Author's notes: More! Whee! Although I think I may have gotten in over my head... the end of 2a suggests some actual plot. *ominous music, thunder, etc.* Which probably means a lot more chapters. Bear with me here!
Chapter 2a
Life under the bridge passed by like it always did. (Except for, of course, Gaspode ceased to speak, but the residents under the bridge didn't always notice things like this.)
"Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer. I told 'em, I told 'em, I told 'em. Bugrit. Millenium hand and shrimp. Bugrit."
"Haaaaaaawwwwwwwrrrk-ptooi."
"Whut?"
"Time for you to feed your duck."
"What duck?"
"COMMANDER VIMES!!!" Nobby caught a glance of Angua's wild eyes before she picked him up by his rumpled collar and shook him. "WHERE'S THE COMMANDER???"
"I-i-i-i-i-i-in th-th-th-th-th-the offiiiiiiiice," he stuttered out, choking on the words as his head rocked back and forth. The werewolf dropped him and ran off. Nobby straightened his helmet and shakily extracted a roll-up from behind his ear. "Yessir," he muttered, lighting up the soggy, drooping cylinder. "Gotta' lay off the Bearhuggers before goin' in. Yessir. Yessiree. And bob."
Ponder Stibbons, the Reader in Invisible Writings, melted under Granny Weatherwax's diamond gaze. "How did you get here?" he managed, clutching to his hat like a lifeline.
"By carriage," she replied in dry, withering tones. "Take me to the Archchancellor. NOW."
"Yes m'm," he choked, backing up as she strode through the doors.
Granny Weatherwax stiffened as Nanny Ogg and Agnes Nitt shuffled in behind her. "We don't want to frighten the poor dear, Esme," Nanny intoned, giving Ponder a toothless grin that was somehow more frightening than Granny's stare. He leaned back, horrified. Who on the Discworld were these terrible old women and... um... the other woman?
Agnes wound her black lace handkerchief in her fingers nervously, shooting nervous glances around her and hunching her shoulders as though she were trying to make herself disappear by pure force of will. 'Magic certainly wouldn't work,' she thought bitterly. She waited for a moment. No Perdita. "Poot," she mumbled to herself.
What most people don't understand is that Wizards and Witches are entirely different. Sure, they both use magic, sure, they're both mysterious and mainly celibate, (Gytha Ogg and Magrat of Lancre not included), but the differences they DO have are a mile wide.
Wizards depend entirely on magic for their power, using it for everything they wanted to do, from levitation to building towers to healing knotted backs. Witches, on the other hand, used balanced portions of Magic, Headology, and something uniquely Elvish that no one has ever been able to accurately describe. It's called Glamour.
"What do you mean it doesn't work?" Vimes groaned, rubbing his temples and staring at the irate Sergeant Angua in front of him.
"It doesn't work! My... thing!" she howled, bouncing a bit in her rage. "This has never happened before! Never, do you understand me? I have ALWAYS been able to turn into a wolf WHENEVER I WANTED."
Vimes stared at her for a moment. Her hair bristled and shot straight out from her scalp in a terrifying tangle of tension and fury. "Aha," he said calmly. "Phenomenon such as this one have been reported all over the city. There are Vampires celebrating in the streets because sunlight doesn't affect them anymore, Trolls have turned into lumps of high-quality stone, and our own Constable has become even more of a corpse than he already was."
Angua paled, and her hair calmed. "Not Reg?" she asked, leaning on the desk. "And all the other zombies?"
"Dead," Vimes replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Or in pieces. Mr. Slant of the Guild of Lawyers was found as a large pile of foul-smelling dust on his chair this morning."
"What does this all mean?" she mumbled, staring at him.
Vimes was silent. "It only affects magical or undead creatures and people, so by that we can assume that..." He slowed, and slumped forward. "Dammit. Another set of Clues, and Fred'll be all over this one. This time it's 'the Gods punishing the abnormal,' or 'at least it's not us, sir, if you catch my drift.'"
Angua smiled weakedly. "What's your opinion?"
"It'll blow over sooner or later," Vimes mumbled, "but until then it's not our concern. Back to work, Sergeant."
Up on Cori Celesti, surrounded by prostrate Gods and Goddesses, a Discworld map lay on a small, chess-sized table, covered by a glittering grid. A box had been knocked over, and pieces spilled across the surface. If one looked carefully at any piece, they would see a small carved version of a person, with a name written on the base. Let us take one, just for idle curiousity.
It is a woman. She has strict, light hair, pulled back into a Governess' bun, with a single black streak running through it. She is wearing a simple, slightly form-fitting dress. The name carved on the base is "Susan Sto-Helit."
On closer observation, the piece has fallen quite decidely in the middle of Klatch.
***
Loved it? Hated it? LET ME KNOW!!! Suggestions are also eternally welcome. ^-^!
Chapter 2a
Life under the bridge passed by like it always did. (Except for, of course, Gaspode ceased to speak, but the residents under the bridge didn't always notice things like this.)
"Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer. I told 'em, I told 'em, I told 'em. Bugrit. Millenium hand and shrimp. Bugrit."
"Haaaaaaawwwwwwwrrrk-ptooi."
"Whut?"
"Time for you to feed your duck."
"What duck?"
"COMMANDER VIMES!!!" Nobby caught a glance of Angua's wild eyes before she picked him up by his rumpled collar and shook him. "WHERE'S THE COMMANDER???"
"I-i-i-i-i-i-in th-th-th-th-th-the offiiiiiiiice," he stuttered out, choking on the words as his head rocked back and forth. The werewolf dropped him and ran off. Nobby straightened his helmet and shakily extracted a roll-up from behind his ear. "Yessir," he muttered, lighting up the soggy, drooping cylinder. "Gotta' lay off the Bearhuggers before goin' in. Yessir. Yessiree. And bob."
Ponder Stibbons, the Reader in Invisible Writings, melted under Granny Weatherwax's diamond gaze. "How did you get here?" he managed, clutching to his hat like a lifeline.
"By carriage," she replied in dry, withering tones. "Take me to the Archchancellor. NOW."
"Yes m'm," he choked, backing up as she strode through the doors.
Granny Weatherwax stiffened as Nanny Ogg and Agnes Nitt shuffled in behind her. "We don't want to frighten the poor dear, Esme," Nanny intoned, giving Ponder a toothless grin that was somehow more frightening than Granny's stare. He leaned back, horrified. Who on the Discworld were these terrible old women and... um... the other woman?
Agnes wound her black lace handkerchief in her fingers nervously, shooting nervous glances around her and hunching her shoulders as though she were trying to make herself disappear by pure force of will. 'Magic certainly wouldn't work,' she thought bitterly. She waited for a moment. No Perdita. "Poot," she mumbled to herself.
What most people don't understand is that Wizards and Witches are entirely different. Sure, they both use magic, sure, they're both mysterious and mainly celibate, (Gytha Ogg and Magrat of Lancre not included), but the differences they DO have are a mile wide.
Wizards depend entirely on magic for their power, using it for everything they wanted to do, from levitation to building towers to healing knotted backs. Witches, on the other hand, used balanced portions of Magic, Headology, and something uniquely Elvish that no one has ever been able to accurately describe. It's called Glamour.
"What do you mean it doesn't work?" Vimes groaned, rubbing his temples and staring at the irate Sergeant Angua in front of him.
"It doesn't work! My... thing!" she howled, bouncing a bit in her rage. "This has never happened before! Never, do you understand me? I have ALWAYS been able to turn into a wolf WHENEVER I WANTED."
Vimes stared at her for a moment. Her hair bristled and shot straight out from her scalp in a terrifying tangle of tension and fury. "Aha," he said calmly. "Phenomenon such as this one have been reported all over the city. There are Vampires celebrating in the streets because sunlight doesn't affect them anymore, Trolls have turned into lumps of high-quality stone, and our own Constable has become even more of a corpse than he already was."
Angua paled, and her hair calmed. "Not Reg?" she asked, leaning on the desk. "And all the other zombies?"
"Dead," Vimes replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Or in pieces. Mr. Slant of the Guild of Lawyers was found as a large pile of foul-smelling dust on his chair this morning."
"What does this all mean?" she mumbled, staring at him.
Vimes was silent. "It only affects magical or undead creatures and people, so by that we can assume that..." He slowed, and slumped forward. "Dammit. Another set of Clues, and Fred'll be all over this one. This time it's 'the Gods punishing the abnormal,' or 'at least it's not us, sir, if you catch my drift.'"
Angua smiled weakedly. "What's your opinion?"
"It'll blow over sooner or later," Vimes mumbled, "but until then it's not our concern. Back to work, Sergeant."
Up on Cori Celesti, surrounded by prostrate Gods and Goddesses, a Discworld map lay on a small, chess-sized table, covered by a glittering grid. A box had been knocked over, and pieces spilled across the surface. If one looked carefully at any piece, they would see a small carved version of a person, with a name written on the base. Let us take one, just for idle curiousity.
It is a woman. She has strict, light hair, pulled back into a Governess' bun, with a single black streak running through it. She is wearing a simple, slightly form-fitting dress. The name carved on the base is "Susan Sto-Helit."
On closer observation, the piece has fallen quite decidely in the middle of Klatch.
***
Loved it? Hated it? LET ME KNOW!!! Suggestions are also eternally welcome. ^-^!