A/N: Waaaah! I got Good Omens. Read it in about two hours straight. I need to read it again. Crowley is the MAN. Aziraphale is neat, as well. It was funny when anyone called him a great southern pansy. *smirk* (There was also a bit were it said people thought he was gayer than a tree full of bluebirds on nitrous oxide. I think I may have peed myself.) Right, so, back to MY story *egoboostegoboost*...
Oh. Crap. Nearly forgot. I want to apologize for Dunce. I was rushing Chapter 4 (BAD idea), was hit with a revelation, and decided to stick in someone of my own little tailor-made race. Dunce was not meant to be a racial slur (although so far no one's taken it that way), he's just... primitive. And will be a good side-kick for good ol' conservative Susan. So there. (I also hate his accent. I'm going to work on it, I promise.)
Yeah. I was out for a bit due to chronic mud. Yes, you guessed it, I took a three day trip to the Washington coast. Well, no, I tell a lie, it was Camano Island. But nearly the coast. A mile at most. Or two (or perhaps five). And there was a lot of mud and shells and mud and fish and mud and good ice cream places and mud... oh, and did I mention there was mud?
Chapter 5
The Lady's hair twisted with irritation as the entire population of the room turned to stare at her. Ridcully noticed a few strands of silver appearing in the bushel of stark black hair. One eyebrow twitched excitedly.
"Lawks," Nanny Ogg commented after a moment, passing a biscuit to Greebo, who had migrated to a position of fuzzy purring stench in her lap. "Nasty forn' diseases taking over everything. Lawks. Soon we'll have to keep our doors closed at night.*"
"Oh my," Agnes murmured.
Ponder's ears went an uncomfortable shade of pink.
"Nonorine is NoT a DiSeAsE!!!" the Lady growled, realizing too late that she may have put just a bit too much emphasis in her statement. She attempted to calm herself as her hair went steadily whiter. "It's a colour. Like octarine, only not. It's the ninth colour. Only Anthropomorphic Personifications can see it, like only Wizards and Witches can see octarine."
"That's lovely," the Dean grumbled noisily, scooping his sixth heaping spoonful of sugar into his tea. "Then why don't THEY get rid of it?"
The Lady resisted an insane urge to take the sugar spoon and ram it down the Dean's throat. "Haven't you been listening?" she rasped, a hairs breadth from screeching. "All of the magic is gone! It's gone! Poof! No more magic! Belief is magic! Anthropomorphic Personifications can't live without belief! Thus, all those lovely Gods and Goddesses and Fairies are dead! Gone! Death's world is now merely a bubble in the rubber sheet of space time! They're all dead!" She slowed, realized she had stood up, and sat down, blushing slightly.
Granny Weatherwax calmly took a sip of her tea. She hadn't said much since the problem was declared to be nonorine. "Except you," she said.
She was given several surprised stares from around the table.
The Lady suddenly felt very, very alone. "Yes. Except... me." She looked down at her hands as her hair turned completely white, except for a single black streak over her left eye.
(Just a mid-chapter author's note: Yes, I know I'm foreshadowing like an evil maniac. Thank you. I realized. Maybe I'll start wrapping this up in a year or two, who knows. *sarcasm*)
Lovely, Susan thought to herself. I'm transported to, where else, Klatch, unawares, my hair stops working, I really really need a bath, and I get stuck with... Him.
Dunce grinned at her. "You will LIKE it here," he predicted, doing a spirited rendition of Nostradamus on funny mushrooms. "Herw did you get here, anyway?"
That got her. Susan thought for a moment. "Magic," she replied mistily, waving her hands in a suitably eldritch fashion, like she would to a small child. "You know. Um... oblong forces."
Dunce gave her an odd look. "'Es," he replied, beginning to steer her gently into a direction that was, to Susan, just like every other direction. "You get a bump ern yer head, right? Cerme derwn frerm..."
"The sky," Susan put in, allowing herself to be pushed along.
"Right," he said. "Anyway, you cerme derwn frerm ther sky, hit a tree er two, wake up, think abert majik, mebbe', knerw you cerme cuza' majik, then meet Dunce." He grinned at her. "Lerjikal thinkinge."
Susan stared at him. It WAS logical, grammatical problems and confusing pronounciation aside. That was exactly how she would have thought it, if she didn't know any better. Dunce was... smart. Logical, at least. Certainly not exactly a Detritus of the Klatchian jungle.
"Quite logical," she agreed. "But not the truth." It was his turn to stare at her. "I'm not sure exactly how I got here, but I did NOT fall out of... the... sky..." Susan stopped. "Ah-HAH! I found the hole in your statement. Where did I come from if I fell out of the sky?"
A look of bemusement came over Dunce. "Therght YOU werd knerw that," he told her authoritatively, patting her on the head. "Yer mer mixed oop then I therght. Mebbe' a cuppa' tea? Calm yer nerves? Made frerm real leaves."
"That would just... make my day," she responded weakly, legs moving of their own accord. Oh yes, she thought bitterly. Tea made with REAL LEAVES. That would top of this lovely, lovely day quite nicely, thank you very much. I've never had tea made with REAL LEAVES before, my goodness. Us Sto people are ridiculously primitive. No, we drink tea made from COW SHIT.
"Frerm real leaves instead erf, say, cow shit."
"So next we go to Klatch," the Lady said carefully, her hair writhing. She adjusted her sunglasses purposefully.
"Why Klatch?" the Lecturer in Recent Runes asked warily.
"Because that's where the last living Anthropomorphic Personification is," the Lady snapped, standing up and ramming her hip into the table by accident.
"Except you," commented Ridcully, echoing Granny Weatherwax. The afore-mentioned witch gave him a very sharp look. He withered a bit.
"Right! Fine! Except me! Thank you for driving it through my head!"
"You're welcome."
"Shut up."
______________
*Lancre was an uncomplicated country, kept even simpler by the great King Verence, the great Granny Weatherwax, and the great Lancre Army (Sean Ogg) and also his knife.
Oh. Crap. Nearly forgot. I want to apologize for Dunce. I was rushing Chapter 4 (BAD idea), was hit with a revelation, and decided to stick in someone of my own little tailor-made race. Dunce was not meant to be a racial slur (although so far no one's taken it that way), he's just... primitive. And will be a good side-kick for good ol' conservative Susan. So there. (I also hate his accent. I'm going to work on it, I promise.)
Yeah. I was out for a bit due to chronic mud. Yes, you guessed it, I took a three day trip to the Washington coast. Well, no, I tell a lie, it was Camano Island. But nearly the coast. A mile at most. Or two (or perhaps five). And there was a lot of mud and shells and mud and fish and mud and good ice cream places and mud... oh, and did I mention there was mud?
Chapter 5
The Lady's hair twisted with irritation as the entire population of the room turned to stare at her. Ridcully noticed a few strands of silver appearing in the bushel of stark black hair. One eyebrow twitched excitedly.
"Lawks," Nanny Ogg commented after a moment, passing a biscuit to Greebo, who had migrated to a position of fuzzy purring stench in her lap. "Nasty forn' diseases taking over everything. Lawks. Soon we'll have to keep our doors closed at night.*"
"Oh my," Agnes murmured.
Ponder's ears went an uncomfortable shade of pink.
"Nonorine is NoT a DiSeAsE!!!" the Lady growled, realizing too late that she may have put just a bit too much emphasis in her statement. She attempted to calm herself as her hair went steadily whiter. "It's a colour. Like octarine, only not. It's the ninth colour. Only Anthropomorphic Personifications can see it, like only Wizards and Witches can see octarine."
"That's lovely," the Dean grumbled noisily, scooping his sixth heaping spoonful of sugar into his tea. "Then why don't THEY get rid of it?"
The Lady resisted an insane urge to take the sugar spoon and ram it down the Dean's throat. "Haven't you been listening?" she rasped, a hairs breadth from screeching. "All of the magic is gone! It's gone! Poof! No more magic! Belief is magic! Anthropomorphic Personifications can't live without belief! Thus, all those lovely Gods and Goddesses and Fairies are dead! Gone! Death's world is now merely a bubble in the rubber sheet of space time! They're all dead!" She slowed, realized she had stood up, and sat down, blushing slightly.
Granny Weatherwax calmly took a sip of her tea. She hadn't said much since the problem was declared to be nonorine. "Except you," she said.
She was given several surprised stares from around the table.
The Lady suddenly felt very, very alone. "Yes. Except... me." She looked down at her hands as her hair turned completely white, except for a single black streak over her left eye.
(Just a mid-chapter author's note: Yes, I know I'm foreshadowing like an evil maniac. Thank you. I realized. Maybe I'll start wrapping this up in a year or two, who knows. *sarcasm*)
Lovely, Susan thought to herself. I'm transported to, where else, Klatch, unawares, my hair stops working, I really really need a bath, and I get stuck with... Him.
Dunce grinned at her. "You will LIKE it here," he predicted, doing a spirited rendition of Nostradamus on funny mushrooms. "Herw did you get here, anyway?"
That got her. Susan thought for a moment. "Magic," she replied mistily, waving her hands in a suitably eldritch fashion, like she would to a small child. "You know. Um... oblong forces."
Dunce gave her an odd look. "'Es," he replied, beginning to steer her gently into a direction that was, to Susan, just like every other direction. "You get a bump ern yer head, right? Cerme derwn frerm..."
"The sky," Susan put in, allowing herself to be pushed along.
"Right," he said. "Anyway, you cerme derwn frerm ther sky, hit a tree er two, wake up, think abert majik, mebbe', knerw you cerme cuza' majik, then meet Dunce." He grinned at her. "Lerjikal thinkinge."
Susan stared at him. It WAS logical, grammatical problems and confusing pronounciation aside. That was exactly how she would have thought it, if she didn't know any better. Dunce was... smart. Logical, at least. Certainly not exactly a Detritus of the Klatchian jungle.
"Quite logical," she agreed. "But not the truth." It was his turn to stare at her. "I'm not sure exactly how I got here, but I did NOT fall out of... the... sky..." Susan stopped. "Ah-HAH! I found the hole in your statement. Where did I come from if I fell out of the sky?"
A look of bemusement came over Dunce. "Therght YOU werd knerw that," he told her authoritatively, patting her on the head. "Yer mer mixed oop then I therght. Mebbe' a cuppa' tea? Calm yer nerves? Made frerm real leaves."
"That would just... make my day," she responded weakly, legs moving of their own accord. Oh yes, she thought bitterly. Tea made with REAL LEAVES. That would top of this lovely, lovely day quite nicely, thank you very much. I've never had tea made with REAL LEAVES before, my goodness. Us Sto people are ridiculously primitive. No, we drink tea made from COW SHIT.
"Frerm real leaves instead erf, say, cow shit."
"So next we go to Klatch," the Lady said carefully, her hair writhing. She adjusted her sunglasses purposefully.
"Why Klatch?" the Lecturer in Recent Runes asked warily.
"Because that's where the last living Anthropomorphic Personification is," the Lady snapped, standing up and ramming her hip into the table by accident.
"Except you," commented Ridcully, echoing Granny Weatherwax. The afore-mentioned witch gave him a very sharp look. He withered a bit.
"Right! Fine! Except me! Thank you for driving it through my head!"
"You're welcome."
"Shut up."
______________
*Lancre was an uncomplicated country, kept even simpler by the great King Verence, the great Granny Weatherwax, and the great Lancre Army (Sean Ogg) and also his knife.