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brooklynislandgirl · 3 years ago

Note

👑 / Vimes

Every Face a Different Shade || Accepting

WOULD I: YES / MAYBE / NO

Terry Pratchett is my most favourite author to ever have existed. I do not say this lightly. This is not because everyone I know thinks he was cool. This is not a flash in the pan. I have been a fan for over 20 years and Sir Terry’s often biting humour and gentle wisdom has woven itself through three generations of my actual real life family. I just can’t. I wish I could. But some things, alas, are sacred.

HAVE I EVER BEFORE: YES / NO

I thought about it. Honestly I wanted to write Disc fanfiction but I can’t. It would be so horrific to my way of thinking, it’s like thinking about writing biblical/religious fanfic.

Bonus:

ICON & WRITING SAMPLE (IF YES TO EITHER PREV. QUESTION):

Thud! by Sir Terry Pratchett an excerpt:

“Night, forever. But within it, a city, shadowy and only real in certain ways. The entity cowered in its alley, where the mist was rising. This could not have happened! Yet it had. The streets had filled with… things. Animals! Birds! Changing shape! Screaming and yelling! And, above it all, higher than the rooftops, a lamb rocking back and forth in great slow motions, thundering over the cobbles… And then bars had come down, slamming down, and the entity had been thrown back. But it had been so close! It had saved the creature, it was getting through, it was beginning to have control… and now this… In the darkness of the inner city, above the rustle of the never-ending rain, it heard the sound of boots approaching. A shape appeared in the mist. It drew nearer. Water cascaded off a metal helmet and an oiled leather cloak as the figure stopped and, entirely unconcerned, cupped its had in front of its face and lit a cigar. Then the match was dropped on the cobbles, where it hissed out, and the figure said: “What are you?” The entity stirred, like an old fish in a deep pool. It was too tired to flee. “I am the Summoning Dark.” It was not, in fact, a sound, but had it been, it would have been a hiss. “Who are you?” “I am the Watchman.” “They would have killed his family!” The darkness lunged, and met resistance. “Think of the deaths they have caused! Who are you to stop me?” “He created me. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who watches the watchmen? Me. I watch him. Always. You will not force him to murder for you.” “What kind of human creates his own policeman?” “One who fears the dark.” “And so he should,” said the entity, with satisfaction. “Indeed. But I think you misunderstand. I am not here to keep the darkness out. I am here to keep it in.” There was a clink of metal as the shadowy watchman lifted a dark lantern and opened its little door. Orange light cut through the blackness. “Call me… the Guarding Dark. Imagine how strong I must be.” The Summoning Dark backed desperately into the alley, but the light followed it, burning it. “And now,” said the watchman, “get out of town.”

Night Watch by Sir Terry Pratchett an excerpt:

Sam Vimes sighed when he heard the scream, but he finished shaving before he did anything about it. Then he put his jacket on and strolled out into the wonderful late spring morning. Birds sang in the trees, bees buzzed in the blossom. The sky was hazy, though, and thunderheads on the horizon threatened rain later. But, for now, the air was hot and heavy. And, in the old cesspit behind the gardener's shed, a young man was treading water. Well . . . treading, anyway. Vimes stood back a little way and lit a cigar. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to employ a naked flame any nearer to the pit. The fall from the shed roof had broken the crust. 'Good morning!' he said cheerfully. 'Good morning, your grace,' said the industrious treadler. The voice was higher pitched than Vimes expected and he realized that, most unusually, the young man in the pit was in fact a young woman. It wasn't entirely unexpected - the Assassins' Guild was aware that women were at least equal to their brothers when it came to inventive killing - but it nevertheless changed the situation somewhat. 'I don't believe we've met?' said Vimes. 'Although I see you know who I am. You are . . .?' 'Wiggs, sir,' said the swimmer. 'Jocasta Wiggs. Honoured to meet you, your grace.' 'Wiggs, eh?' said Vimes. 'Famous family in the Guild' "Sir" will do, by the way. I think I once broke your father's leg?' 'Yes, sir. He asked to be remembered to you,' said Jocasta. 'You're a bit young to be sent on this contract, aren't you?' said Vimes. 'Not a contract, sir,' said Jocasta, still paddling. 'Come now, Miss Wiggs. The price on my head is at least-' 'The Guild council put it in abeyance, sir,' said the dogged swimmer. 'You're off the register. They're not accepting contracts on you at present.' 'Good grief, why not?' 'Couldn't say, sir,' said Miss Wiggs. Her patient struggles had brought her to the edge of the pit, and now she was finding that the brickwork was in very good repair, quite slippery and offered no handholds. Vimes knew this, because he'd spent several hours one afternoon carefully arranging that this should be so. 'So why were you sent, then?' 'Miss Band sent me as an exercise,' said Jocasta. 'I say, these bricks really are jolly tricky, aren't they?' 'Yes,' said Vimes, 'they are. Have you been rude to Miss Band lately? Upset her in any way?' 'Oh, no, your grace. But she did say I was getting over-confident, and would benefit from some advanced field work.' 'Ah. I see.' Vimes tried to recall Miss Alice Band, one of the Assassins' Guild's stricter teachers. She was, he'd heard, very hot on practical lessons. 'So . . . she sent you to kill me, then?' he said. 'No, sir! It's an exercise! I don't even have any crossbow bolts! I just had to find a spot where I could get you in my sights and then report back!' 'She'd believe you?' 'Of course, sir,' said Jocasta, looking rather hurt. 'Guild honour, sir.' Vimes took a deep breath. 'You see, Miss Wiggs, quite a few of your chums have tried to kill me at home in recent years. As you might expect, I take a dim view of this.' 'Easy to see why, sir,' said Jocasta, in the voice of one who knows that their only hope of escaping from their present predicament is reliant on the goodwill of another person who has no pressing reason to have any. 'And so you'd be amazed at the booby traps there are around the place,' Vimes went on. 'Some of them are pretty cunning, even if I say it myself.' 'I certainly never expected the tiles on the shed to shift like that, sir.' 'They're on greased rails,' said Vimes. 'Well done, sir!' 'And quite a few of the traps drop you into something deadly,' said Vimes. 'Lucky for me that I fell into this one, eh, sir?' 'Oh, that one's deadly too,' said Vimes. 'Eventually deadly.' He sighed. He really wanted to discourage this sort of thing but . . . they'd put him off the register? It wasn't that he'd liked being shot at by hooded figures in the temporary employ of his many and varied enemies, but he'd always looked at it as some kind of vote of confidence. It showed that he was annoying the rich and arrogant people who ought to be annoyed. Besides, the Assassins' Guild was easy to outwit. They had strict rules, which they followed quite honourably, and this was fine by Vimes, who, in certain practical areas, had no rules whatsoever. Off the register, eh? The only other person not on it any more, it was rumoured, was Lord Vetinari, the Patrician. The Assassins understood the political game in the city better than anyone, and if they took you off the register it was because they felt your departure would not only spoil the game but also smash the board . . . 'I'd be jolly grateful if you could pull me out, sir,' said Jocasta. 'What? Oh, yes. Sorry, got clean clothes on,' said Vimes. 'But when I get back to the house I'll tell the butler to come down here with a ladder. How about that?' 'Thank you very much, sir. Nice to have met you, sir.' Vimes strolled back to the house. Off the register? Was he allowed to appeal? Perhaps they thought- The scent rolled over him. He looked up. Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom. He stared. Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn't want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days . . . He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom and gently broke the stem. He sniffed at it. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing. And then he carried the sprig of lilac carefully back up to his dressing room. Willikins had prepared the official uniform for today. Sam Vimes stared at it blankly, and then remembered. Watch Committee. Right. The battered old breastplate wouldn't do, would it . . . Not for His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes. Lord Vetinari had been very definite about that, blast it. Blast it all the more because, unfortunately, Sam Vimes could see the point. He hated the official uniform, but he represented a bit more than just himself these days. Sam Vimes had been able to turn up for meetings with grubby armour, and even Sir Samuel Vimes could generally contrive to find a way to stay in street uniform at all times, but a Duke . . . well, a Duke needed a bit of polish. A Duke couldn't have the arse hanging out of his trousers when meeting foreign diplomats. Actually, even plain old Sam Vimes never had the arse hanging out of his trousers, either, but no one would have actually started a war if he had.

#Mahalo!Nonnymouse <333 #Sir Terry Pratchett: Rest in Honour #A'Tuin The Great Star Turtle #Discworld

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vex-bittys · 6 years ago

Text

Bittyswap (part 22)

My version of Bittyswap involves full-sized bittybones (and other monsters) living in the Underground and getting miniature humans as pets.

My stomach churned with a mixture of worry and poor dietary decisions. Sure sugary cereal tastes good, but it’s hardly part of a complete breakfast (or dinner) unless you include the glass of orange juice and the muffin. I’d taken my saccharine shooters straight with only minimal milk to soften them, and my tummy couldn’t take the combination of dread and high fructose corn syrup. It staged a protest in the form of stabbing pains.

To make matters worse, as time passed the possibility of this being some minor incident dwindled away. Cherry, Cap, and I periodically exchanged glances, none of us wanting to voice the myriad of scenarios taking place in our minds, each one worse than the last. Cherry’s distressed whimpers called Lil Bro up from the basement like a heart wrenching beacon, and when the lanky skeleton joined us on our Couch of Misery, he actually stayed awake and upright.

“still not home?” he asked us softly. I’m sure Brassy’s signature stomping gait would’ve reverberated through the basement, so it was no surprise that Lil Bro knew he was missing. At Lil Bro’s words, Cherry finally lost his valiant battle to keep it together and burst into tears.. Lil Bro pulled Cherry into his lap, and I climbed into Cherry’s lap. The three of us huddled together like poorly proportioned matryoshka dolls with matching melancholy expressions.

Cherry’s sobs subsided into hiccups and eventually snores with still no Brassberry in sight. Cap drooled as he dozed off with his head at an awkward angle that I’m sure would be causing him some discomfort tomorrow. I wondered if the final member of our vigilant band of clock watchers would succumb to sleep as well, leaving me alone to mull over Brassy’s fate.

Should we go searching for Brassberry? By we I mean the skeletons because the snow outside would be above my head and I’m fairly certain that Brassberry wasn’t hiding out in the two or three square feet of snow drifts outside our door that I would be able to check before I froze to death. We, or rather they, could start at his sentry and fan out… except that monsters turn into dust when they die. If some fatal event had occurred, would we even find a trace of him?

The hour and the minute hands on the clock did their little shimmy and slide as they moved around each other like awkward coworkers who were both walking down a hallway going in the same direction but at different speeds. It came as no surprise to me that Lil Bro dozed off, but I was shocked when YanYan actually came downstairs to join our currently-on-break band of watchmen.

“I couldn’t sleep with every light in the living room blazing away, so I might as well join your little vigil,” YanYan explained, though I hadn’t asked about it and everyone else was asleep. I quickly translated his statement to: I am worried about Brassberry, and I would rather worry with company. I doubted YanYan would ever admit it though.

Without waking any of the other three skeletons, YanYan plucked me from Cherry’s lap and sat down in the chair, placing me on the armrest. He absently petted my hair, glaring icily at the door as it it were somehow blocking Brassy from returning. Oddly enough, the act of petting me proved to be relaxing for both of us. We faced the door together, a united front willing Brassberry to walk through the door with all of our collective might. Ok, my might may not have meant much, but YanYan made up for it by being an expert at getting what he wanted. I could practically feel the Dark Side of the Force radiating from him.

As if on cue, Brassberry staggered through the door. He didn’t have a scratch on him, but he still looked haggard and haunted like he’d been through a warzone. I wanted to say some mood lightening quip like “Wow, I’d hate to see the other guy,” but our resident clown beat me to it. I have no idea how Lil Bro managed to wake up at the exact moment that Brassy arrived, but he opened one socket and delivered my line.

“if you look like that, i’d hate to see the other guy,” he said somberly, letting the joke fall flat with no expectation of laughter. “what happened to you?”

Brassberry’s eyelights hadn’t left me since he stumbled through the door. His next words cut through me like the icy Snowdin wind:

“The King demanded a report from me. He wanted any information I had about the human!bittys,” Brassberry said, then collapsed from the stress and exhaustion of the monarch’s inquisition.

I was stunned into silence.

What had Brassy told the King about the human!bittys?

About me?

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#vexy writes #bittyswap #bitties but big #brassberry bitty #lil bro bitty #cherry bitty #yanyan bitty #yancap bitty #human!bitty #bitty!vex

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