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animanightmate · 3 years

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Guards! Guards?

I wrote this a few years ago now, but then the forum it was originally posted to imploded, so I thought I'd bring it here, dust it off, tinker with a few bits, round out some of my assumptions, and present tumblr with this short thesis (herein be spoilers)...

Ahem

I cannot believe it took me so long to put it together, but I’ve not long (ish... see above) worked out that Guards! Guards! (the first Watch novel by Terry Pratchett) has a large element of parody of The Three Musketeers (not just the book but various adaptations), as well as classic noir. Now, it’s possible I’m obsessed (I am, but shh), but here’s the way I see it:

The Night Watch as The Black Musketeer regiment – a group of armed men charged with keeping The King’s Peace in the nation’s capital, and rivals to another armed body of similar ilk within the city – subverted in that they’re the most despised body of men in the city, considered less an honour than a punishment, their rivals (Day Watch qua The Red Musketeers) have a great deal more power, and they’re determinedly pedestrian (as opposed to equestrian).

Vimes as Athos – in charge, though somewhat reluctantly, functional alcoholic, trailing rumours of him being “brung low by a woman” – subverted in that he’s about as common (and proto-Socialist) as it’s possible to be, plus the woman is just his way of talking about the city herself.

Carrot as d’Artagnan – eager, young newcomer to the city from a place far away, sent by his father’s advice, naturally talented, filled with longing to be the best guard he can be – subverted in that he’s easy-going rather than apt to fly into a temper and challenge people to duels (his arresting of the Head of the Thieves’ Guild was earnest, but not hot-headed), he’s tall, and he’s actually the king he’s sworn allegiance to.

Nobby as Aramis – the romantic, the ladies’ man – subverted in that there's a lot more enthusiasm than “success” in that department, absolutely zero discretion, and I’m fairly certain he’d struggle to spell poetry...

Colon as Porthos – pragmatic and overweight, a little indolent – subverted in that he’s the only one of them actually married rather than a pure hedonist, is about as flash in appearance as a lump of putty, and has a vehement lack of desire for any increase in rank.

Vetinari as Richelieu is so obvious that it’s probably wrong, knowing the man (men) concerned.

Lady Ramkin as Milady – a woman who keeps turning up and shifting people’s understanding, has a strong chemistry with the alcoholic – subverted in that she’s about as noble-born as you can get, hasn’t a devious bone in her body, is part of Vimes’s future rather than his past, and is demonstrably a virgin

I’m yet to work out exactly the corollaries for Constance, Rochefort, Bonacieux, et al, but Guards! Guards! is, of course, not content with parodying one, or even two literary genres (classic fantasy meets police procedural meets detective noir meets swashbuckling meets conspiracies and secret societies), so not everyone in the book will fall under a Musketeer pattern, and not every element of The Musketeers will turn up parodied.

Anyway, that’s it. I’ve not read Guards! Guards! in years, though it doesn’t take much peering through my blog to see that I’m obsessed with The Musketeers. A bit. Ahem. So I’m very much open to critique from more knowledgeable readers.

Thoughts? Criticisms? Additions? What do you reckon?

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luckyspike · 5 years

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i just wrote raising steam fanfic get it out of my head

i listened to ‘We Are Number One [DANK EDITION]’ for the duration of the writing

It seemed appropriate

Vimes makes it a point, on the Iron Girder, to get to know everybody present. It is, after all, a fairly important journey: the Low King is on board, and what kind of guard would he be if he didn’t sniff out any suspicious characters? A piss poor one, honestly.

The engineers don’t worry him - he knows them already, at any rate, and they’re all too focused on steam and mechanisms to pose any legitimate danger. He only has to watch them for a few minutes at work, watching dials, pulling levers, to know this. They’re obsessive, and their first priority would be the smooth operation of the engine. One less group to worry about, then.

The stokers, though. He’d wondered about the stokers. Hand-picked by Harry King, Vimes reasoned they were probably above-board at least in this one specific instance, if not at any other point in their lives. But they were an odd bunch, mysterious pasts, with the sole task of shoveling coal into a furnace - a single-minded job, and not hard to slide into if, say, you wanted to hitch a ride on a rather important journey without drawing too much attention.

Vimes didn’t trust them.

There were eight of them in all, and they had the shifts worked out amongst themselves. Early in the journey, Vimes made the decision not to watch them work, as he had the engineers, because they had a simple job and, if he had to guess, they didn’t likely love it. He admitted, after talking to the first two that he might have been wrong on that count - bonkers about the railroad, the both of them - but nevertheless, Vimes weighed caution above all else. No, individual interrogation would be the way with the stokers. There would be no hiding, no avoidance, just a frank conversation for Vimes to ask his questions and take their measure.

Which was why, a scant 36 hours after leaving Ankh-Morpork, he found himself nearly apoplectic with rage in the stokers’ car, glaring down the tyrant of previously-mentioned city.

He had recognized the man as soon as they came face-to-face, next-day stubble and ridiculous gray shirt and trousers aside, and then blast him he’d had the nerve to say “I don’t suppose you’re going to interrogate me, now, Vimes?” before grabbing the commander by the front of his shirt and, sighing heavily, dragging him into the car. “I’d be obliged if you made it quick.”

“The hells are you doing here?” he spat, while his body snapped to attention, because some habits can’t be broken. “Are you insane?”

Vetinari considered the question. “No, I don’t think so. In fact I’m nearly positive that I am not.”

“So why are you doing - doing …” He waved his arms helplessly.

“This?” Vetinari smirked. “Would you believe me if I said it sounded like fun?”

“Absolutely not,” said Vimes, although he would have. He just didn’t want to.

“Very well. Then consider this: I have entrusted a fairly crucial portion of foreign relations to von Lipwig, and added in the potential for catastrophic mechanical disaster. I can do many things from afar, Vimes, but sometimes it’s best to ensure personally that things don’t go … awry.” He crossed his arms. “Honest enough?”

“You could die,” Vimes hissed, still lingering on ‘catastrophic mechanical disaster’. “If this train goes -”

“Then we all die,” Vetinari said simply. “Frankly, Vimes, I feel it’s unlikely and in either case, should the Low King, you, and von Lipwig die on this blasted mechanism while I remain in the city, my own lifespan there would probably not greatly outlast yours.”

Vimes blinked. He considered it. His rage banked, for a minute, but then another thought jumped into the fire and he snapped, “There will be fighting. You know there will be.”

“Hm, yes, I rather expect I do.” He smirked again. “I don’t need you to protect me, if that is what you’re thinking. Believe it or not, Vimes, I can take care of myself, on occasion.”

“It’s my duty.”

“I’m an Assassin,” Vetinari replied simply, which Vimes considered might be answer enough. “I will be equipped with a very serviceable shovel, and I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know I’ve also taken my own precautions.” There is a whisper and from somewhere - where? Vimes wondered - a knife appeared in Vetinari’s hand. Not a dagger, but a proper knife, with all of the intent and none of the class of the Guild’s usual fare. He blinked. “Feel better?” Vetinari asked, twirling the thing between his fingers before it vanished again, no more obviously than it had appeared.

“Not really.” Another thought occurred to him. “If you’re here, then who’s -” His eyes widened. “Charlie’s a godsdamn idiot, my Lord, excuse my Klatchian.”

“It’s Blake, for the time being,” Vetinari corrected. “Just Blake. And Charlie is an idiot, but an idiot who looks like me, and therefore not entirely useless.” He shrugged and, to Vimes’ complete amazement, grabbed a mug of coffee at random prior to taking a swig. “He has Drumknott with him, he’ll be fine.” He considered the coffee and then set it aside. “I don’t understand the compulsion to put sugar in coffee, I really don’t. Are we done here?”

Vimes blinked. “What? I - Dammit Vetinari -”

“Blake.”

“Whatever. Just …” Vimes scowled, and then, in a move that might have been suicidal back in Ankh-Morpork, but what did that matter here and now, when the Worlde had Gone Madde, he jabbed a finger into Vetinari’s chest. “Don’t die.”

Vetinari nodded solemnly. “I promise I will do my best not to, Commander. Can I leave now?”

Vimes glowered up at the man and then stepped aside. “Fine.”

“Duty calls, and all that.” Vetinari brushed past, and paused at the door, half-opened, to turn and raise an eyebrow at Vimes. “Good luck with your inquiries, Commander. Although, if I may offer a suggestion?”

“No.”

“I’m going to anyway.” Vimes noticed, as an engineer strode past, down the hall, that in a blink Vetinari’s typical genteel enunciation had disappeared, replaced with something coarse and clipped - Pseudopolis, Vimes realized. “Don’t worry about the stokers. There’s way more interesting stuff happening in the back.” He smirked. “I’ve got the front end handled.” He left then, scooping a shovel up from the rack outside the little room, and sauntered - sauntered - up to the engine. Vimes watched him go, hands in his pockets and a rancorous scowl on his face.

“Bloody bastard,” he muttered, before he turned away and headed back to the other compartments, to continue his inquiries … literally anywhere else.

#discworld #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #sam vimes #havelock vetinari #stoker blake #raising steam

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 5 years

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"😓A misunderstood character is ostracized, perhaps even threatened, for their peculiar habits, interests, or studies" - this is gonna be v specific but like.... Drabble where vetinari and downey giggle about people gossiping about vetinari being a vampire? Perhaps? Pls?

Thank you so much for the ask! i’m not sure if this is quite what you were hoping for, but I hope you enjoy.

Midnight and Downey hears clicking so he’s half-awake, then fully awake and thinking there’s someone in the room with him. He can’t see them but knows a presence when it is felt, only: he can’t move. The clicking increases, an insect-noise, as something prowls near his head and he does not wish to look over but does, because he can’t help it, and there sits a monstrous creature poised with stinger above his face and the weight on his chest holding him down reminds him of that one poor man accused of witchcraft, or was it being vampire?, all those hundreds of years ago who was pressed to death in the main square. The rocks they put on his chest were later used to build the base of the Brass Bridge. When you walk over them you walk over his ghost.

And now Downey is awake. Awake and sitting upright, which means he can move, but he’s still seeing the insect so there remains whispers of the dream. It is a dream, he reminds himself, because he has had such before and, more importantly, he knows all the insects on the Disc and the one he imagined next to him is not one of them. If he is going to go and discover a new species it won’t be whilst half-asleep in the middle of the city.

He rubs eyes, looks to pillow beside him and finds it empty.

Sinking back into bed he pulls the eiderdown up around his head and burrows in an attempt to reclaim even a shred of disturbed sleep.

But it’s gone. His mind is already going fast-fast-fast there are so many things he must do as Term moves into exam season and holiday festivities must be planned and budgeted for and rooms prepped for new students joining them for Winter term after Hogswatch. Then there’s City Council matters and Guild matters and three jobs lined up, hasn’t he already decided he’s too busy, tired and old for this?, and then there’s the never ending social calendar. Which he enjoys. But, it can be a bit much.

Bedroom silence is as maddening as his racing mind. He’s staring at the thin pool of moonlight on the floor. It’s autumn, so skies are a perpetual grey with only a weak sun to splash watery gold and pink across horizon at morning and evening. The grey continues into the night obscuring stars. So everything is a shadow of its summertime self.

He is restless. His nerves are up. He has spooked himself and remains half-convinced there’s someone in the room with him. The presence, he repeats to himself, was the dream and the dream was made of stress.

He rolls around for a bit. Then, out of a sense of paranoia, he retrieves a blade from between mattress and headboard, and prowls about his room but finds nothing and neither do Alsace nor Harold. He ought to be content if not pleased.

Fear is an anathema to him. One of the first rules of performing assassin is knowing that you are the most dangerous thing that walks the streets. And if you don’t know it in yourself, for certain, then at least exude it to others. Smoke and mirrors &tc.

One autumn, as a boy of seven, he developed a deep fear of vampires. They can turn into mist, slide into bedrooms through keyholes and hide under the bed or in the closet. They drink your blood and make you one of them whether you wish it or not.

The fear left him as he grew up. At first, because he learned how to kill them. Then, later, he met a few, became friends or an approximation of friends, with a few. Olivia Hunter, one example, said, it’s being damned for a sin you’ve no part in. People look and say ‘We know your kind’ when they know nothing of anything. What is my kind? Genuan? Black? Woman? Secretary? Vampire? Omnian?

And that’s a sentiment he understands, was raised to understand, for his grandmother would talk about the bad old days in Brindisi when she was a girl and they had to leave, which happens sometimes, because people decide they know your kind and whatever it is, it’s unwanted.

He dresses. Alsace and Harold become very excited at this sudden change in events. As always, he takes a circuitous route through the city to the palace. He weaves through alleys, up and down stairs and closes, trots this way and that across streets. For a time, he loiters on the Brass Bridge and peers at different stones. The foundation stone’s date has worn away with time so when you trace fingers over it there is only the merest indentation. Was this the stone that finally killed that man all those years ago? He’s never seen a witch stoning and has no desire to. There are some violences and brutalities that go too far.

The palace is shades of moth-wing grey. Downey slips in between shadows and up to the patrician’s bedroom where, as expected, Vetinari is up. The man is seated at his desk half-dressed with robe wrapped around him and a blanket over shoulders.

‘Have you considered a brazier?’ Downey asks upon entrance. Vetinari flicks a look at him. ‘It would help with your consistent lack of heating.’

‘I am quite content, Downey. If the temperature was comfortable people might wish to stay.’

Downey feigns offence. He drapes himself across the bed and stares up at canopy. Alsace and Harold make themselves at home by the meager fire next to Mr. Fusspot who remains unphased by the sudden presence of dogs easily three times his size. He snores on in peaceful slumber.

‘May I be of assistance?’ Vetinari’s voice drifts over coupled with the ruffle of paper.

‘Oh no, you’re fine.’

‘Is there a reason you’re here?’

‘Must there always be a motive for my coming? I had a desire to be mildly chilled and to stare up at your canopy.’

Vetinari makes a noise, a scoff or snort. Downey smiles at the fabric above him.

‘We didn’t have plans,’ Vetinari says, quietly, to himself and his desk. Downey does not respond. Vetinari’s penchant for exact order crops up time to time. They are both men with strong affinity for order, but applied in very different areas of their lives.

Downey orders butterflies and beetles and natural and manmade poisons. He also orders accounts, aligns the debit-credit column of the guild, his wardrobe, his drinks cabinet. He does not order his personal life. He doesn’t need to, Vetinari orders it for him.

‘You know,’ Downey drawls as a thought occurs. ‘Your desire to have cold rooms and no creature comforts is probably why people think you’re a vampire.’

A cough from the direction of the window.

Downey props himself up and looks over. ‘Tolerant of extreme temperatures? Lack of expected, human reactions to circumstances? Patience of a rock? Never seen sleeping?’

‘You have seen me sleep.’ A lofty, disinterested expression, ‘and you can attest to my ability to react appropriately in certain, ah, circumstances.’

It’s a lascivious grin on Downey’s face. Vetinari tells him that he is being lewd. Downey replies that he is not being lewd at all. Vetinari says, ‘very well, your face is making lewd insinuations.’ Downey begs his pardon with great animation, delighting in the other man’s long suffering sigh. He delights in most things Vetinari does, including his more obsessive ticks. It’s a pleasure to know there’s someone who won’t judge you for talking to your plants and will understand the extreme stress of holding one’s tongue when someone is wrong about biology in public. Which happens with great regularity.

A huff, Vetinari decants from his desk to the bed where Downey, who has pried boots off and deposited cloak, scarf, hat, gloves, frock, and so on, on the floor, happily scoots beneath covers.

‘And you have very cold hands,’ Downey continues.

Vetinari snorts, ‘the people of this great city really have nothing better to do than speculate upon my supposed inhumanity?’

‘I think it’s an improvement over their wildly inaccurate speculations about your manhood.’

Vetinari’s face is a portrait. Downey kisses it.

He continues, ‘I would correct them, of course. But that would cause more grief than it’s worth. Now, you as a vampire on the other hand, I can see their reasoning.’

‘I’ve eaten food in public. I drink…wine.’

Downey snorts, ‘Mr. Warrender at the Cloak and Dagger believes it all to be an elaborate ruse.’

‘I see,’

‘He was going on about this the other night,’ Downey begins plucking at Vetinari’s robe which he considers an affront as it is another layer of clothing to take off. ‘I think he managed to make a few converts to his cause. He says that he’s never seen you handle coin before therefore you’re avoiding silver. You don’t attend religious ceremonies because of holy ground. Your robe is annoying me deeply. And you rarely go out, uncovered, in daylight due to discomfort in the sun.’

‘I’m not sure Mr. Warrender would have any opinion on my robe. Downey, I’m quite busy tonight.’

‘Yes, I’m here now. Your metaphorical dance card is full for the remainder of the evening.’

Vetinari stares. Downey stares back. Vetinari opens his mouth to reply, apparently reconsiders it, and sighs. Downey kisses him again as it seems the right course of action.

Downey rolls Vetinari over to his back, snaking a hand beneath robe, down, pulling up nightshift beneath. Vetinari liftst hips to allow the clothes to be hitched up, ‘why are you here, Downey?’

Downey raises an eyebrow. Looks down at their bodies then back up.

‘That’s not why you’re here. This is a symptom, not the cause.’

‘I dislike that. Being associated with disease isn’t something I enjoy, but I’ll save my annoyance for tomorrow. I was awake and restless.’

‘Right.’ A beat. ‘My apologies.’

‘Thank you,’ Downey hums. He cannot think how to explain: I had a dream and spooked myself. So he chooses not to. He continues with vague answers and determined exploration of Vetinari’s body, a boney, you’re-a-bit-of-a-shut-in sort of experience. Being opposites in most regards, Vetinari has nothing spare, all strung together with skin and only the amount of muscle needed to operate a body compared to Downey’s more, as he puts it to himself, comfortable, frame.

As teenagers, therefore posturing with great energy and determination, Vetinari once said: I’m an aesthete. Downey hadn’t been entirely sure what an aesthete was so made some general scag-dog-botherer related insult and went off to ask Ludo what it meant. Ludo explained asceticism with a wry expression. Downey then spent the remainder of the day mocking Vetinari for being a nerdy prat.

Downey thinks that to be fair to sixteen-year-old Vetinari the young man hadn’t been wrong. He was, and is, very much an aesthete. But, Downey adds on, he was also a nerdy prat.

Not that he, himself, was a joy and pleasure to be around at that age. Eleven to five-and-twenty, he thinks, those are terrible years where no one is at their best.

Vetinari scoops an arm around Downey’s neck and leans up, pressing their mouths together. ‘Would you still be here if I was a vampire?’

‘Yes. Though, there’d be very strict boundaries.’

‘Naturally.’

‘’I’ve no desire for immortality. The one thing I wonder is,’ Downey settles on his side. ‘Would you still be you if you were one? It’s a rude question so I haven’t asked anyone I know.’

Vetinari shrugs. How does never dying change a person? How does not tasting, not needing sleep, not bodily changing, shape an individual? Would that change be any different from the normal changes all people go through as life forms them forever into something new?

Neither choose to answer the questions. Downey figures they were rhetorical more than anything. But even if they weren’t, he has no answer. He likes his humanity. He’s content with being merely mortal. There is a thrill to life that he thinks wouldn’t be there if you knew you weren’t going to die. Pleasures would lose their meaning. He likes luscious fox fur, richly patterned cambric, heavy brocades because he knows they are his but for a limited time. When he dies they’ll be of no use save to cover the body until it’s cremated. But doesn’t that limitation of enjoyment make it all the sweeter? There will be a finite end to champagne and oysters and music and dancing and gold and silver.

But as a vampire, at least with regards to the clothing and objects, you would have it forever. One fades, buy another.

Perhaps they find meaning in other things less worldly than clothes and beautiful things.

What a terrible concept.

‘You had a mistress who was one, didn’t you?’ Downey asks.

‘Mistress,’ Vetinari’s bemused by the word. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘What was her view?’

‘On how she was before? She didn’t speak of it much, but I think she takes the long view of things. So time is both fast and slow. She said that because relations with humans are so fleeting she found them more precious.’

Downey pulls a face. See, finding meaning in less worldly things. Vetinari flashes a smile, returns to his usual impassive self.

‘I don’t think it’s life that would suit you, Downey.’

‘I’d have to become philosophical, which is a horror. I would be required to place value in things other than material wealth. Absolutely terrible.’

Vetinari props himself up on an elbow and takes to considering Downey’s face with great intent. Downey looks away. He frets that Vetinari is going to say something about him being more than what he intends himself to be. Which Vetinari tends to do because he enjoys telling Downey home-truths.

Life delivers. Vetinari says, ‘I think you hold things beyond material wealth as important. A limited amount,’ he amends. ‘Perhaps a very limited amount. But nonetheless, they exist.’

This is too much, Downey can feel a flush crawling up his chest and neck so leans up, gives a messy kiss, then rolls over in search of his clothes. He says he should go back to the Guild. It’s late, he has much to do in the morning. Vetinari sits up and watches him dress. Downey swans about, makes it a bit of a theatrical moment, then the final flourish, he places his hat on.

‘I will see you tomorrow,’ Downey says.

‘You will. Or today, as the case may be. We are well into the small hours.’

At the door Downey pauses. Behind him is the sound of Vetinari dressing. The shift of linens, bare feet on soft, wooden floors.

‘I don’t think it would be a life that suits you either,’ Downey says to the doorframe. His palm rests flat against it, a profile to Vetinari’s line of sight.

‘Immortality, or vampirism in particular?’

‘Both.’ Or maybe, Downey doesn’t think, he wishes to believe that for his own sake. He doesn’t like to think of Vetinari going on, existing as some lonesome, grey rock in the midst of human life for any longer than he already has.

‘Possibly. Quite possibly you’re very right.’

Downey sucks in a breath through teeth then, because he enjoys hurdling head first off cliffs from time to time, ‘I’m glad things are working out, you know. Between us. Despite the fact that you’re a nerdy prat, Dog-botherer.’

He’s gone before Vetinari can reply though he imagines he heard a soft exhale of a laugh. One of those dry ones Vetinari gives when amused but feeling many things at the same time. It’s a ghost of a sound and follows Downey through streets homeward. He wishes to remember it forever.

#lord downey #vetinari #writing #ask #reply #gothic prompt

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patricianandclerk · 5 years

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The Calm Ends

Self-indulgence city!

“Ah, Vimes,” said Vetinari quietly, and Vimes lingered in the door of the other man’s office, crossing his arms slowly over his chest. He didn’t really bother to cross the threshold, lingering with his shoulder leaning against the doorframe, as he usually did, when he came to see the other man. “I thought perhaps you might approach young de Worde, what with the success of his paper, in recent years.”

“De Worde writes down the information he picks up and puts it in the paper,” Vimes said evenly. “I want the stuff he doesn’t write down.”

Vetinari’s head nodded slightly, and Vimes was aware of the tension between them as he glanced around the room, as Vetinari’s sparsely furnished, humble office, where he spent the vast majority of his time. He mostly did one errand or other, around Luca: he was known for his ability to fix problems and, more impressively, fix things that were not yet problems, but which he divined might become problems soon. Vimes was… discomfited, in fact, by precisely how much power Vetinari had over the average group of people, even when times were hard and rough and full of pain, let alone during the Calm—

But the Calm was over, now.

Sin had been sighted out on the coast of Besaid, and soon, soon, things would be harder. Things were always harder, when the Calm came to an end, and the Luca Watch got busier, the watchmen busy in their places, keeping people from dissolving as tensions rose, as refugees made their way through the city, as it all went to shit.

Vetinari always knew where the tensions were.

It made him nervous, yes, and he wasn’t sure whose side Vetinari was on, at times, but he knew things, and that made him invaluable. It was easy to distrust the man, when his father had been Al Bhed, so the stories on the street went. There were a lot of stories about Vetinari, most of them, Vimes was certain, untrue. Vetinari had likely started most of them himself.

“There’s nothing untoward, just yet,” Vetinari murmured, and Vimes watched as he reached up, his fingers rubbing against the side of his temple. “Six months. A long Calm, Vimes. People don’t yet wish to return to the harder ways.”

“Any good summoners on the roster?” Vimes asked, and a shadow passed over Vetinari’s face, his eyes darkening.

“One or two,” he said.

“Sybil said your aunt was a summoner,” Vimes said, after a moment’s pause.

“She was injured on her pilgrimage. Alas, she was never able to complete it.” Vetinari delicately shrugged his shoulders, glancing down to the graceful lines of his own palm.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Another silence, tense and heavy, passed between them, and Vimes lingered in his place, watching Vetinari for a few moments. They had come to know one another well, in the past ten years, since Vimes had taken up the position as the Captain of the Luca Watch. As well as he felt he could know Vetinari, anyway – he and Sybil had moved in similar circles, when they’d been younger, and they were still on friendly terms, but Vetinari and Vimes, it was… different. Not friendly, exactly, but not with enmity, either. And yet, with that said, this was unusual. Vetinari was usually esoteric and weird, but with a sort of smug superiority, a sense of knowledge he wasn’t handing over.

Now, he seemed distracted.

“You alright?” Vimes asked, finally.

“My aunt always forbade me to associate with summoners,” he said. “It was one of the only rules she ever really set me. She feared that I, public-minded as I am, might take it upon myself to become a guardian.” He said it in a sort of conversational way, as if he and Vimes often exchanged niceties about their respective childhoods, and Vimes felt himself frown, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Even with your leg?” Vetinari was dangerous. He knew that – the man wielded short blades like a purely lethal force, moved fast on his feet, could rip anyone or anything to pieces, but he had a cane, most days. He needed the cane. The idea of him travelling, with the cane, from one end of Spira to the other…

Vetinari smiled, in a wan, absent sort of way. “Yes,” he said. “Even then.”

Vimes felt on uneven ground, and he leaned forward to go on, but Vetinari said, “Don’t let me detain you, Vimes. I’m sure you have paperwork to avoid back at the watch house.”

Vimes hesitated only for a few moments, trying to think of something to say, to argue, and then he gave up, and went.

Carrot told him the next day that Vetinari had closed up his office, and given his contacts to de Worde, at the paper.

The young man was out on the beach again. He often was at sunset, Vetinari had found, and he’d taken notice of this behaviour in the past weeks, staying at a lodging house in Luca, reading extensively at the library in the city. He’d grown up in Luca, so Vetinari’s source told him, but when his parents had each died, he’d chosen to be educated at the Djose Temple, when he was thirteen or so, instead of staying with his sister and her husband.

He was old enough, now, to become a summoner proper, or to at least make his first attempt at the Cloister of Trials.

Rufus Drumknott, his name was.

The priests said he was a strange young man, quiet, intent, focused. He unsettled them.

“What exactly was it, Mr Vetinari,” Drumknott said quietly, his gaze fixated on the sea, “that made you decide I was worth following yourself, rather than sending one of your people to do it?”

“I heard you broke a man’s fingers when he went to backhand his little girl, out on the Highroad,” Vetinari said quietly. He watched the back of Drumknott’s head, watched his neatly parted hair that seemed quite red in the summer’s brightness, his high, black collar, tight to his neck. His staff was laid over his thighs, resting on them, and was set there, perfectly central. Drumknott, he was reliably informed, was somewhat obsessed with symmetry.

“Is that all?” Drumknott asked. “I thought perhaps it was some subtle detail of my character. I hear that you set much store by such things.”

“Do you hear much about me, Mr Drumknott?”

“Not much, no. Even less that I would trust as true.”

“But you’ve been asking about me?”

“Wouldn’t you ask after a man who followed you?”

“I would indeed. What surprises me is that I’ve not heard tell of your asking.”

Drumknott, still kneeling on the sands, turned his head, and he looked at Vetinari, his expression utterly neutral, blank. It revealed nothing whatsoever. “I can be quite convincing, Mr Vetinari, when I choose to be.” He was a little man. Red-cheeked, compact, with the face of a secretary and the silent step of a librarian: he was not, at a glance, an intimidating figure. And yet…

“So I’ve heard,” Vetinari said. “Have you a guardian, yet?”

“No.”

“Then I would offer myself.”

He expected Drumknott to mention his leg, or perhaps his age; he expected the young man to at least glance down at the cane Vetinari leaned on. He did neither, instead turning back to face the sea, and Vetinari watched the delicate shift of his hands as he formed them into the gesture of Yevon, and bowed toward the sea.

Vetinari did not believe in the teachings of Yu Yevon. This did not, in itself, preclude his service as a guardian, but it was frowned upon, certainly, to take up a non-Yevonite as a summoner. And yet… Drumknott was not unpopular, per se. Merely that people were unsettled by him.

Vetinari was fascinated.

“Thank you,” Drumknott said softly to the horizon. “I accept your offer.”

Vetinari watched the oranges, yellows, and reds of the sky bleed into darkness, and in the direction of black, watched Drumknott pray. Then he said, “We ought make for Djose come morning.”

“Yes,” Drumknott said. “Yes.”

“You don’t want to ask,” Vetinari said, “why I wish to be your guardian?”

“Do you want to ask,” Drumknott replied, his tone slightly amused, “why I wish to be a summoner?”

Vetinari felt himself smile.

“No,” he said softly.

“Then no,” Drumknott replied, and rose on delicate feet.

That night, Vetinari lay on the small couch beside Drumknott’s bed in the lodging house, and he watched the young man sleep, his features slack, his breathing even and slow. Like this, he seemed even younger than his years, and Vetinari mused on the hypocrisy of it all, of protecting such a young man, only to let him be sacrificed, when the journey came to its end.

“You ought sleep,” Drumknott mumbled, shifting sleepily in his place. “I can feel you staring.”

“I shall stare more softly,” Vetinari replied.

The anxious uncertainty, the anticipation of oncoming grief and horror and pain that clawed in Vetinari’s chest, was soothed by the soft curve of Drumknott’s drowsy smile.

#as defined by dictionary #discworld #fanfic #havelock vetinari #rufus drumknott

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lytefoot · 6 years

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Percy Weasley for 003 :D Percy and Oliver (Perciver) for the shipping one! (002) And idk which fandoms you're in apart from HP, but any beloved book series apart from HP for the fandom ask game (001) It's okay if you don't want to do any of these ^.^

Okay, these are all fun.

For 001, I’m going to do Discworld, probably my longest-running continuous fandom.

Favorite character: This is a hard one, but Granny Weatherwax just edges out His Grace Commander Sir Samuel Blackboard Monitor Vimes. Honorable mention to Reacher Gilt, my favorite villain ever.

Least Favorite character: Also hard, because all the characters in Discworld are so compelling, even when they’re awful people… and a lot of the ones that started off as annoying one-shot gags grew into someone cool in the later books. Sergeant Colon, probably, simply because he really should have learned something by now.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): I really don’t do a lot of non-canon shipping in this setting. Carrot/Angua is definitely my favorite. Sam Vimes/Lady Sybil. Moist/Spike. I do like Susan/Lobsang, which isn’t quite canon. And Tiffany/Winter definitely had its charm.

Character I find most attractive: Angua, probably? Although lately I’ve been imagining Carrot looking like a red-haired Chris Hemsworth, so it’s close.

Character I would marry: Well, Lady Sybil is taken–she’s otherwise amazing. Maybe Rincewind? I’m a sucker for boys who need some looking after.

Character I would be best friends with: Either Agnes Nitt or Cheri Littlebottom.

A random thought: I really need to go back and reread some of these.

An unpopular opinion: I don’t know if this is unpopular or not, but I really don’t like reading the two books that were published after Sir Terry died. They’re so obviously unfinished, and it makes me very sad.

My canon OTP: Carrot/Angua. The scene at the end of The Fifth Elephant that ends with Angua asking, “Do you promise?” is one of the most romantic scenes I’ve ever read.

Non-canon OTP: None. I don’t really have any non-canon ships in this setting.

Most badass character: Granny Weatherwax, no doubt. *When she was bitten by a vampire, the vampire started craving tea and biscuits.*

Pairing I am not a fan of: Err… a lot of people ship Vimes/Vetinari, and other than that one scene in Feet of Clay, I just don’t see it.

Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): Nobody. Seriously.

Favourite friendship: Angua and Cheri Littlebottom. I love the way these two grow into themselves together.

Percy and Oliver (Perciver) for the shipping one! (002)

when or if I started shipping it: So Oliver Wood is one of those characters that isn’t particularly on my radar, so I don’t actively ship it–but i do like it when I encounter them.

my thoughts: This is the kind of ship that “opposites attract” was made for.

What makes me happy about them: I like that their obsessiveness throws each other into stark relief.

What makes me sad about them: That we don’t actually see them interact in canon, like, at all? Harry is still largely blind to his classmates outside Ron and Hermione when Percy and Oliver are still at Hogwarts.

Things done in fanfic that annoys me: So not a big ship of mine, so I tend to see them as background in these sort of… slightly silly “lol everyone’s gay now!” fics (which always means somewhat lazy Drarry, because Draco is literally the only boy we could possibly ship Harry with, uh huh, there are no other super-obvious candidates) which are fun sometimes but I’m usually looking for something with a little more substance.

Things I look for in fanfic: Not really a ship I look for, but if I did, I’d want one that actually explores the relationship.

My kinks: For this ship? All the puns. Quidditch puns, Wood puns, quidditch speeches out of context!

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Percy: So JKR gave him a total blank slate love interest, who I’ve filled in to my satisfaction. (My Audrey is a muggle woman that Percy met while he was working on the repairs to the Floo network after the war. They had a muggle wedding. Arthur was ecstatic.) But I have no particular commitments to ships for either one of them–I’m willing to buy whatever you’re selling.

My happily ever after for them: Percy finally remembers which position Oliver plays. Oliver remembers which department Percy works for and why its important regardless of its total lack of quidditch of any kind. They adopt a child who has no interest in either sports or government and shows a worrying propensity to be good at maths; they love the child anyway.

Percy Weasley for 003

How I feel about this character: Percy is #1 on the list of characters that deserve a redemption arc. I don’t think he truly deserves the degree of passive-aggressive “You *owe* me, Percy” he’s going to get from the rest of the Weasleys for the rest of his life.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Audrey, I guess? I feel like this is cheating, because Audrey is a name on a list, making her essentially an OC. I’m willing to be sold on Percy ships in fic.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Poor Percy has never really felt like he fit in with his brothers. I’d really like to see him build a closeness with them after the war.

My unpopular opinion about this character: Percy is 100% Gryffindor from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. The way he walked out on his family is Gryffindor conviction from start to finish; just because he was *wrong* doesn’t mean he wasn’t *brave.*

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I wish we’d seen more of him at Hogwarts. He wasn’t really on Harry’s radar before he took his heel turn, and so it wasn’t nearly as upsetting as it might have been. He also ended up somewhat one-dimensional as a result.

My OTP: None. I’m willing to buy whatever Percy ship you’re selling.

My OT3: As above, except if you’re going to include Percy in a trio, Oliver Wood really ought to be in it, too.

#ask game #percy weasley #oliver wood #discworld #also

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doc-acher · 7 years

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Tagged by @silverheartcat :) (sorry it took so long!! ;A; )

“Rules: Answer 20 questions and tag 20 mutuals you want to know better.

1) Name: [REDACTED] 2) Nickname: Many, depending on the social group. Most people online know me as ‘Meier’ ‘Doc’ or ‘Acher’. Sonia and I call each other ‘Wise Sage’, haha. At work, I’m the Lizard Queen (always feeling cold, lol). My friend’s two year old son calls me “Dersh”. All other names would require me posting my real name for them to make sense, but everyone at school knew me as Cain. 3) Zodiac Sign: Capricorn 4) Height: 175cm 5) Ethnicity: Caucasian (I’m from Australia!) 6) Orientation: I guess straight woman, but I’ve never been overly interested in dating *anyone*, tbh. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 7) Favourite Fruit: uuuhhHHhhhhHHH... yellow nectarine, yellow peach, fresh figs, watermelon, blood orange (normal orange is ok), blueberries? I like most fruit, but I like vegetables more. :) 8) Favourite Season: Like ‘em all, but I guess winter, so I can wear my fave coats. :3c 9) Favourite Book: Going Postal; Terry Pratchett. Aubreyad series; Patrick O’brian. Tortall books; Tamora Pierce. Riding Tycho; Jan Mark. Probs loads more, but that’ll do. 11) Favourite Scent: Hmmm, that smell right after rain. Rainforest smell. Chanel Chance. ;p 12) Favourite Colour: Like them all, but I find I’m pretty drawn to green. Also like dark reds/blues/charcoal colours. Really dislike yellow for some reason. 13) Favourite Animal(s): Hard to choose! I guess birds. They’re great. :D 14) Favourite Beverage: Water. Not being boring, I legit love water so much. 15) Hours to Sleep: Is this how long it takes me to fall asleep? Usually ages, I guess. I tend to think and think and think... sometimes it’s because it’s something I’m worried about getting done, sometimes it’s just me having lots of ideas and getting caught up in that. I keep a notepad by my bed so I can jot ideas down and that helps me sleep. :) 16) Favourite Characters: My own? ;p Nah, jk. x) Uhhh, Lord Vetinari from the Discworld books. Ianto Morgan from Riding Tycho. Numair from the Tortall books (tbh, I love pretty much every character from those books). The Drifter from Hyper Light Drifter. Garnet and Connie from SU. Count Harebourg from Wakfu/Dofus before they completely changed the character and the quest line etc (”Baaaack in my daaayy!”). All the characters from Avatar: The Last Air Bender. Also: Long John Silver (when I was a little kid, hahah. I was obsessed with pirates). I thought Qui-Gon Jinn was cool when I was a kid too. Shout out to all my friend’s rad characters! :D 17) Blanket Number: in winter, legit about 8-10. At least three will be very heavy doonas/quilts, and I’ll wear usually three layers of clothing too. I don’t live in a cold place (I live in Australia!), I am just legit always cold. I have zero ability to regulate my body temperature, hahaha. I earned the nickname of “Lizard Queen”. ;) 19) Follower Number: 515 legit blogs... it’s probably be thousands if I didn’t block all the spam blogs, hahah! (Seriously, so much spam O_O ) 20) Blog Created At: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I tag whoever reads this and wants to do it: if you do it, tag me so I can read what you write. :3

#about me #ask #tagged

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animanightmate · 2 years

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I posted 870 times in 2021

72 posts created (8%)

798 posts reblogged (92%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 11.1 posts.

I added 629 tags in 2021

#the musketeers - 95 posts

#bbc musketeers - 90 posts

#musketeers - 90 posts

#bbc the musketeers - 80 posts

#image description - 59 posts

#aramis - 47 posts

#athos - 45 posts

#porthos - 44 posts

#fanfic - 42 posts

#d'artagnan - 37 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i adore the female characters in the musketeers but they're right - it's a chore filling in their backstory and motivations as a fic writer

My Top Posts in 2021

Guards! Guards?

Ahem

Vetinari as Richelieu is so obvious that it’s probably wrong, knowing the man (men) concerned.

Thoughts? Criticisms? Additions? What do you reckon?

61 notes • Posted 2021-09-09 01:06:52 GMT

A fair few of you on my dash are posting about The Mummy (1999) at the moment, and I just want to say: bless you. With all my heart. What a perfect joyscroll.

62 notes • Posted 2021-06-29 07:08:57 GMT

You know what I'd like? More angsty, spur-of the moment roadtrips written by/ for disabled or chronically ill people, because heading off without your meds (and the consequences of that choice or accident), or having to go back for them, or organising getting them on the road? Or what happens if your mobility device or prosthesis breaks? That's a realism that a bunch of us need.

90 notes • Posted 2021-11-02 17:31:12 GMT

Apropos of Something

This is a grammatical infodump that literally nobody asked for, but I am here to talk about... how to indicate possession of the Musketeers. (Or: how one uses apostrophes for names that end in s in English.)

Right. So I’m assuming that most of you know that, to indicate possession by the (proper or otherwise) noun that precedes it, you add an ’s to the end of the word. e.g. “That is Sylvie’s father.” or “That is my father’s pamphlet.”

What most of you probably also know is that, in order to indicate the possession by a plural (proper or otherwise) noun that ends in s, you ditch the final s and just add an apostrophe. e.g. “That is the rebels’ song!” or “Look! The Spaniards’ guns have stopped firing!”

What you might not know is that this latter rule only applies to plural nouns that end in s. It does not apply to singular nouns that end in s. And, in this latter instance, you can remember the rule by how you would say the phrase out loud.

e.g. you wouldn’t say “that is James bag” but you would say “that is Jamesəs bag” (two syllables in the combination talking about James and his possession). And so, in writing, you’d use an apostrophe+s to indicate that James is the owner of the bag: “James’s bag.”

Why am I posting this under a Musketeers tag? Because of the sheer quantity of Musketeers fics I see where at least four characters’ possessions are indicated incorrectly. In other words, it's:

Athos’s wine

Porthos’s hat

Aramis’s handkerchief

Louis’s temper tantrum

So now you know. And no: my own grammar and punctuation are far from pristine, and yes: I’m definitely a subscriber to the “as long as the meaning is clear it doesn’t matter,” philosophy these days but I thought people might like to know, in case it comes up in formal writing that they need to use in future.

116 notes • Posted 2021-11-30 03:34:09 GMT

I wrote an essay about the importance of rage, kindess (as opposed to niceness), and justice as highlighted in Pratchett's work, and posted it in a group of Pratchett fans on Facebook. It went like this:

This one [is directly relevant to Pratchett and his work] and covers: Anger and Kindness, among other things.

It's taken me a while to work it out, but one of the reasons why I still engage so strongly with Pratchett's work is because of these two themes running through the thoughts and actions of pretty much every main character to whose point of view we get to bear direct witness. That, and the notion of Justice as opposed to Mercy.

Pratchett's main characters are almost all angry, often as a ground state of being - Granny Weatherwax and Commander Vimes springing immediately to mind. Polly Perks (and, to be fair, pretty much everyone except perhaps Lieutenant Blouse in Monstrous Regiment), Archchancellor Ridcully, The Patrician, Susan Sto Helit, Esk, Glenda Sugarbean, Agnes/ Perdita Nitt, Angua von Uberwald, and Tiffany Aching, to name a few more, are people to whom rage comes easily, and is a motivating force. Even those who are seen as generally more easygoing or placid of temperament have illuminating moments of anger which tip them over the edge to somewhere inspired, and that click of fully engaged rage is often a pivotal moment (for a near perfect example: Magrat's core is revealed to be sheer, molten ire when her personality is ablated by the Faerie Queen).

That's not to say that inchoate choler is venerated - the malicious, bubbling spite of Corporal Strappi is vilified as destructive, and the ever-seething, undirected bile of Mister Tulip is likewise outlined as useless because he is unable to focus it himself (hence depending on Mr. Pin's guidance).

Which brings us to kindness. Pratchett's heroes have all realised, at some level or other, that anger is a force that can - and should - be used for good. Weatherwax and Vimes, in particular, are constantly vigilant against the darkness inherent inside themselves which could snap at any moment under the weight of a wicked world and set it alight for a better one to be rebuilt from the ashes. They know that they shouldn't (it's pretty much treating people as things, after all), but that's ever constant. That's not to say, however, that the anger is never shown, utilised openly, or acknowledged by those around them. Vimes and Granny have both owed their survival against powerful, wicked creatures to rage's primal surge, but also to the enormous, almost terrifying love they bear the world.

Granny tells us that kind is not the same as nice. Nice is pretty, petty, and a lie. Nice is slapping an attractive plaster over a wound without cleaning it properly first, or dealing with the thing that caused the injury in the first place. Nice paints a gloss over injustice and asks us all to be quiet for the sake of those for whom the world works just as it should. Nice is self-delusion, and a wilful one at that. Which isn't to say that we should never indulge in a little of that - peel every cover off the world and it's too much, too raw, all at once, and we all need our masks in this world of fake it til you make it - but the Turtle cannot move if it never acknowledges the epic tides against which it must strive, and the Turtle Moves. It must.

Because justice moved Pratchett and, through him, all his finest creations. His villains were remarkable for their ability to subvert justice, to delude - themselves and/ or others - and to take and take for the sake of sometimes strange, but, all too often, all-too relatable motives. Money, power, comfort and, above all: control. And his heroes were glorious for their ability to see past the smoke and mirrors, the age-old inequities held up as a normalcy that must be protected at all costs, and tear through unjust conventions to make the necessary changes for everyone to step that bit closer to being truly free, with all its inherent terrors and responsibilities.

Pratchett wasn't nice, or whimsical - he was angry and (increasingly explicitly) vocal about justice in his works. And none of his heroes - our heroes - are either. They are kind, they serve justice, and they kick arse on behalf of those with less power, but they are neither nice, nor insipid, nor silent. And neither should we be.

Change is uncomfortable. Change feels like a death, which is why, no matter how positive the shift, we all move through the grief cycle of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance and exploration. True bravery is being afraid of the pain of righteous change, of letting go of who we were, of bidding farewell… and doing it anyway.

Be brave, [Pratchett Fans]. Be bold and angry and loud about justice, and strive for true equity.

The Turtle Moves. And so should you.

3947 notes • Posted 2021-04-27 12:12:43 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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