A/N: Whoo... here's chapter 6. It's, what, TWO days after chapter 5? I suppose I need to do some catching up to make up for 4 and 5 anyway... Besides, it won't kill me to write more.
And now, for your glance inside Grey's life... I got a Kirin black tea non-carbonated soft drink today. It's got a neato bottle and some killer Engrish. It goes like this... "Sunlight and mist turn a young leaf into tea/Tea can turn you into something new/Tea/A natural gift of love." I love Engrish. It turns me into something new.
Chapter 6
The sun set on Ankh-Morpork, signaling the end to the first day of magic-lacking insanity. The fumes rising off the Ankh turned the air myriad colours that danced in the evening breeze, occasionally leaving greasy trails on Commander Vimes window.
He was clocking up the overtime tonight.
Sybil's butler Willikins (and Vimes' as well, but he was still unused to it) had sent a boy down to tell him to come home, but the Commander had stayed in anyway. There was paperwork, more than usual, Corporal Shoe to worry about, Sergeant Angua to worry about, the normal worrying over Nobby... the list was endless. Sam Vimes kneaded the bridge of his nose. It had not been a good day.
Carrot hadn't reported in all day, aside from that morning (*chapter 1), and it was worrying the Commander to no end. Carrot normally helped him go through paperwork or sent reports every hour, whether he was down the hall or in Quirm admiring the floral clock. Captain Carrot was around, that was for sure, he always was, but the question was WHERE.
Commander Vimes looked out the window, catching the last of the multi-coloured sunset. Red... green... yellow... He grinned mirthlessly to himself and turned back to his work.
The great A'Tuin paddled through space, moving slowly and languidly like melting cream cheese on a table with one short leg. He was feeling a little better, a bit less snuffly perhaps, although he wouldn't be able to move like he normally did for a few days.
He hoped fervently that it was only a 24 lightyear flu.
Susan stared down at her real leaf tea. It was dark and steamy and smelled a bit like peppermint. She hadn't tasted it yet, but it let off waves of sweet and wet clouds of steam.
Dunce had led her no more than a small Ankh-Morpork city block through the dense jungle, waving aside heavy vines and large branches dripping with damp lichen as though they were pebbles in his path. She held a new respect for him. He was huge, nearly as big as the trolls out by Quirm, where she had gone to girls school, muscular, and yet smart enough to know that not everything ran by magic. He was a primitive savage in every way*.
There was a clearing, with nests of grass set high in the trees, a trampled area where there was a place for a cooking fire, and a hidden supply of rocks and crude weapons. Dunce had laid an enormous leaf on one of the small boulders around the fire, sat her down on it bodily, and began preparing the tea. There were cups, bowls in Susan's hands, fashioned out of some sort of soft rock. They nestled easily in Dunce's gigantic palms.
Susan let out a sigh, the steam rising from her cup swirling in her breath. She felt warm and relaxed and... dead. At the moment, she would have happily climbed into a custom-made coffin if it had a comfortable lining and perhaps a good quilt. She wondered fuzzily if she could stop time, sleep a while, and then start it again, refreshed. She would have more time to get things done.
No, she was too tired.
Susan, disregarding all the warning signals of falling asleep in the jungle with only a very very large MALE native set off, slid slowly and carefully off the rock, laying back her head on the leaf. A moment later she was fast asleep, her steadily darkening hair spread out from her head in a sunburst of slumber.
Dunce looked at her from across the clearing. "" he thought to himself, in the language his mother had taught him. ""
The Lady was irritable. She was never irritable. This was not supposed to happen. When she was in the presence of idiots she was ALWAYS cool and collected. She NEVER exploded like an old squash. Never. She shuddered and wiped her forehead. Her morphic resonance was working overtime. She had to concentrate just to keep her eyes green.
This was not supposed to be happening. She should never have left Cori Celesti.
The Lady looked up at the huddled group. She'd told them to get in a circle, but she hadn't meant an occult circle, dammit. Just... in a circular area. All together. Without miraculously dripping candles, (a good two weeks work), viles of bubbling green stuff, (most likely baking soda and vinegar, stolen from Mrs. Whitlow), and gobs and gobs of ridiculously old chalk scrabbled on the floor.
The Lady herself was an occult being, and she STILL couldn't tell what they meant.
The Librarian hummed gaily to himself. He hadn't felt this light in ages. Or as tall. It was almost an entirely new feeling, being tall. He knew what it felt like being high, yes, but that required climbing and swinging and jumping on people's heads. But being tall... ah, it was wonderful. All you had to do to be high up was STAND. It was remarkable.
But something was... missing. He slowed, cooed to himself, and stared up the walls carefully. He spent quite a while tapping one curly-toed shoe and staring about.
"Aha," the Librarian said carefully, and began walking again. This was worse than the Trousers of Time. It was the Trousers of Space.
"What's this one?" Granny Weatherwax asked carefully, prodding one of the scribbles with the toe of her enormous Lancre boot.
"That is, er, an abstract representation of, mm, er, a, um, a banana," the Dean replied miserably. "I think I may have gotten a bit carried away."
Granny Weatherwax stared up at the chalk runes on the walls. "Oh, is that so," she murmured. "How did you manage to get them on the rafters?"
Dunce grinned to himself with the sort of determined satisfaction that came from finishing a very long hard job. The fire had since been reduced to glowing embers, letting off a warm, orange glow that barely illuminated the clearing. Susan lay in one of the nests in the trees, carefully moved from the ground to her safer position.
Dunce let out a long, low whistle, and settled himself in front of the fire, setting his spear beside him. The trees around him moved without wind. Flashes of invisible nonorine lightning spun around him.
The world was the wrong colour tonight.
On the other side of the Discworld, an elderly lady was suprised out of her wits by a few slightly grotesque beings. They grinned uncertainly at her, waved, and stared about.
"Sorry, guv," the tallest of the Basement Dimension Things said apologetically, as they began to fade out of view. "Wrong dimension."
______________
*That is, he knew how to make nutritious tea out of the poisonous bark of the Bhong-Bhong tree, could fashion discarded snake-skins into servicable fish nets, and had a long and complicated history, lineage, and religion. He was not, however like some of the savages that went around dressed in breeches and coats and spoke in refined accents.
And now, for your glance inside Grey's life... I got a Kirin black tea non-carbonated soft drink today. It's got a neato bottle and some killer Engrish. It goes like this... "Sunlight and mist turn a young leaf into tea/Tea can turn you into something new/Tea/A natural gift of love." I love Engrish. It turns me into something new.
Chapter 6
The sun set on Ankh-Morpork, signaling the end to the first day of magic-lacking insanity. The fumes rising off the Ankh turned the air myriad colours that danced in the evening breeze, occasionally leaving greasy trails on Commander Vimes window.
He was clocking up the overtime tonight.
Sybil's butler Willikins (and Vimes' as well, but he was still unused to it) had sent a boy down to tell him to come home, but the Commander had stayed in anyway. There was paperwork, more than usual, Corporal Shoe to worry about, Sergeant Angua to worry about, the normal worrying over Nobby... the list was endless. Sam Vimes kneaded the bridge of his nose. It had not been a good day.
Carrot hadn't reported in all day, aside from that morning (*chapter 1), and it was worrying the Commander to no end. Carrot normally helped him go through paperwork or sent reports every hour, whether he was down the hall or in Quirm admiring the floral clock. Captain Carrot was around, that was for sure, he always was, but the question was WHERE.
Commander Vimes looked out the window, catching the last of the multi-coloured sunset. Red... green... yellow... He grinned mirthlessly to himself and turned back to his work.
The great A'Tuin paddled through space, moving slowly and languidly like melting cream cheese on a table with one short leg. He was feeling a little better, a bit less snuffly perhaps, although he wouldn't be able to move like he normally did for a few days.
He hoped fervently that it was only a 24 lightyear flu.
Susan stared down at her real leaf tea. It was dark and steamy and smelled a bit like peppermint. She hadn't tasted it yet, but it let off waves of sweet and wet clouds of steam.
Dunce had led her no more than a small Ankh-Morpork city block through the dense jungle, waving aside heavy vines and large branches dripping with damp lichen as though they were pebbles in his path. She held a new respect for him. He was huge, nearly as big as the trolls out by Quirm, where she had gone to girls school, muscular, and yet smart enough to know that not everything ran by magic. He was a primitive savage in every way*.
There was a clearing, with nests of grass set high in the trees, a trampled area where there was a place for a cooking fire, and a hidden supply of rocks and crude weapons. Dunce had laid an enormous leaf on one of the small boulders around the fire, sat her down on it bodily, and began preparing the tea. There were cups, bowls in Susan's hands, fashioned out of some sort of soft rock. They nestled easily in Dunce's gigantic palms.
Susan let out a sigh, the steam rising from her cup swirling in her breath. She felt warm and relaxed and... dead. At the moment, she would have happily climbed into a custom-made coffin if it had a comfortable lining and perhaps a good quilt. She wondered fuzzily if she could stop time, sleep a while, and then start it again, refreshed. She would have more time to get things done.
No, she was too tired.
Susan, disregarding all the warning signals of falling asleep in the jungle with only a very very large MALE native set off, slid slowly and carefully off the rock, laying back her head on the leaf. A moment later she was fast asleep, her steadily darkening hair spread out from her head in a sunburst of slumber.
Dunce looked at her from across the clearing. "" he thought to himself, in the language his mother had taught him. ""
The Lady was irritable. She was never irritable. This was not supposed to happen. When she was in the presence of idiots she was ALWAYS cool and collected. She NEVER exploded like an old squash. Never. She shuddered and wiped her forehead. Her morphic resonance was working overtime. She had to concentrate just to keep her eyes green.
This was not supposed to be happening. She should never have left Cori Celesti.
The Lady looked up at the huddled group. She'd told them to get in a circle, but she hadn't meant an occult circle, dammit. Just... in a circular area. All together. Without miraculously dripping candles, (a good two weeks work), viles of bubbling green stuff, (most likely baking soda and vinegar, stolen from Mrs. Whitlow), and gobs and gobs of ridiculously old chalk scrabbled on the floor.
The Lady herself was an occult being, and she STILL couldn't tell what they meant.
The Librarian hummed gaily to himself. He hadn't felt this light in ages. Or as tall. It was almost an entirely new feeling, being tall. He knew what it felt like being high, yes, but that required climbing and swinging and jumping on people's heads. But being tall... ah, it was wonderful. All you had to do to be high up was STAND. It was remarkable.
But something was... missing. He slowed, cooed to himself, and stared up the walls carefully. He spent quite a while tapping one curly-toed shoe and staring about.
"Aha," the Librarian said carefully, and began walking again. This was worse than the Trousers of Time. It was the Trousers of Space.
"What's this one?" Granny Weatherwax asked carefully, prodding one of the scribbles with the toe of her enormous Lancre boot.
"That is, er, an abstract representation of, mm, er, a, um, a banana," the Dean replied miserably. "I think I may have gotten a bit carried away."
Granny Weatherwax stared up at the chalk runes on the walls. "Oh, is that so," she murmured. "How did you manage to get them on the rafters?"
Dunce grinned to himself with the sort of determined satisfaction that came from finishing a very long hard job. The fire had since been reduced to glowing embers, letting off a warm, orange glow that barely illuminated the clearing. Susan lay in one of the nests in the trees, carefully moved from the ground to her safer position.
Dunce let out a long, low whistle, and settled himself in front of the fire, setting his spear beside him. The trees around him moved without wind. Flashes of invisible nonorine lightning spun around him.
The world was the wrong colour tonight.
On the other side of the Discworld, an elderly lady was suprised out of her wits by a few slightly grotesque beings. They grinned uncertainly at her, waved, and stared about.
"Sorry, guv," the tallest of the Basement Dimension Things said apologetically, as they began to fade out of view. "Wrong dimension."
______________
*That is, he knew how to make nutritious tea out of the poisonous bark of the Bhong-Bhong tree, could fashion discarded snake-skins into servicable fish nets, and had a long and complicated history, lineage, and religion. He was not, however like some of the savages that went around dressed in breeches and coats and spoke in refined accents.