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misscammiedawn · 7 months ago

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Plurality on the Disc

CW: Fatphobia, euthanasia

One thing you can always say about Pratchett was that he did not believe in prejudice. The man saw the world through a lens of satire and yet in all things he attempted to see the humanity in all things and tried to bleed that compassion into the world he created, especially with the modernization of the central city, Ankh Morpork.

Pratchett's works as early as the 90s were showing positive trans representation in Cheery Littlebottom, a dwarf who opts to present femme within a culture that treats displays of gender other than the "default", without acknowledging the inherent bias that the "default" gender presentation within Dwarf culture is masculine. It seems Pratchett was able to display "Male or Political" as a fallacy long before toxic gamer culture.

Sensing that the audience may have found this too subtle he went on to write Monstrous Regiment in 2003, a story about a group of women who take up arms, disguise their gender and live as men to fight in a war. As many things on the Disc it was written with fantasy and satire in mind and yet was incredibly detailed in historical accuracy. As trans-folx continuously remind: "We have always been here"

Today's topic, though, is on plurality. Typically in Media, Myself and I essays we focus on depictions of DID with an emphasis on psychopathology. Pathology and mental illness do not really factor into the fantasy world of Discworld. One need only look at the "Sideflashes" depicted in Monstrous Regiment, those being moments where a vampire character has traumatic hallucinations of the Vietnam War of our world, to know that Pratchett is more interested in satirizing the genre mediums he is working within rather than depicting accurate portraits of real mental illness.

That said, in one of his final books, Thud! Pratchett did have a character with two distinct personalities who could withhold information from one another say "It's supposed to be an illness, but all I can say is, we've gotten along well."

Pratchett always leads with compassion and in all of his work he does his research. Though he never wrote much about the supposed illness mentioned in Thud!, he has written plural characters and we're going to focus on one right now.

The books in question are Maskerade (1995) and Carpe Jugulum (2003). These books heavily feature the characters Agnes Nitt and Perdita X Dream.

The first of the two stories is a parody of The Phantom of the Opera with a heavy emphasis on the real life stress and drama behind the scenes of any stage performance. A must read for any theatre kid who wishes to see 'the show must go on' taken to ludicrous extremes.

Agnes is a young witch who has talent as a singer. So much so that she is able to sing in harmony with herself. She decides to move to the big city and join the opera house in hopes of turning her talents to become a star.

Agnes is a prim and proper young witch, raised to think and act a certain way. The problem is, of course, she wants to act in ways unbecoming of who she is perceived as. So growing up when she misbehaved and acted outside of these rigid expectations she would compartmentalize all of her behaviors into Perdita X Dream, "the thin woman trying to get out"

She'd caught herself saying 'poot!' and 'dang!' when she wanted to swear, and using pink writing paper. She'd got a reputation for being calm and capable in a crisis. Next thing she knew she'd be making shortbread and apple pies as good as her mother's, and then there'd be no hope for her. So she'd introduced Perdita. She'd heard somewhere that inside every fat woman was a thin woman trying to get out[3] so she'd named her Perdita. She was a good repository for all those thoughts that Agnes couldn't think on account of her wonderful personality. Perdita would use black writing paper if she could get away with it, and would be beautifully pale instead of embarrassingly flushed. Perdita wanted to be an interestingly lost soul in plumcoloured lipstick. Just occasionally, though, Agnes thought Perdita was as dumb as she was.

It is not uncommon for those with dissociative disorders to have these idealized personas that take on lives of their own. Though the Fae beauty known as Dawn is a name and identity that I have forged through decades of actualizing, my humble roots will always be the performance of what we thought a strong and capable woman would look and sound like. The fact we borrowed the blueprints is neither here nor there.

In moving to the city of Ankh, Agnes decides that she is free of those who have told her what to do and able to live as she has always desired. She adopts the name Perdita as her own and signs up to sing.

After moving in to the opera house she becomes entangled in the plot of Phantom of the Opera. The central story of the book is a retelling of PotO but with the Disc's patented absurdity added on and Agnes being used as a perspective character. At a point Christine, the only woman capable of exclaiming a whisper, switches rooms with Agnes because she is keeps hearing voices while she's trying to sleep. That night the voice from behind the mirror calls out into the darkness, thinking it is speaking to Christine, and speaks to Agnes instead.

There is makes it very clear as to why Agnes cannot be the central figure of the book.

Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. 'In the middle of the night?!' 'Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.' It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror. 'Help me to do what?!' 'Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?' 'Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!' There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: 'But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.' Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam.

Fatphobia is real and is on The Disc, I am sad to say.

But it is after this incident that Agnes begins to recognize the prejudice that has been levied at her the entire book and the prim and proper Agnes politely thinks calm and pleasant thoughts when she is insulted, it is Perdita who thinks rude words.

This gets worse as the plot goes on and the managers cast Christine as the lead and have Agnes sing the lead from the chorus.

The humiliation and compartmentalized resentment continues on and...

What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she'd done things that were right. Go on, said Perdita. In fact, she probably wouldn't even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was a herbal shop, so she asked. And there was no harm in going in, so she went in. And it certainly wasn't against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep. And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress. That's right, said Perdita.

Passive Influence is a term used for when a part/alter pushes for action while another part is fronting in the system.

In this example Perdita is steering Agnes to perform actions that are not congruent with her nature and her beliefs. Agnes is not capable of plotting revenge against someone and enacting a scheme and so even while performing the actions she is rationalizing to herself that she is not actually doing anything untoward because it is not in her nature to do such a thing.

The traits exist but they do not belong to Agnes and at this point she has not yet realized that the Perdita identity that she has formed is capable of asserting her own will.

The formation of a dissociative disorder typically occurs when a child is in a situation of constant trauma and need to adapt contradicting realities in order to function. Most common of which is the contradiction of needing protection, nurture and safety from the caregivers who provide terror and pain. To function within that framework a young mind will compartmentalize experiences in order to maintain a reality where both these truths are compatible.

Agnes, in part due to the prejudice she faces for her weight, has to have a wonderful personality. Her acceptance within society requires her to act the part and be a kind and sweet girl with a wonderful personality. Always be the best version of herself in spite of her looks because without that wonderful personality she will only be regarded as a large woman and will be discarded.

So she puts away all the thoughts that run contrary to that narrative. Anything that doesn't fit in the Nice Girl persona.

Aren't you just tired of putting up with it, though? Don't you want to go apeshit?

If you were someone like Agnes Nitt, wouldn't you long to be someone as dark and mysterious as Perdita X Dream?

As the book goes on Perdita continues thinking things from behind Agnes' eyes and the narrative begins describing their differing perspectives. The schism growing wider and wider throughout the story.

At the start of the book, when Perdita began becoming more prominent, the prose would say "Perdita thought a rude word" then, as in the passive influence section, "Perdita said" is included in the text. Later still Agnes and Perdita converse within the prose.

The candle burned with a greenish-blue edge to the flame. Somewhere, said Perdita, there was the secret room. If there wasn't a huge and glittering secret cavern, what on earth was life for? There had to be a secret room. A room, full of. . . giant candles, and enormous stalagmites. . . But it certainly isn't here, said Agnes.

The further on the story goes the more comfortable both character and author are in sharing the back and forth between Nitt and Dream.

If Maskerade was the introduction to the concept then Carpe Jugulum (2003) is where Agnes Nitt and Perdita X Dream's shared mind and body become central figures in the story and are allowed to explore themselves a little more. In the previous story Perdita is treated as where Agnes puts all of her unseemly actions and desires.

In Carpe Jugulum it is treated very emphatically as a dissociative disorder where two parts of the same mind share control over the same body.

She simply sang in harmony with herself. Unless she concentrated it was happening more and more these days. Perdita had rather a reedy voice, but she insisted on joining in. Those who are inclined to casual cruelty say that inside a fat girl is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Agnes’s thin girl was Perdita. She wasn’t sure how she’d acquired the invisible passenger. Her mother had told her that when she was small she’d been in the habit of blaming accidents and mysteries, such as the disappearance of a bowl of cream or the breaking of a prized jug, on “the other little girl.”

The tone is set early on with Pratchett working to codify that which already existed by including Agnes putting the pieces together as an adult based on what others had told her she did as a child, something all too common with those with dissociative disorders.

The pair are living in harmony for the most part, Perdita enjoys getting to sing with Agnes and is fiercely defensive of her host. She does not enjoy it when people are mean to Agnes. It is why she focused much of Maskerade on scowling at Christine. Though Perdita herself seems to enjoy bullying Agnes, as she does delight in cruelly calling her a lump.

The story this time is about a group of Modern Sexy Vampires moving in to the witches' town and deciding to take over. Much of the book's satire is a comparison of the Anne Rice and World of Darkness ethos on vampire lore and comparing it to the more gothic and classic depictions such as Nosferatu and Bram Stoker's Dracula.

As well as the complete and utter violation that is "treating people like things".

The story also introduces Mightily Oats (who Perdita will squee about having a cool ponytail), a parody of the catholic vampire slayer trope. He, himself, has a "rifted personality" like Agnes and Perdita due to his adherence to the contradicting commandments and beliefs held within the religious texts of his faith, Om.

Unfortunately, Perdita's alliance with Agnes is harmed when the vampires move in and Perdita finds herself largely attracted to them. Perdita is the very essence of a scene kid, after all, she'd listen to Evanescence if they existed on The Disc. Throughout the early phase of the vampire plot Perdita finds herself internally shaking Agnes and screaming petulantly at her that she is fumbling the ball so hard when faced with them.

Ask him his name! Perdita yelled. No, that’d be forward of me, Agnes thought. Perdita screamed, You were built forward, you stupid lump—

I am certain many reading this will empathize. I certainly do.

But all too quickly the plot of the vampires is revealed and they begin using their vampire hypnosis to control the town. All while Perdita is screaming rebellion and demanding they be given garlic enemas.

Perdita is unimpacted by the mind control. What's worse is that the vampires can read minds and can tell there's something odd about Agnes but not quite what.

Ur…” She stopped it turning into a giggle. “Not really. Not very well…” Didn’t you listen to what they were saying? They’re vampires! “Shut up,” she said aloud. “I beg your pardon?” said Vlad, looking puzzled. “And they’re…well, they’re not a very good orchestra…” Didn’t you pay any attention to what they were saying at all, you useless lump? “They’re a very bad orchestra,” said Vlad. “Well, the King only bought the instruments last month and basically they’re trying to learn together—” Chop his head off! Give him a garlic enema! “Are you all right? You really know there are no vampires here, don’t you…” He’s controlling you! Perdita screamed. They’re… affecting people! “I’m a bit… faint from all the excitement,” Agnes mumbled. “I think I’ll go home.” Some instinct at bone-marrow level made her add, “I’ll ask Nanny to go with me.” Vlad gave her an odd look, as if she wasn’t reacting in quite the right way. Then he smiled. Agnes noticed that he had very white teeth. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Miss Nitt,” he said. “There’s something so… inner about you.” That’s me! That’s me! He can’t work me out! Now let’s both get out of here! yelled Perdita.

Up until now Perdita has been a very internal experience for plurality, itself a rarity within fiction. Perdita never fronts in the entirety of Maskerade. She is a sharp and judgmental voice in the back of Agnes' head and shaped much like her repressed desires.

After escaping the clutches of vampire mind control and escaping from the dangerous circumstance Perdita yanks control of the body and outs herself to fellow witch Nanny Ogg, leading to the first time either Nitt or Dream have had to describe their situation to someone outside the body.

“It’s all right,” said Agnes. “It’s me again, Agnes Nitt, but…She’s here but… I’m sort of holding on. Yes! Yes! All right! All right, just shut up, will y— Look, it’s my body, you’re just a figment of my imagina—Okay! Okay! Perhaps it’s not quite so clear c—Let me just talk to Nanny, will you?” “Which one are you now?” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m still Agnes, of course.” She rolled her eyes up. “All right! I’m Agnes currently being advised by Perdita, who is also me. In a way. And I’m not too fat, thank you so very much!” “How many of you are there in there?” said Nanny. “What do you mean, ‘room for ten’?” shouted Agnes. “Shut up! Listen, Perdita says there were vampires at the party. The Magpyr family, she says. She can’t understand how we acted. They were putting a kind of…’fluence over everyone. Including me, which is why she was able to break thr—Yes, all right, I’m telling it, thank you!” “Why not her, then?” said Nanny. “Because she’s got a mind of her own! […] Nanny rubbed her chin, torn between the vampiric revelation and prurient curiosity about Perdita. “How does Perdita work, then?” she said. Agnes sighed. “Look, you know the part of you that wants to do all the things you don’t dare do, and thinks the thoughts you don’t dare think?” Nanny’s face stayed blank. Agnes floundered. “Like…maybe…rip off all your clothes and run naked in the rain?” she hazarded. “Oh yes. Right,” said Nanny. “Well…I suppose Perdita is that part of me.” “Really? I’ve always been that part of me,” said Nanny. “The important thing is to remember where you left your clothes.”

This is the compassion in Pratchett's writing I'd mentioned. In this story Perdita is revealed to be part of Agnes and though Nanny Ogg is confused and a little ignorant of the whole affair, going as far as to yell "is she treating you alright in there?" into Perdita's ear, she is caring and understanding. In Maskerade Nanny was the one person in Lancre who accepted Agnes changing her name to Perdita, reasoning that "people ought to call themselves what they want."

In approaching the abnormal circumstance with compassion in the fiction it helps those reading get a broader and better understanding of how to be kind and treat those impacted in real life.

Also, as a side note, Agnes yelling at Nanny while "currently advised by Perdita" may not be an overt piece of representation but there is a concept called Blending within plurality. It's not mentioned in textbooks I've read but is often discussed in support communities. At times when two parts are co-conscious in front their traits will become a little blended.

In a way parts of a dissociative system are simply a way of storing traits necessary to function but dividing them to prevent emotional harm and damage or to maintain a form of continuity of self. To give an example we were ejected by our caregivers and internalized it as our own fault for being undesirable so part of us cannot fathom doing anything which would make us disposable and unlikable but our circumstances required becoming cold and focused for survival and so the sweet kind and lovable empathy driven part and the cold and angry survival part are kept in separate boxes. Likewise we have trauma related to eroticism but there is still an attraction to such material within us and so in order to function I handle that aspect of our life and shelter the others from being impacted. At first due to heavy dissociation and denial and these days due to practice in therapy allowing us to let parts "opt out" and retreat inwards when they do not want to be involved in what is happening with the body.

In a way blended parts are closer to what a person would be like if they were singlet, though blurring does not often involve the entire system if there are more than 2 parts.

And though I say 'closer', I do not mean entirely as typically when blended people are in an activated state. In the above case where Perdita and Nanny had triggered Agnes' frustrations about her weight being bullied, she was unable to control the emotion of her reaction.

We refer to such days when we are blended and incapable of controlling our emotional reactions as "thin skinned days". They were more common prior to diagnosis.

As the story continues the pair need to see-saw their consciousness to avoid vampire mind control and we are treated to moments of Agnes being the "invisible passenger" in the situation, going as far to show her ability to focus attention on reading is not as sharp as Agnes'. Something I can assure you is quite true within parts of a dissociative system. Goodness knows Cammie would never have the patience to do the reading and typing necessary for these essays.

The story continues on and though there are moments of casual misunderstanding which are a par for the course in such tales, such as Nanny telling Perdita to "give Agnes her body back, you know it's hers really--" before knocking her out to ensure Agnes has control. They throw out lines like:

“Yes, that’s Agnes,” she said, standing back. “Her face goes sharper when it’s the other one. See? I told you she’d be the one that came back. She’s got more practice.”

And let me say, when someone knows you and loves you enough to recognize a part by the way they wear their face alone, it's something. I am simply incapable of reading a moment like that and not breaking into a smile and thinking of the many times our long distance love has tried to explain how she can just tell without a word when we have switched.

But as always. Pratchett leads with compassion. Where Nanny Ogg says that she thinks people should be called what they want to be called in Maskerade, regarding Agnes' wish to be called Perdita (not Perditax), it is Granny Weatherwax the beating heart and soul of the Discworld who says it best

Ah...one mind, split in half. There were more Agneses in the world than Agnes dreamed of, Granny told herself. All the girl had done was to give the thing a name, and once you give the thing a name you give it life...

Once you give a thing a name, you give it life.

That is compassion. To not fully understand something and how it forms and how it presents, but to respect it all the same. To know it has a form and should be treated as real because by virtue of being named it is real.

That is what so much of Pratchett's work is focused on. The humanity of seeing others as they wish to be and respecting them. It's such a low bar to clear in our world and yet sometimes it really does need to be emphasized.

Typically when Granny says something it's from the perspective of age and wisdom. It may not always be without bias but it is with a weight of knowledge and respect.

The final book in the series contents with Sir Pratchett's knowledge of his own death. He knew for years. He even did a documentary on medical aid in dying. He poured it all into depicting a tale that includes Granny's death.

The works of Terry Pratchett have long been a companion in our life. We've been reading them our entire life. To this day we have refused to read beyond Granny's death scene in Shepherd's Crown. We broke down crying when we saw the "I ATE'NT DEAD" call back. We couldn't pick up the book again after that.

It's too difficult to think that one of the voices that taught us morality is gone from this world. Our tag for Discworld is GNU Terry Pratchett. As long as the name is spoken he is never really gone.

As long as Shepherds Crown still has pages yet unread, the book series isn't really over.

For more of my essays on positive DID representation in media, please check out my Media, Myself and I tag.

#dawn posting #media myself and i #discworld #gnu terry pratchett #did #plurality #agnes nitt #perdita x dream #media essays

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twasjane · 1 year ago

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So I was looking at my bookshelf and forgot I have the Ankh Morpork City Watch diary from 1999.

It's unused from 1999. I bought it in 2002ish because I was and still am an avid collector of Discworld stuff. I've kept it in good condition! But on a whim I decided to read it because it has some incredibly cool companion stuff written by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Briggs.

First off, the profile at the front looks like THIS

You can enter the option "Gender (if known)".

This was released in *1999*.

Second of all, there's an entire section explaining to prospective recruits why the City Watch doesn't have a Vice squad.

Because not only is sex work legal, the Seamstress' Guild is a powerful political force in the city. They have collective bargaining, their own enforcers who protect guild staff and... well Sam Vimes himself is inclined to believe that if you piss off the Agony Aunts, to harm the women (and men but I'll get to that) of the Guild you probably did something worthy of a kicking.

I dunno, kind of a refreshing view on sex work? That it's a legit way to earn a living and should be protected? 🤷🏼‍♀️

Finally, I also noticed this passage-

Molly houses.

One of these clubs is called The Blue Cat club and it's mentioned/alluded to in a couple of the books and its owner Mr Harris (no doubt, as the L Space wiki notes, named after Frank Harris) has a seat on the board of the Guild. Rosemary Palm, the head of the Guild, insisted.

We learn in Night Watch (released three years later) that this is because Havelock Vetinari and Rosie Palm go way back.

Like, this isn't terribly impressive now- but for the 90s this was about as good a representation as you were gonna get. Whilst most of this is part of the books themselves, it's nice to see it explicitly spelled out in the companion material.

I just appreciate that Terry Pratchett knew that these sides of society existed and didn't think of them as "wrong" or signs of societal decay. He saw them as normal parts of the human condition especially in urban settings. They might as well be regulated and legitimate and the workers protected by a pair of sadistic women with umbrellas.

#discworld #gnu terry pratchett #ankh morpork #ankh morpork city watch #amcw #the city watch #sam vimes #the blue cat club #molly houses #the Seamstress' Guild #rosemary palm #rosie palm #sex worker rights

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stupidphototricks · 7 months ago

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I still have a lot of leftover favorite quotes from Feet of Clay, I hope nobody minds.

People look down on stuff like geography and meteorology, not only because they're standing on one and being soaked by the other. They don't quite look like real science. But geography is only physics slowed down and with a few trees stuck on it, and meteorology is full of excitingly fashionable chaos and complexity. And summer isn't a time. It's a place as well. Summer is a moving creature and likes to go south for the winter. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

Just take a minute with this one. Geography is only physics slowed down and with a few trees stuck on it. Is it profound, or is it complete nonsense? I can't tell! Curse you Sir Terry (affectionate)

Constable Visit[-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets] spent his days in company with his co-religionist Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments, ringing doorbells and causing people to hide behind the furniture everywhere in the city. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(These names are genius)

"Guild member?" "Not any more, sir." "Oh? How did you leave the [alchemists'] guild?" "Through the roof, sir. But I'm pretty certain I know what I did wrong." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"Is dere any trouble?" he said. The crowd backed away. "None at all, officer," said Mr. Raddley. "You, er, just loomed suddenly, that's all..." "Dis is correct," said Detritus. "I am a loomer. It often happen suddenly. So dere's no trouble, den?" "No trouble whatsoever, officer." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

The tincture of night began to suffuse the soup of the afternoon. Lord Vetinari considered the sentence and found it good. He liked "tincture" particularly. Tincture. Tincture. It was a distinguished word, and pleasantly countered the flatness of "soup." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(An oddly Douglas Adams-esque digression. It goes on, too)

The three thieves looked around. As their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they received a general impression of armorality, with strong overtones of helmetness. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(mmm adjectivized nouns, my favorite)

She scrounged what she could from the guild, but a real alchemical laboratory should be full of the kind of glassware that looked as if it were produced during the Guild of Glassblowers All-Comers Hiccuping Contest. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

Ankh-Morpork, alone of all the cities of the plains, had opened its gates to dwarfs and trolls (alloys are stronger, as Vetinari had said). It had worked. They made things. Often they made trouble, but mostly they made wealth. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

There were no public health laws in Ankh-Morpork. It would be like installing smoke detectors in Hell. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"D*mn!" said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(I was wrong about Mort, it wasn’t the last time for that joke)

"The man has actually got charisn'tma." "Your meaning?" "I mean he's so dreadful he fascinates people." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

He felt more alive than he had for days. The recent excitement still tingled in his veins, kicking his brain into life. It was the sparkle you got with exhaustion, he knew. You were so bone-weary that a shot of adrenaline hit you like a falling troll. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

I love this because you're just reading along, it all makes sense, and then a troll drops unexpectedly into the sentence, illustrating the simile in a very meta sort of way.

Cows, in Sergeant Colon's book, should go "moo." Every child knew that. They shouldn't go "mur-r-r-r-r-m!" like some kind of undersea monster and spray you with spit. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"Hello, hello, hello, what's all this, then?" said Carrot. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Carrot being a human police officer, iykyk)

Rogers the bulls were angry and bewildered, which counts as the basic state of mind for a full-grown bulls. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

Just as a point of interest, Rogers is one of only two literary characters I can think of that use plural pronouns, the other one being Proginoskes the cherubim from A Wind in the Door by Madeline L'Engle.

Angua couldn't make out any words but many dwarf cries didn't bother with words. They went straight for emotions in sonic form. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"It's the most menacing dwarf battle-cry there is! Once it's been shouted someone has to be killed!" "What's it mean?" "Today Is A Good Day For Someone Else To Die!" -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Dwarfs are more pragmatic than Klingons)

"Commander Vimes said someone has to speak for the people with no voices!" -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Vimes would have gotten along with Granny Aching, I think)

"We can rebuild him," said Carrot hoarsely. "We have the pottery." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"Dis is police brutality..." Igneous muttered. "No, dis is just police shoutin'!" yelled Detritus. "You want to try for brutality it OK wit' me!" -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Detritus has really gotten the knack of policing by now. And by the way he does nothing out of line here, or I think ever)

"That's blasphemy," said the vampire. He gasped as Vimes shot him a glance like sunlight. "That's what people say when the voiceless speak." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

#terry pratchett #gnu terry pratchett #feet of clay #discworld #discworld quotes

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vampirejuno · 3 days ago

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Remember that discworld dream I had the other day? Well, lads.... I wrote it. At the encouragement of @catstrophysics, @lilenariinpink and @theygotlost, I present to you...

Something Fishy

His Grace, His Excellency, Sir Samuel Vimes the Duke of Ankh, Blackboard Monitor, sighed emphatically and tried to shoulder his way through the throng. Sator Square was packed with people. Never before in his life, he reflected, had he ever seen such a crowd turn up at six in the bloody morning to watch what was, essentially, a man tossing a dead fish onto the ground. Is this what passes for entertainment these days? he thought bitterly. We used to be a great city when it came to entertainment. After some further consideration of past greatness, he stopped, shook his head, and silently offered praise to whatever god was responsible for making sure it stayed in the past.

It had been a little over a month since the Fish Craze, and already Vimes wished he could permanently ban the import of all seafood into the city. Nobody remembered what had started it, but the fad had spread faster than wildfire, with no fashion-brigade to stop the madness. Everyone had taken it up. Even perfectly reasonable people, the kind that sneered at their grannies for fretting over a broken mirror, would, in all sincerity, say things like, “Thank goodness for another Right Day, I could use the luck”, or, more frequently, “No wonder it all went tits up, it was a Left Day”.

Vimes failed to see the appeal. The whole process consisted of taking a fish (preferably a sardine, though most made do with herring or, in desperate times, even anchovies), tossing it in the air, and checking which side up it landed. At first, everyone did it individually. This had led to much disagreement and, eventually, an event that would go down in history as “Most Organic Weapons Riot”. The watchmen who’d been on duty that night were given two days off to try and wash the smell out of their uniforms.

The following day, the Patrician had announced the instatement of an Official Fish Thrower, which soon turned into “the Offishal Tosser”, or simply “the Tosser”, and whose entire job it was to go into Sator Square every morning, toss a sardine for the city, and announce to the enraptured masses what sort of day they were going to have. It was rumored that the Tosser was a retired magician who had specialized in sleight of hand, and that he ensured the fish always landed precisely according to the Patrician’s specifications. Knowing Vetinari, Vimes thought, the man probably has a spreadsheet planned out for a month in advance.

His musings were interrupted by a current of movement in the crowd, which parted hastily to reveal a figure with a tray.

“Right Fish! Get your Right Fish! Guaranteed Day goes Right! Turn your day ‘round with just one toss!”

Vimes sighed. Only one man would try to sell you fish at the Offishal Tossing.

“Morning, Throat,” he said distantly. There was a commotion at the front of the crowd as people tried to dislodge someone from the Tosser’s podium. It looked like an Omnian preacher had taken advantage of the audience to spread the good word to the unenlightened masses, whether they liked it or not.

“A good morning to you, Commander! Can I interest you in some nice sardines? Three for tuppence, and that’s cutting my own throat!”

Vimes risked a glance at the tray as Ankh-Morpork’s least successful merchant approached him in a hopeful sidle. It was laden with row upon row of little strangely misshapen fish. Picking one up and turning it over in his fingers, Vimes saw the reason for this. Someone had taken some pains to cut them in two lengthwise, discarded all the left halves, and rejoined the things by gluing two right halves together with some mysterious sticky substance. He put it back down and inconspicuously wiped his hand on his trousers. Like many of Dibbler’s products, it was precisely what you paid for.

“Sardine? Seems more like smelt to me.”

“Yes, very fragrant, indeed,” said the merchant without missing a beat. “Perhaps some fish’n’chips, then, Commander? Only ten pence for our brave lads in the Watch!”

I don’t think I’m that brave, Vimes thought. Aloud, he said, “Is that where the left halves go, then?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir. Ah, hello, miss, you look like you could do with a nice nourishing breakfast! Some delicious fish’n’chips to start the day off right, how about it?”

The crowd was so packed now – hah, like sardines in a can – that Vimes gave up all hopes of pushing through it. Most of these people had turned up early to get a good spot and were now whiling the minutes away until the much-awaited Tossing. There was a conversation taking place just behind him, where an argument of Morporkians was standing around, doing what it did best. The current object of ire appeared to be a young man’s drawling voice, which was questioning Tradition.

“-don’t see why we couldn’t put a new spin on it. This is…too restrictive, like.”

“How’s that, then?”

“It’s just awfully specific, is all I’m saying.”

“What are you babbling about, Harold?” responded a higher, slightly irritated voice that instantly filed itself away as “unhappy wife” in Vimes’s copper brain.

“I mean, why’s it got to be a sardine? Why not a, uh,” the young man cast around for seafood-related ideas, “a crab, or something?”

“Come now, that’d never work,” a stout little man next to him laughed good-naturedly. He was smoking a pipe and had the look of someone who used words like “indubitably” and “perfunctory” despite only having a very approximate idea of what they meant. “Crabs are not remotely suitable for the task.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Well-known fact,” nodded the crustacean connoisseur. “Divination is congenitally tied to the noble art of fishing, you know. It’s called forecasting, after all.”

There were more nods and approving laughs. The man puffed on his pipe with a chuckle, clearly satisfied with the pun. Vimes managed not to punch him.

“Y’know, that sounds about right. Never ‘eard of someone telling the future with a crab,” an old woman nodded wisely. “You never know where you are with crabs. Now, fish, that’s reliable.”

The group pondered this.

“Look at it this way. We’ve had, what, twenty-three Left Days so far – not counting Floppy Friday* – and every single time, somethin’ bad happened.”

The others murmured their agreement. There were several thoughtful comments recounting various misfortunes that the participants had suffered on past Left Days. Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is Ankh-Morpork, something bad is always happening.”

“Right, that’s what I’m saying,” nodded the young man, who hadn’t been saying that. “Besides, plenty of perfectly good fortune tellers in the city. A man tossing a sardine on the cobbles is not a valid method of divination, in my humble opinion.”

“Harold, you are embarrassing me.”

“Oh, come off it, Mathilda, you got by just fine without any of this business for thirty years of your life. Now it’s all Sardines this, Herring that, Why don’t we get an ornamental trout lake-”

At that moment, the Offishal Tosser stepped onto his little podium, and the couple was shushed into outraged silence.

* * *

“Come on, before ol’ Stoneface gets here. You know he doesn’t approve of this sort of thing.”

The Pseudopolis Yard watch house was buzzing with excitement uncharacteristic for six in the morning on a Wednesday. Most of the night shift had signed off and the day guard were trickling one by one into the main room. An ever-growing group was clustered in a vague circle, in the center of which Corporal Nobbs could just be made out (if that was your idea of a good time). The men all had the vague air of middle school students asking their teacher about his dog in order to delay math class by another five minutes.

“Might that have anything to do with the fact that, last time, it took three hours and a bucket of armour polish to get the smell out of the floorboards?” Angua smiled. It was a very friendly smile.

“Right, sarge, but… We-ell, you’re…”

“Yes?” The smile widened.

Constable Fernsby shifted uncomfortably. There were a few sniggers. It was true that werewolves had considerably sharper senses than humans and would therefore be able to smell a fish long after it had departed the material plane, but, the sniggers seemed to indicate from a safe distance, you didn’t go around pointing this out to them. Fortunately for the boy, he was saved from any further smiles by a very timely interruption in the form of the Captain.

“Good morning! Everyone had a nice rest, I hope? Ready for another day of work?”

Carrot strutted in, wearing his usual genuine smile and gleaming armor. There was a not-so-subtle change in the atmosphere; a sudden nonchalantness enveloped the room. All around him, the squad commenced their very best impression of the Walls And Ceiling Inspection Division. One or two of the simpler lads even clasped their hands behind their backs and started to whistle**. Carrot sighed.

“Alright, what did you do?... And don’t look at me like that, I can see something smells fishy here.”

This was greeted with one or two coughs and a sudden interest in last night’s heaps of paperwork. Only Lance-Constable Whippet, who had joined three days ago and was, therefore, not yet acquainted with the minutiae of his commanding officers’ tempers, and sergeant Detritus, who could be a little slow on the uptake, met the captain’s inquisitive gaze. Finally, he looked to Angua for help. She shrugged meaningfully.

“Well… er,” said Sergeant Colon, who felt obliged to make some sort of contribution on behalf of his insubordinates, “we was just…engaging in some…cultural activities, captain. To boost morale for the day, like. Er.”

Carrot sniffed at the air – never a very good idea in a watch house, where, at any given point in time, half the men had just returned from patrolling and the other half were emerging from the locker room – and understanding began to dawn.

“Ah, I see. And I expect, Sergeant, that such…team-building activities are best carried out without the involvement or presence of, say, senior officers?”

“Could be, sir. I’m sure you’d know best, sir.” Colon’s big round face was a picture of cherubic innocence.

“Well, in that case, I believe Sergeant Angua and I have a case to attend to. Corporal Thighbiter up at Dolly Sisters needed some help with that Money Trap Lane break-in...”

“Actually, he just sent word the other day – it turned out Mister Mason had got drunk and lost his key again and crashed through the oomph-” Constable Ping bent over slightly from several democratic elbows in the ribs. With a true officer’s tact, Carrot feigned temporary deafness. He held the door for Angua, who detached herself from the wall with one last pleasant smile that could’ve cut steel, and the two stepped out briskly into the safety of fresh air***.

After they had gone, the squad waited a few moments and then turned back to the center of the room, where someone had dragged a mysteriously stained stool from the canteen when the kitchen lady wasn’t looking. Corporal Nobbs was shuffled towards it with extreme care.

The little man**** dusted himself off and scrambled onto the rickety stool. As the other watchmen leaned in closer, he reached into the unspeakable depths of his inner pockets and, with a certain air of ceremony, produced…

“A sardine!”

“Cor, is that real?”

“Dat a very small fish.”

“Where did you get it, corp?”

Nobby basked in the approving murmurs of his colleagues. It had, indeed, been a challenge to find – sardines were very rare these days, outside of the occasional coveted freak shower – but he was nothing if not resourceful.

“We-ell, it weren’t easy, that’s true,” he rolled a dog-end from one corner of the mouth to the other, savoring the moment. He rarely commanded so much attention without attracting a variety of insults and the occasional ballistic eel. “Pays to know the right people, o’course. I have connections, me. Contacts. Ties, even.”

“Aye, but that floral one you nicked last week really don’t suit you very well.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Stronginthearm. All your accessories are made of chainmail! Everyone knows jewel tones are for winter, anyway.”

Colon raised a placating hand. “All right, all right, lads, no need to get all up in arms just ‘cos some folks are a little…stylistically challenged.”

“Thanks, sarge.”

“I meant you, Nobby.”

The corporal threw up his arms. “I go to all this trouble,” he wailed, “I talk to people, I find a contraband seafood shipment from Klatch, I explain matters to the fishmonger – on my day off, too, might I add – I procure a real, genuine, only-slightly-nibbled actual sardine, and this is the thanks I get?”

The watchmen watched, transfixed, as he flourished the fabled fish in their faces. It had, indeed, already been chewed on; the tail was sticking out rigidly and the whole thing smelled as if it was a few weeks beyond consumption, but it was a sardine nonetheless. Most of the lads, coming from humble (and sometimes humbling) backgrounds, felt slightly awed at the idea of Tossing a fish that these days was available only to the very richest observers of the fad. It was, they felt, unbecoming to wave it around like a paper flag at a parade. The damn things tended to be slippery. Probably would be bad luck, they figured, if it was flung down by accident; who knew what sort of fortune that would foretell?

“Where’s the appreciation, I ask you?” Nobby continued in woeful tones. “Every time I’ve Tossed a fish for you lot, it’s landed Right! Now, how many of you can say that, eh?”

The watchmen exchanged doubtful glances.

“Er… Well, you never let anyone else do it, corp,” Ping reasoned. “You just nicks the fish and eats it afterwards.”

“Oh, now, that does it! I won’t stand here and be slandered at!”

“Woah there, Nobby, watch that sardine-”

“If you’re gonna be like that, then I’m not doing it. And good luck finding someone who’ll do it as well as me!”

“Careful with that-”

“And I’m taking the sardine.”

“-not the tail-”

“You can beg, but I won’t change my mind, and that’s that!” Nobby flung out his hand in a grandiose gesture. Unfortunately, it was the wrong hand.

Time slowed to a crawl. Every head in the room swiveled as one, following the trajectory of the airborne fish. It sailed head first towards the front door, which was creaking, doorknob turning, and slowly, slowly opening…

* * *

The Offishal Tosser tossed the fish, which landed damply. There was a satisfying splat. The crowd held its breath as the first few rows near the podium craned to see.

“Today is the fourth of April in the year of the Significant Woodlouse, and it is a… Left Wednesday!” the man proclaimed.

A disappointed groan spread through the crowd. Slowly, people started dispersing with occasional complaints, casting sour looks at the offending fish. Here and there, members of the Gamblers’ Guild were exchanging coins.

Vimes shook his head again as the grumbling current carried him through the square, into the Plaza of Broken Moons, and out to the Patrician’s palace. At last he disengaged himself from the throng and elbowed his way towards the Brass Bridge. It wasn’t far to the watch house from here, but he still picked up the pace. Despite not having official working hours, Vimes liked to get there early in the morning, just as the day shift was coming in, to get a headstart on ignoring his paperwork.

As he walked, his copper mind took over and he mentally leafed through the agenda of the day. Let’s see, what was there… He had that audience with Vetinari at eleven, probably concerning last night’s diplomatic dinner – not that it was Vimes’s fault that he saw the unlicensed thief and that the Klatchian ambassador happened to be standing there, and anyway who drinks red wine while wearing a white robe… Then the interview with the Times at noon… Then briefing the lads on the unsolved contraband seafood case… Then he’d have to do something about the river division, they can’t just keep sinking the damn boat, this is getting ridiculous…

A distant glint caught Vimes’ eye as he stepped off the bridge. Carrot’s shiny breastplate could be seen from a mile away on a clear day, and the captain was, indeed, proceeding along the river with Angua in tow.

What the hell are they doing out? They’re not on patrol today…

Briefly, he considered catching up to them, but then dismissed the idea. They were only a couple streets away from the watch house, and Carrot seemed relaxed enough, stopping to chat with every other passer-by in his usual manner. No emergency, then. On the other hand, they had a batch of new recruits at the main office, the gods alone knew what those yahoos would be getting up to without a senior officer present. And under Colon’s command…

A few minutes later, Vimes was rounding the corner of Lower Broadway and trotting up the steps of Pseudopolis Yard. There seemed to be quite a commotion going on inside; he’d heard the shouting from half a block away. With his hand on the doorknob, mentally preparing his best Not Yelling Voice, he pushed the door open…

…and very briefly saw something shiny flying full speed at his head. Before he could react, the thing clanked off his helmet, bounced on a nearby desk and, finally, lodged itself between the floorboards with a sproinnnng.

Silence fell like a gavel. A dozen horrified watchmen gaped at their Commander, the life quickly draining out of their eyes*****. Sergeant Colon’s face, pale as the moon and just as round, tried unsuccessfully to hide behind his high collar.

Wordlessly, Vimes approached the thing stuck between the floorboards. He crouched down. He examined it. He gave it a tentative flick. It made a noise not unlike a ruler twanging off the side of a table, or a very thin sheet of metal being shaken vigorously. After a moment’s contemplation, he felt moved to speak.

“Well, lads, I don’t think Left and Right suffices anymore. Seems we ought to add a third Day to the list.”

Ahhh. Relief rose off the squad like morning mist. Their laughter had the strained quality that came with trying very hard to pretend that whatever was happening was entirely intentional. At this point, they’d have laughed at anything, as long as it meant Ol’ Stoneface was Not Yelling At Them. Whatever they may think to themselves, the one motivation that all coppers in all the worlds have in common is to Not Get Yelled At.

“Bottom Day, sir?” someone suggested. There was another bout of slightly forceful sniggers.

“Er… Perhaps not.” Vimes gave the fish a few fruitless tugs and gave up. “Alright, someone get this damn thing out of there and, uh…”

“Throw it away, sir?”

“No, good gods, you could hurt someone… Look, just get rid of the…fish and we’ll say no more about it. Fred, a word upstairs?”

With the watch house returning slowly to its normal daily bustle, Vimes went up to his office and sat down wearily at his desk, which was hidden underneath an impressive pile of paper. He’d signed a few dozen forms and…dealt with half a fireplace’s worth of complaint letters last night, but the stacks looked suspiciously bigger this morning. They entirely refused to melt away under his glare.

“Alright, what is this bloody nonsense? I thought I’d made it clear I don’t want any Tossing in the watch house,” he said to Colon, once the man had huffed and puffed his way up the stairs.

“Well, Mister Vimes, I just thought I’d indulge the lads this once. Raise their spirits with some good ol’ cultural team building. For tradition’s sake and all.”

“Tradition? It’s not been two months, Fred!”

“We-ell, they’ve taken to it, sir. Besides, you can’t deny we’ve had crimes happen on every single Left Day since the Offishal Tossings started.”

“Good grief, you could say that about every bloody day since the founding of the city! I thought you weren’t a superstitious man, Fred.”

“No, sir, but the fish don’t lie,” said Colon fervently.

“Ugh. Next thing you know, the bloody Times will be printing it alongside the bloody date in their bloody papers.”

There was a guilty silence.

Vimes stared at the sergeant’s carefully blank face. A single droplet of sweat was slowly making its way down the man’s forehead. The beady little eyes flickered momentarily to a relatively unoccupied corner of the desk.

With a sinking dread, Vimes followed his gaze and beheld a newspaper lying there on top of the forlorn paperwork, all neatly rolled and still crisp from the press. Belatedly, he noticed the smell of fresh ink. At the top of the front page, a small print line proclaimed today’s date to be April 4th, Left Wednesday.

Five minutes later, sergeant Colon walked down the stairs and into a perfectly silent room full of watchmen. His face had the distant look of someone who had just seen a ghost, and was fairly sure everybody else had, too, but would be damned if he’d mention it first.

With nothing else to do, he cleared his throat. This seemed to break the spell; all at once, the room regained its normal level of noise as the coppers went back to their coppery activities. Only Nobby sidled closer and offered up a slightly bent cigar.

“What’s up with ol’ Stoneface today, sarge?”

“Dunno what’s gotten into him.” Colon took the cigar gratefully and lit it, trying not to think too hard about where it came from. “It’s this job, I expect. All this responsibility is wearing on his nerves.”

“Ah, right.”

“I mean, what’s so wrong with a little tradition once in a while, eh?”

“Beats me, sarge.”

“Doesn’t hurt no one, having some mores and values ‘round the place.”

“You never said a truer thing.”

“Ah, anyway, Mister Vimes is just overworked. Not his fault he’s got a bit of a cultural blind spot when he’s cranky,” Colon concluded magnanimously. “Maybe he could do with a coffee and a nice meal. I know I could… Say, Nobby, what’ve we got for breakfast in the cantine today?”

“Fish’n’chips, I think. Er… You alright there, sarge? …Sarge?”

* An unfortunate misunderstanding at the fishmonger’s that had led to the Offishal Tosser being handed a very live fish, foreboding a day of extreme mood swings for the populace.

** This is the social cue equivalent of climbing onto the roof at three in the morning and setting off a barrage of fireworks while waving an enormous fluorescent red flag. Not even a 6’6’’ dwarf could remain oblivious.

*** Only comparatively. This was Ankh-Morpork, after all.

**** Allegedly.

***** Except for Corporal Shoe, for whom it was a little late******.

****** heh.

#discworld #sam vimes #ankh morpork #gnu terry pratchett #i thoroughly enjoyed writing this tbh #apologies for the unfortunate footnote format i couldnt figure out how to do superscript

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janeyshivers · 14 days ago

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i think a big part of the reason why, even when Pratchett was alive, it was always Rowling who was held up as the gold standard of a modern British fantasy author, is that Pratchett was above all else just far more honest about like, The English writ large.

a lot of ink has been spilled on the saccharine nostalgia of Harry Potter books, particularly as they went on, that longing for the WW2 Blitz spirit that Rowling herself didn't actually live through, but is lionised in our culture and was subsequently regurgitated uncritically by her, on account of her being an unimaginative hack. "keep calm and carry on" is the core aesthetic of the later books, while the earlier ones are far more of the sort of irritating, faux-charming, brilliant baffling bouncing Britishness that captured the hearts of teaboos who knew no better around the world, and also presented a highly self-flattering image to the people who have to actually live on this shithole island. this was especially true of cultural institutions such as schools, libararies, etc, who found it germaine to push these middling children's books relentlessly on kids, while massive multimillion dollar movie projects were cranked out, because they were deeply, painfully in love with a cutesy mirage of England that we like to project to the world to cover for the fact that this place is the husk of a dead empire, inhabited by tiny islands of obscene hoarded wealth in an increasingly desperate sea of insane deprivation and poverty.

and on a certain surface-level reading, you could almost accuse Pratchett of doing the same thing. after all, he also wrote whimsical fantasy tales largely set in a transparently England-ish setting (that is, Ankh-Morpork and the surrounding countryside areas on the Discworld). they even feature lots of witches and wizards! his books are full of bumbling, good-natured Englishmen doffing their caps to the lord, scenic countryside vistas, dirty and yet charming city streets, bustling fairs, rascally pickpockets, and generally a lot of the same aesthetic signifiers of Rowling's earlier work especially.

but.

read any amount of Pratchett's stuff and you realise very quickly that he understands that there is a persistent, genuinely violent nastiness underpinning a lot of this stuff. I Shall Wear Midnight is a good example, as the honest, hard-working country folk of the Chalk never even acknowledge the shameful mob killing of the old toothless woman who Tiffany has had to bury. these charming communities are places where well-known cases of domestic violence go unaddressed until a pregnant girl is beaten so badly she has a miscarriage, and they are places where miserable, curtain-twitching sneaks spread lies and rumours with impunity. Guards, Guards! fits here as well, a book about how the not-insincere love of the people of Ankh Morpork for their new king is insane and destructive and ends up getting quite a lot of innocent people killed.

what i appreciate most about how Pratchett talks about this stuff is that neither the nastiness nor the more charming elements are artifice. while they seem to exist as a contradiction at first glance, a core feature of English culture from Pratchett's perspective is that these impulses exist in a tense balance at all times. Mr Petty hits his daughter until she miscarries, and also stings his hands gathering nettles to make a little grave for the poor kid before trying to hang himself. that doesn't make what he did ok, but it does mean grappling with the fact that people are complicated and don't make sense, culture doesn't entirely cohere, and that the things you might like about "Englishness" are part and parcel of some genuinely horrifying shit.

obviously i'm not going to sit here and pretend that Pratchett was some plucky underdog compared to Rowling, the dude had a knighthood, and there are even a few movies based on his stuff (I'm rather partial to the 2008 The Colour of Magic adaptation myself), although nothing on the scale of the Potter movies. but at a glance, it does seem strange that Rowling was our nation's marquis literary export in the 2000s, considering that Pratchett was more established, working in the same genre, and also a significantly more technically skilled and insightful writer than her. but, that's the thing, he was insightful enough that his writing didn't make for decent cultural slop like Rowling's did. Harry Potter is vapid enough for corporate interests and cultural institutions to build a multinational media empire on, not through some insidious conspiracy to poison the minds of a generation of irritating millenials, but because it was there and it was popular enough and it was easy to use, because it's not very complicated or challenging. Discworld is not perfect by any means, and i have my personal disagreements with Pratchett's (relatively) rosy perspective on humans as being fundamentally very decent. but the stories make you think, they encourage you to engage with the world critically, and they are written with a degree of empathy and kindness that clash with any earnest attempt to shore up "English values".

#“english” chosen quite deliberately here btw #not using it interchangably w british #discworld #i shall wear midnight #guards! guards!#terry pratchett #fuck harry potter #fuck jkr #long shiverposting

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dimity-lawn · 2 years ago

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Why does Vimes being short seem to come as a surprise to some people?

Remember that not only is he called Vetinari's Terrier (terriers tend to be small dogs), but in The Fifth Elephant, Vimes initially fails to recognize the irony during a rant in which he mentions "Eight-stone" (112 lb. or 50.8 kg) fighters and uses the term "bantamweight". Even if his genetics would have allowed him to be taller, his background does not support the idea of him being anything but short.

Sam Vimes grew up not just in the Shades, but on Cockbill Street, a place where people couldn't afford to eat regularly. He and his mother probably faced hunger more frequently than some of their neighbors (though perhaps not as frequently as larger families) because Mrs. Vimes wouldn't accept money that was made immorally and because she was a single mother who didn't have the income of a husband to help cover expenses.

Consider how, in Night Watch, Vimes (as Keel) was shocked to see how skinny his younger self was, and that his younger self said that he joined the watch because a friend had told him that there was free food, a uniform, and that he could occasionally make an extra dollar. This shows a surprising difference between adult and young Vimes: with his adult and soon-to-be-father self being taken aback by the sorry sight of himself as a kid as well as his younger self openly and readily talking to a near stranger about how, at 17 years old, he's just now starting to get a sense of food security. Furthermore, in Guards!Guards!, it is stated that "He couldn't help remembering how much he'd wanted a puppy when he was a little boy. Mind you, they'd been starving - anything with meat on it would have done", which shows the extent of the hunger he faced in his youth.

Sam Vimes isn't someone of an average height that seems short simply because he spends so much time around tall people (such as Carrot, Sybil, and Vetinari), he is short. Vimes grew up without access to healthy or adequate quantities of food, therefore his growth was stunted by malnourishment, which likely means that he would be below the average height of a human citizen of Ankh-Morpork.

#discworld #gnu terry pratchett #thought(s) from yours truly #the watch #guards! guards!#the fifth elephant #night watch #vimes #sam vimes #ankh morpork #the shades #poverty and wealth

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themalhambird · 8 months ago

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There were times when Ankh-Morpork as a whole possessed a conveniently short memory. Inside of a week “that thing with the dragon” was already being forgotten, partly because nobody wanted to admit they’d thought crowning a bloody great lizard was a a good idea and partly because no one wanted to remind the Patrician that they’d been complicit in locking him inside his own dungeon. The palace was repaired; any damage to the city was propped up or painted over. Nevertheless, there were clearly going to be some lasting effects. It was early in the morning, and Sybil Ramkin was leaning over the Patrician’s shoulder, examining one of the said consequences with a somewhat critical eye. “It’s not bad, Havelock,” she said. “A little more practice, perhaps.”

Lord Vetinari hummed his agreement. His fingers did not stop switching lace bobbins from one position to another, moving pins down the board and leaving a slightly lopsided web in his wake. “I find it…relaxing,” he said. “A challenge, to be sure, but easier to wrangle than the city.”

“To be sure,” Sybil repeated with a wry smile. “Lacemaking is only a craft that takes most people years to learn properly. You’ve read one book and away you go. Honestly Havelock. You’re insufferable.”

Vetinari smirked. Sybil stepped away from his shoulder and strode gracefully to the far end of the long table, sitting opposite her old friend and helping herself to breakfast. “So,” she said, “Captain Vimes.”

She waited. Vetinari said nothing. His bobbins clacked. Sybil popped a grape into her mouth. “”I’m not going to sit here playing mindgames with you, Havelock. I’m not one of your little lace bobbins- I’m your friend.”

“”Captain Vimes” is not a statement that seems to require a response, my dear.” Vetinari set down the bobbins and sat back in his chair, tapping one slender finger on the wooden armrest. Sybil smiled.

“Fair enough. Let me rephrase. What do you think of Captain Vimes?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I like him.” Sybil said frankly. “I like him a great deal.”

“Why?”

Sybil gave a half shrug. “He’s passionate. Blunt, but the honesty is charming. He’s brave- heroic-”

“-an alcoholic. Hardly a paragon of the law. Oh, he may not take bribes, but the Night Watch as a whole doesn’t have much of a purpose beyond running away at the first sign of danger.”

“Now that’s unkind- they were fighting Wonse and the dragon whilst you were sitting in a prison cell. Look, Havelock,” Sybil sighed. “I like him. I really rather like him. So I would like to know what you think of him.”

“...I think,” Vetinari said slowly, “that given half a chance Samuel Vimes would lock me up and throw away the key. I think that Samuel Vimes has a great deal in common with his famous ancestor and I think, Sybil, that if you like him, there wouldn’t be any harm in continuing the acquaintance.” His mouth curls in a sly smile. “Besides,” he said, “Think of how it would annoy Ronnie Rust- Lady Ramkin, consorting with the plebs.” “Well,” Sybil said. She picked up another grape. Vetinari picked up his bobbins. There would be City Business to attend to, soon enough, but the Patrician could spare another ten or fifteen minutes on Ankh-Morpork’s richest daughter who had, after all, been through so terrible an ordeal lately. And, considering Wonse's betrayal- though it had hardly been unexpected- Havelock wanted to spend a little longer in company with his old friend. Besides. It was gratifying to know that he wasn't the only person to see the merit buried deep within Captain Vimes, and Vetinari wanted to spend a little time ruminating on all the doors that Vimes forming a connexion with Lady Ramkin might start to open up...

#discworld #guards! guards! end scene #my first discworld fanfic???? discworld is hard #anyway Sybil and Havelock deserve to have breakfast together so.#Havelock Vetinari #Sybil Ramkin

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querulousmegapode · 2 months ago

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Just, Drumknott is such a fascinating character.

Just the way that he’s described as having no discernible character and the fact that that’s a significant part of his professional persona that he’s cultivated. Just that he’s spent time turning himself as much into nothing as anything. That he moves silently, like a ghost, or is so quiet that people forget that he’s there. That he’s expected to listen in to conversations.

Just that so often he’s there in the background, mentioned as standing or sitting while Vetinari speaks.

He’s a ghost when Vetinari requires him to, dry and deadpan when Vetinari pulls him into their double act (especially with Moist), professional and sensible in most capacities.

But then in solo scenes you realise that he has so much character after all. Picking apart grammar in an entirely casual way when faced with a threat (when you say don’t nobody move), almost rude as he cuts off William (I think I don’t have to talk to you), embarrassed after getting stabbed, enthralled with the new steam engines. Even around Vetinari you get scenes like him agonising over misfiling that all show that he clearly *does* have this discernible character.

Just that his artifice has worked so well that it bleeds into everything. His attributes are essentially never described. He has no canon appearance. His discworld companion entry just mentions his lack of discernible character. We know essentially nothing about his life outside of work other than that he lives in the palace. In terms of family, all we know is that he has a singular nephew. Even William forgetting to ask for his age means that we know very little about him beyond him being ‘young’ (and that can’t possibly still be true by the end of the series).

Of course, a lot of that is stylistic, but I still find it interesting.

I also find it fascinating to consider those times that he appears colder. Part of his position involves appearing as a united front with Vetinari and Vetinari acts in certain ways to upkeep public opinion of him as a tyrant or just generally acts in morally questionable ways. This is, of course, half of what I like about him, but I keep finding myself considering Drumknott’s part in that.

Showing Moist the newspaper headline and commenting ‘innocently’, despite knowing that it’s likely going to make him fearful for his life. Arriving at the hanging and delivering the message about the false reprieve, again just toying with Moist. Standing there silently as Vetinari tells Mr Pump to break one of Moist’s fingers.

I’d love to get inside his head in that moment. Of course, Vetinari *doesn’t* break any of Moist’s fingers and I think he might be a different character if he had. But he can be ruthless and I’d love to know what Drumknott thinks about that. I presume he correctly guesses that Vetinari is teaching Moist a lesson.

He is, of course, very loyal and genuinely believes that Vetinari is not a tyrant. Working so closely beside him he is able to see past the persona that Vetinari puts up and in a scene where he is uncertain about Vetinari’s meaning he is described as usually being adept at understanding Vetinari (paraphrased).

I think for me this is a lot of the appeal of Vetiknott as a ship. These are both such deeply odd individuals, couched in layers and layers of artifice but ultimately they both understand each other. They understand putting Ankh Morpork first and devoting yourself to a life where you will never be thanked. Devoting yourself to a city that would much rather spit in your face than acknowledge your efforts. Being deposed and poisoned and shot for your troubles. Even Drumknott gets stabbed just for being there.

This is a dangerous, thankless, unrelenting job but every day they wake up and do it and that’s what I love about them.

I think that a quote from a DictionaryWrites fic sums this up best for me.

This is the best either of them could hope for.

#discworld #vetiknott #drumknott #vetinari #gnu terry pratchett #rufus drumknott #rambles #tag for the guy ever

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wpmorse · 2 months ago

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One of my side projects is a ASOIAF/Discworld crossover. The main premise is, due to the events of A Thief of Time and Night's Watch, Ankh-Morpork and the surrounding is transported to Westeros roughly replacing Saltpans, approximately when Robert and the court are heading north to Winterfell. Due to their location, Ankh Morpork is forced to become part of the war of Five Kings out of self defense. Due to Ankh Morpork having a different flavor of narativium, a 300+ year technological edge and... wizards, I expected things to be interesting.

For the most part this hasn't gone anywhere beyond me throwing ideas at the wall when I'm inspired. One of the bits I enjoyed the most was a scene with Arya and Rincewind after Rincewind accidentally saves her from the Brotherhood Without Banners and the Hound. It appeals to me for two reasons. The first is because so many fans go on about all of Arya's cool teachers, it appealed to me that she get one with a notably different philosophy than the others. The second is, as any Discworld fan can tell you, sticking Rincewind with someone gung-ho and heroic is comedy gold.

I'm afraid I rushed this scene too much, but it could be worse. Recently I've started to base my vision of Rincewind on Neil from the Young Ones mainly because Nigel Planer uses the voice for him in the audiobooks.

Anyway, here's the scene.

* * *

They had been walking through the forest for the entire day. They’d kept away from trails and didn’t see anyone. Still, Arya wasn’t sure if they were getting anywhere at all. All of the moss on the trees faced north, but she was sure she had seen several of the trees they had passed before, and then before that.

“Are we there yet?“ She asked again.

Her companion stopped and gave a loud exasperated sigh. He turned slowly and stared down at her. Arya stared back until he looked away. "Calm as still water," she thought to herself, smugly.

He was a tall skinny man with a thin, scraggly, beard. When she first met him, two days ago, she thought she had run into another red priest, like Thoros, in his faded red robe. But Thoros didn’t wear a strange pointed, wide-brimmed hat which looked even more threadbare than his robes, with the word “ WIZZARD” sewn in large faded letters. It made him look more like a mummer. Or at least a mummer who had been lost in the woods for many years.

He frowned. "How the gods should I know?" He asked.

Arya could not believe what she heard. “We're lost, aren’t we?” she said.

“ We are not!” He shouted.

“Then where are we going?” Arya demanded.

The man shrugged and started walking. “I don’t know about this ‘we’ business, but I’m going away from here,” he said pointing at the ground.

“That’s stupid!“ she shouted.

“No, it’s not. It’s away from danger!” He shouted back.

“And what if we just end up in more danger?” Arya asked.

The man turned again looking down at her with an infuriatingly knowing smile.”When we find it, we can run away from it too" he explained.

Aria wanted to punch him but she stopped herself as an idea struck her. “If we’re not going anywhere, can we go to Riverrun?” She asked.

"What’s in Riverrun?“ He asked.

“My…“ Arya paused. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him about her mother and Robb. She hadn’t told him her name yet and had gone back to calling herself Weasel, for fear of giving herself away once again. She didn’t think he would try to hold her for ransom, as the Brotherhood had planned, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

“The Warden of the Riverlands and the king in the North,“ she said

The man gave her a crooked look. "So… There’s an army there?“ He asked

"Oh yes, lots,“ she said, excited.

The man shrugged. "Well then,“ he said, "Let's keep away from there. You don't want to mess with armies. Too much of a chance they'll try to kill you.“

Arya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You're craven!" She shouted.

"I am not! Craving only leads to more trouble! I don’t crave anything'. He paused, remembering something. “Well, except for boredom, that is, and," he sighed wistfully, “ potatoes."

“What’s a potato?“ Arya asked.

The man gave her a pained look. He turned and looked up at the sky and said something under his breath. Arya couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like whimpering. “ Look, no one's asking you to follow me, “ he said, changing the subject. “ If you don’ t like where we’ re going, you can leave anytime you want."

Arya said nothing. She didn’t know why she was following the man, ever since she had run straight into him escaping from the Brotherhood, but he had got her past the Brotherhood's outer guard and, she shuddered, the Hound, and so far they avoided any other people out to get her. She was safe around him, even if she found his whining annoying.

She hadn’t asked him his name yet. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to get close to anyone, after losing Gendry, Hot Pie, Syro and... her father. Still, she should try to learn as much as she could about him. “Is a wizzard anything like a hedge wizard?” She asked.

He looked at her surprised. “You’re the first person who’s known how to read since I’ve arrived in this gods forsaken mud hole,” he said.

Arya gulped realizing she’d given away an advantage. "Well, is it?“ She asked. The wizard drew himself to his full lanky height. “Oh no, we wizards are something much better. We look into the higher magics.”

“Can you show me some?“ Arya asked.

The wizard coughed. “Not right now.“ He said. “My powers can’t be wasted on simple parlor tricks, especially when we might need them for something serious later. "

Arya said nothing. Let him keep his stupid secrets she didn’t need him.

#illustration #watercolor #asoiaf #discworld #crossover fanart #crossover #arya stark #rincewind #fanfiction

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