Damn, for a copy of Men at Arms, or Guards! Guards! To reference his spelling.

..........

Deareste Mum and Dad,

I am quite well and, the weather here continues fine. I hope you will be happy to hear, that the Patrisian has spoken well of me. Comander Vimes told me that he said "I see he has not lost any of his spirrit," this is in regards to a small incident of the troll gangs. Do notte worry no one was hurt very badly. Except for three trolls but Detritus says that was an axident. How is Lode 14 holding out? Did you find higher grade ore in the vein under the shale? I have found on, the Street of Cuning Artifisers a smith from Uberwald. He has good wares and I will buy you both new pickaxes for when I come to visit. Miss you and hope everyones helth is strong, ask Aunt Bonny if her back still ailes her.

Love From Your Son,

Carrot

PS: I have asked Angua to marry me but, she needed time so I will let you know how it goes.

Love Again,

Carrot

.........

Man often fails to understand the power of myth. At the heart of every myth, every legend, is a small kernel of truth. Often that truth may not be palatable. So it is covered like a pearl, in shiny coats of lies, until it becomes smooth enough to the mind.

And after a while, the myth creates its own truth.

Belief is a strong power. Belief on the Disc, where the presence of raw magic makes the dawn ooze like lemon jelly, is even stronger.

Most believe that Death's kingdom is impregnable.

There is a myth which says that's wrong.

True, the myth did not say the attempt was successful.

But it did say that it might have been.

Somewhere, a shape slipped away, breathless with success and glee. He rubbed callused fingers in a habitual gesture, and where his fingers met there was a dry, gritty substance between them. He raised it to his eyes and examined it with a detached curiosity, then with one deep breath blew it off. His smile was the kind you see on the face of a child who goes around frying ants with the magnifying glass you bought him for Christmas. And on silent wings he flew back, eager to see the damage he'd done.

* Experience has shown that many of the gods are near-sighted, and are usually too busy fighting amongst themselves (and the Ice Giants) to pay mere mortals much attention. For which mortals should be profoundly grateful. ...............

"Master, what's wrong?" Albert panted as he sprinted* after the receding Death. Death never seemed to move any faster than a walk, and yet could close distances in a way that made your eyes water. It had something to do with the way he shifted the ground underneath him, Albert decided.

He sometimes thought, especially when his joints acted up, how nice it would be to be able to walk through walls and manipulate matter freely. It was one thing to know that the restrictions of the material world were not absolute, and another not to give a hoot about them. It wasn't so much a question of learning the trick as it was of unlearning the thoughts that stopped you from doing it.

Most humans are brought up knowing that they cannot walk through walls.

So it was what passed for a minute or two before he found himself in the hallway, just short of the open door. Death was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the sibilant sound of millions of grains of sand falling softly on billions of others. His back was to Albert, but something about the posture, perhaps the way he gripped the scythe, caused Albert to stop in the doorway.

WE HAVE HAD AN INTRUDER.

"What?!" He gaped like a bird out of the air.** "But that's impossible!"

NO. IT IS NOT. THERE ARE WAYS FOR EVEN MORTALS TO STUMBLE INTO THIS PLACE. THIS, YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW. AND THE ONE WHO CAME HERE WAS NOT A MORTAL.

Suddenly, the susurration of sand seemed a lot less soothing. He rubbed his knuckles slowly and thought of his nineteen seconds, the way a traveler in the desert thinks of the last ounce in his flask. "How do you know?"

Slowly, the black cowl turned to face him. A long black sleeve unfolded, and sitting on the bones of Death's hand was a small, gold hourglass.

It was leaking.

* Or rather, hobbled somewhat quickly. At his time of life (hundreds of years after the beginning and just nineteen seconds away from the end) he found that going slow got him there just the same, and less painfully. In the House of Death there was always enough time. There, Time stopped and stretched.

** The Yawning Bird of the Zubian Desert hunts its prey by lying down on the hot sands until something small and stupid enough wanders into its mouth. Hence the expression.

.........

Angua often wondered how humans could stand to be in one shape all the time. Sometimes she wondered how humans could stand to be humans at all. It wasn't just the blindness that came with not being able to smell, or the frustration of not being able to run with the proper number of legs. It was the horrible complexity of the mind that got to her.

Nor did complexity necessary equal intelligence. As far as she could see, humans did more stupid things than any other species she'd seen * They just did them for more complicated reasons.

All in all, it was an immense relief to be able to shed her superior mind (and her breastplate) now and then and reduce herself to a set of instincts with a good nose.

Unfortunately, some of those instincts had been bred in the days when Man huddled in circles around fires with their backs to the dark. One of her ancestors had stepped into that firelight and accepted a contract to protect what it stood for. That step had left a stamp in her genetic code, like footprints in wet cement.

It meant that there was One whom you could never bite, could never betray.

So even now, running faster than any man could run through the moonlit fields of Sto Helit, she wasn't free.

Finally, on the edge of the rustling darkness that marked the end of the plains and the beginning of the woods, she came to a stop, tongue hanging over her teeth as she panted in great gulps. The sound was ragged in the night. It was easier not to think when you had to concentrate on filling your lungs with air. How far had she come? The woods beckoned her with its quiet pulse of life, the insect noises and pine needles underfoot. She didn't belong in the city.

But he did. And in a way, the city belonged to him.

She sat on her haunches and sniffed. Yes, to the north there was the damp, earthy scent of running water. Loping towards it, she suddenly felt a strange prickling between her shoulder blades that ran lightly down her spine, the way a poisonous spider runs over your skin. It was barely there and yet left her shuddering with revulsion. Her hackles rose and she went on alert, looking for what had tripped the alarm wire of her subconscious.

The trees stood demurely in the windless hush. Not so much as a patch of moonlight flickered.

And then she knew, the way her ancestor had known when a tiger was on the prowl for two-legged prey.

It had taken her half the night to run from the City Gates to where she was.

It took her only two hours to get back, but they felt like two years.

* She'd never seen the Cliff-Leaping Rats of Quirm. Few people had, since there were few of them left.

Hooo, boy, I can feel that this is going to be a whopper of a fanfic. The problem with monumental endeavors is that you tend to give up on them. I've got a good feel for where this is heading. Now if I can just get there..