam Vimes would take immense pleasure in constructing little newt handcuffs out of two paperclips, and arresting Voldemort while he was still a newt.
There’s really not a nicer way to describe her, a bow-legged cross between a terrier and a feral sewer rat, mostly the color of dishwater. And she doesn’t really clean up—it becomes more embarrassing after he’s married Sybil, whose pygmy hippo daemon can go from placid river god to defensive bellowing ferocity in seconds flat, and might as well have stepped from the Morpork coat of arms. But even freshly cleaned and trussed in a gold ducal collar, his daemon looks like it was dragged backwards through a nasty bit of the Ankh.
she’s a patient tracker, though, and a rat-worrier and a sheep-herder and a snarling, protective beast—there must be some wolf in that mongrel of yours, Wolfgang tells him on that snowy plain, and Vimes figures it’s pretty likely, he’s got a wolf in him too.
Vetinari has a golden orb-weaver, who only occasional deigns to make an appearance—usually resting on the back of Vetinari’s hand, as if to make a point. (There are heads of guilds with enormous bull daemons who shiver in fear of that little spider, on that pale hand.)
Carrot has a frankly impressive lioness, whose presence made the whole watch-house fall silent the first time Carrot walked in. Vimes had been a little taken aback at the sight of her, gold and somehow not of their world, standing in their grubby and undistinguished midst.
(No one has ever asked Carrot about her, not even Angua, who has her own lovely wolfdog daemon.)
Moist has a mockingbird who perches on his shoulder, the same color as dust and utterly forgettable. (In his old glory days, he would sometimes bring a turtle or mouse with him, hiding her under his hat—sorry, wrong daemon is not an ironclad alibi, but it’s enough of a distraction to run away.) She gets along well with Spike’s terrifying peregrine, though she’s a little too excited by the feeling of being snatched out of the air in Moist’s opinion.
William de Worde has a hedgehog, who immediately curled up in a ball when faced with Sacharissa Cripslock’s ermine. (It took a while to get him to relax.)
Witches tend toward cats—or women with cat daemons turn out to be witches, they never quite decided that one. Granny Weatherwax has pure grey cat, utterly unremarkable in every way but that. (She has always been privately disappointed in him, for it. She would have preferred something a little more imposing, more obviously witchy—which, of course, is ridiculous, it is choosing that makes a witch, not her nature. But still.)
Nanny has a fat piebald cat whose amorous adventures with other daemons rival Greebo’s—he’s been known to slip off for days, only returning when Nanny is called out. Magrat has a cream shorthair who looks very handsome beside Verence’s—slightly excitable, a little graceless—hare. Even Susan, though technically not a witch, has a cat daemon, a sleek black thing that likes to play with the Death of Rats when he’s bored.
Tiffany is among the few witches who doesn’t have a cat daemon—hers doesn’t settle until she faces the hiver, until she ushers it through the black door to its death. Afterwards, Tiffany Aching knows herself to be a witch, and walks the downs with her sheepdog daemon at her side, her hat full of sky.
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