Not to be all confrontational but if you can read the Watch series without recognizing that Carrot (who starts out as a sixteen year old) learns as much or more from Vimes than Vimes ever does from him, your close reading needs some work.
Vimes is the reason that Carrot is not the most disturbing and terrifying force that the City has ever seen, and the best part is that he literally has zero power over Carrot that is not 100% based in moral suasion. And without that - without the things that Vimes has taught him and the ethics that Vimes brings to the table - Carrot would very, very quickly have turned into a horror-show, and the worst kind of horror-show, because his charisma and Destiny would mean that people would want to obey him.
And this was going to be a quick ranty-post but shit, here, have a huge essay instead.
Hyup. This. Vimes spends the whole series learning - or at least, having his idea of who should be included among the People whom he serves and protects challenged on a regular basis - but not from Carrot.
I’m not sure I totally agree. Carrot is fundamentally a good person. Vimes is a positive influence and a mentor, but Carrot doesn’t follow him blindly. Carrot chooses to follow Vimes because Vimes is a good role model for many things. But without Vimes Carrot wouldn’t turn into a mad king. Carrot is genuinely good and part of that is that he chooses to follow and learn from good influences. Vimes absolutely has an impact on Carrot, but let’s not downplay Carrot’s role.
There is a reason we have the saying “the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
Being “a fundamentally good person” is not actually something that exists. You can have a fundamentally well-intentioned person, but the actual “being a good person” is based on what you do. It is based not only on your intentions in your actions, but also their results, your awareness of the results, your decisions and what motivates them.
Carrot spends a huge chunk of Men At Arms being an absolute racist twit about the undead while speaking directly to Angua, a werewolf. He does it because he doesn’t know better, but absolutely no part of his “fundamentally good person”ness stops him, at any point, from literally telling a werewolf that he wishes the undead “would just go back to where they came from”, or that the undead aren’t “our kind of people”, or that he just doesn’t like them.
When he first discovers Angua is a werewolf he literally draws his weapon on her.
Carrot’s initial comments on discovering that Cheery Littlebottom is in fact Cheri Littlebottom and has decided to assert her gender is to act like she’s just shat on the carpet, and includes being horrified and offended, saying “I’ve got nothing against females, I’m pretty sure my stepmother is one” and “[other female dwarves] have the decency not to show it.”
And as noted, in Jingo he comes very close to literally going off to use his charisma to wade into the middle of wars he knows nothing about to Fix Everything, and let me tell you, if you don’t know why the White Saviour complex is a bad thing - !
And even by the point of Thud! Carrot thinks the way to solve the whole “the dwarf and troll officers are quitting” thing is to make it so dwarf and troll officers don’t have to patrol together! …..to impose racial segregation in policing. Aka “the technique best guaranteed to result in police abuse of vulnerable citizens.” Without Vimes nixing it, this would have been the view of Captain Carrot.
That would have gone GREAT, right?
Carrot is a fundamentally honest, honourable, generous and well-intentioned person.
Absolutely no part of that is going to stop him from committing or causing major evil in the world, because of his reality-warping Destiny and Charisma. Because ethics are actually more fucking complicated than that, and intentions are only necessary, not sufficient.
He would never intend to be an evil king. But that means fuck all: the combination of ignorance, self-righteousness (and Carrot DEFINITELY has that problem sometimes) and power would result in evil being the outcome.
What makes Carrot as much of an actual good person as he is?
Is that when he’s wrong about the undead, he stops acting like that. And when Angua smacks him upside the head about being an ass about Cheri, he eventually shuts up about it.
And he chose very good role models to actually imitate, including - significantly - Vimes, so when Vimes says “don’t be a fucking idiot” about going off to Save Klatch, Carrot doesn’t do it.
Carrot is absolutely an active part of that process: Carrot chose who to take as his model, Carrot chose who got to put words in his head based on what he saw as the good that Vimes did. It didn’t happen by fiat, and it didn’t happen because Vimes actively intervened: it happened because Carrot the sixteen year old looked at Vimes and SAW someone who was good and decided “I want to be like that.”
But Carrot’s choices to learn, choices to have the humility to realize when he fucked up, choices to keep trying, and his choices in deciding who he wants to be like? That’s what makes him good. And we are given in-text, specific examples of times when his “fundamental goodness” is vastly insufficient to keep him from holding horrible opinions/beliefs and working his way up to do extreme harm.
All this, plus I also can’t help but think of Gaspode’s reasoning in Fifth Element, specifically wondering if Carrot really is as straightforward and ignorant of his effect on others as they tend to think he is. With specific reference to Gavin saving Carrot from Wolfgang and getting killed in the process.
I believe that Carrot came into Ankh Morpork thinking he was or wanting to be a Good Person. Fortunately, for him this means paying attention to what that means. Unfortunately, it’s hard to see if what you’re doing is good or bad when everyone’s response to you is to just go with your flow. Enter Sam Vimes.
Not only is Vimes the way he is without direct prompting from Carrot, he was that way before Carrot came along and he’s that way when not in Carrots presence.* Further, Sam Vimes seems perhaps a bit too stubborn to be affected by Carrots Charisma very much.** More than anything this is what makes Carrot pay attention to who Vimes is as it gives him reason to think he’s doing something wrong. Now, there are other people who appear to avoid the worst of the effects of Carrots aura, but they dont appear to have the moral compass that Vimes does. Maybe Carrot decided to listen to Vimes because he felt Vimes’ compass pointed north, as it were, or maybe not. I think it’s a combination of a little bit of that and mostly the imprinting OP mentioned.
*Carrots charisma has been noted to wear off after a while (it still has lasting effects of course)
**I think pretty much the only time we see Vimes actually fall away to a direct command from Carrot is the aforementioned gonne situation and that was pretty clearly because Carrot played on Vimes’ identity as a watchman, rather than just plain charisma.
This was ringing bells to me, and I was trying to remember what I recently read that had that same kind of theme.
It starts off looking like “angry old person has lost their idealism and is trying to shit on a bright shiny youth and take away their hope”, but as time goes on it turns out that it’s actually “angry old person has actually seen enough to completely warrant being angry but despite having entirely lost their idealism has not lost their ideals but has thoroughly internalized the fact that the world is complicated and that what seems like a great solution when looked at from a simple idealistic perspective may in fact be the kind of thing that leads to exactly the things that caused them to lose their idealism and therefore is continuously telling the bright shiny youth that they need to stop charging ahead and if they can’t stop and think for a second before they do something then they should bloody well stop doing anything at all“
… it was Witches Abroad. This same dynamic plays out with Granny Weatherwax and Magrat.
There are lots of parallels between Vimes and Esme.
However, Vimes does something Esme doesn’t, which is actually bothers to teach what he knows.
This is something Esme actually gets rightfully called out on by Agnes (and to some extent Pastor Oats) in particular and which she’s aware enough by the time she’s invested in Tiffany that she very explicitly and deliberately finds Tiffany other teachers because the best that she can do is let someone hang around her and attempt to learn from example (which is itself actually quite difficult, because she deliberately lies and obfuscates about what she’s doing and why).
When Carrot starts to wax about how good things could be when there were kings, in Men At Arms, Vimes not only says HELL NO, he then spends the next several pages explaining at length and in detail WHY kings are a bad idea. It’s not necessarily the most coherent explanation, but he’s trying.
When Magrat makes noises about wishing the world good, Esme insults her and tells her she’s a stupid useless child and Magic Is Bad - and then goes on to use magic, because (as Gytha observes in that very book) Esme excludes herself from her own proclamations.
We figure out WHY that is, through Lords and Ladies, and through Maskerade and especially and above all through Carpe Jugulum: it’s because she’s always been bad at people, at liking and interacting with people, and she’s lonely, and afraid of her own power, and afraid not only that people dislike her and hold her in contempt but (and this is the worst part) that they’re RIGHT to do so, and she’s never allowed herself to rely on or connect with anybody and she doesn’t TRUST anybody to have her back.
She thinks it’s much more likely - even after all those years, even after Wyrd Sisters and how hard the other two have stuck with her, and after Lords and Ladies and the fact that Magrat ever forgave her for her (bluntly) high handed BS, even after ALL of it - that Magrat explicitly did not invite her to the naming of her daughter, than it is that maybe something just happened to the invite.
And the thing is:
I empathize with Esmerelda Weatherwax so effing hard, man. I know exactly what it feels like when you’re in that moment. When you can’t actually bring yourself just to go down there (or even to storm down there and demand where your invitation got to, what is with this? or even ASK?), despite everything, despite years, because you’re pushy and bossy and loud and abrupt and unpleasant and despite everything maybe they have all just been waiting for you to figure it out and go away, and were too scared to tell you.
As Oats observes, Esme needs someone to beat, or else she beats herself.
But the result is that Esme, whatever her sterling qualities as a witch and as a defender of the world against the shit witches defend against, and all that, is a fuck-awful teacher. And Wyrd Sisters is honestly the perfect example of that.
And the contrast of Esme’s refusal to even discuss with Magrat why the things she says are so, vs Vimes LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING BOY - ! is a good contrast to look at. And moreover I think it’s one that Esme herself would look at: I think there’s a REASON that her response to discovering Tiffany was to send Tiffany around to OTHER witches, ones who WERE better at actually, you know, engaging with people, and being an example rather than a teacher. And I think that was a good call.
Which is the other thing I love about Esme: she DOES figure that out. And it might be too late for her to radically change, but she can at least be AWARE of that and adjust around it.
Vimes had advantages that Esme lacked - Vimes was part of the Watch, which taught its members to work together, because they had to rely on each other.
Witch society discouraged cooperation, and taught its members that competition against all other witches was Just How Things Are Done.
And when Young Sam was in danger of becoming the worst sort of Watchman, Old Sam arrived and taught him what sort of Watchman he needed to be.
Esme had to learn what sort of Witch she wanted to be all on her own, without help from anyone, because back when she was Young Esme showing any sign of weakness to the other Witches would result in social ruin and the destruction of her livelihood.
When Young Sam felt the darkness begin boiling inside him, Old Sam was there to teach him how to leash it in, and to trust in others to help him do it when he needed it - and how to tell who was worthy of that sort of trust.
Esme, whether because of an inborn moral sense or just because she was so contrary that her sister choosing to become a Bad Witch meant that she had to become a Good Witch to spite her, saw no choice but to keep her darkness locked away in the deepest, most remote corners of her soul, and she had to keep everyone at arm’s distance or further because if anyone ever got too close, they might see the inmost self that she was afraid might be hers. And she couldn’t even trust herself - instead, she had to rely on an absolute certainty that everything was black and white, never grey, because grey was just a lighter and more palatable shade of black.
Yup. Which is again tied up in why I think how she handled Tiffany thru to I Shall Wear Midnight* is very indicative of the part where she realized that this entire model fucked her up.
I don’t think the process is finished, mind, as Tiffany is still a bit hyper concerned with Independence in ISWM but even so a lot of the explicit plot of that one is “guess what: try to do everything alone and you’ll LITERALLY FAIL”.
And otherwise not only is Tiffany’s generation of witches more actively, deliberately social and mutually supportive than Esme and Gytha’s, but Annagramma (who is actually the one closest to Esme in behaviour and personality, just having found Eawig as her Mentor) is the explicit benefactress of that support.
Which is to say: they actively and deliberately avoid creating another Esme (and worse, an Esme who WOULDN’T have been as good at being a good witch and so much likelier to go the way of Lily.)
I think specific bits of Maskerade (namely: Agnes calling her RIGHT OUT in SO MANY WORDS - “I’d rather be someone else’s voice than a sour old woman with no friends who’s just a bit cleverer than everyone, bullying people all the time” - right when she was in fact realizing how small her world could be) and all of Carpe Jugulum (and arguably The Sea and Little Fishes) forced Esme to actually recognize the huge, gaping flaws in how things went and not want this new, hyper-bright girl she’d just found who went off to rescue her brother from the Fairie Queen to get stuck with them. And to try to manage things so that it might go differently.
(There’s also a lot to be said about the NATURE of existing in a city, as Vimes must, vs being able to be the Old Witch Out In The Woods in a rural context: when there’s six people to one room flat, you want to get anything done you HAVE to cooperate and work in supportive groups. There’s hella downsides to that, too! But.)
(*the last book I don’t really include, because among other things it really was unfinished when Pterry died and thanks to him being contrary we can’t even quite know HOW much difference there would be between a draft at that point of completion and an actual Finished Book because he destroyed all his drafts after publication. Which is entirely a legit thing for him to do, but results in things being Opaque.)
I cannot express how incredibly happy I am that Discworld Discourse has appeared on my dash.
One thing I think is interesting about the Carrot-Vimes dynamic is that we all know Carrot can Influence almost anyone. Even the most aware individuals at best kinda know when they’re being Influenced by his magical-royal-charisma, and still find themselves going along with it anyway. But it doesn’t properly work on Vimes. Genetics on the Disc work differently to our own and Vimes, I think, inherited Old Stoneface’s mental immunity to kingship. Carrot, in all of Ankh-Morpork, found and latched on to the one man who could actually guide him.
And that’s important. He chose a good role model, and that was vital, but more than just finding someone who knew right from wrong, he found someone who could be trusted to truly have his own will. And I think it’s possible that under the layers of cheerful obfuscation, Carrot knows this. Carrot knows he can do wrong, and he knows he can Influence people, and what he needs more than anything is someone like Vimes. Because Carrot knows, eventually at least, that, unlike so many other people, if Vimes agrees with his idea it’s because Vimes is agreeing with the idea and not just agreeing withCarrot.
Crack theory time, and one that Sam Vimes would absolutely detest: He and Carrot are written in to narrative causality around the good king and his wise adviser. Carrot is clearly some sort of narrativly ordained king of the people, but what is a true and noble archetypal king without a trusted mentor and sage? The Vimeses exist a narrative counterpart and parallel lineage to the “rightful kings”.
Ankh-Morpork has always been a city of duality, two halves, two founders, why not two lines? The line of the kings of rule, who speak and are listened to, who wield the power of the king. And the line of the voices of Law to act as a counterbalance, who are ruled bythe people, and serve justice. The king rules from the top down with his voice, and the Law rules from the bottom up, as the voice of the people.
Vimes and Granny Weatherwax both exist as grumpy, bitter bastions of justice who are very clear about the fact they will never rule but they’re bloody well keeping an eye on whoever is. Both of them strive to be Good and struggle with a world that makes is hard, people who’s stupidity makes it hard, and a deep well of darkness in them both that must be overcome. But it’s from different directions for each of them.
Sam Vimes set out to be good, and knows he has failed at times but he always wanted to be good I guess? The world may have beaten him down but his internal compass naturally aims due Good, and he feels good when he achieves it. But Esme? Not so much. Esme is good in spite of her natural inclinations. She felt her sister stripped her of her agency in becoming evil because she had to be the good one. Esme isGood and, as with most things she sets her mind to, she’s good at it, if not nice, but she resents it. Deep down, she wanted to be bad, to be evil, or at the very least, she wanted the optionto at least give evil a try or to be good by choice, not duty.
And I think that’s a fundamental divider, they both have darkness inside but the things that push Vimes to it are external, while the things that pull Granny to the dark come from herself. Sam feels rewarded for overcoming the darkness to do good, but Esme just feels robbed.
Stolen from @wand_and_moonstone on Instagram, describe yourself in three witches.
1. Penny ‘Grams’ Halliwell; Charmed. Like Grams, I am fiercely protective of my family, and I’m quite knowledgeable about and proud of my craft. And, like Grams, I sometimes have have trouble keeping my confidence from turning into arrogance.
2. Wendy Beauchamp; Witches of East End. Wendy is bold, and likes to have fun with her magic, which is me to a tee. She knows what she is doing, but also knows how to adapt her craft to make it her own. We’ve been in over our heads before, but have allowed ourselves to learn from our mistakes.
3. Granny Weatherwax; Discworld. Terry Pratchett’s Granny Weatherwax is, in my not so humble opinion, the witch to end all witches, and she sets an example that I strive for. The mistress of ‘headology’, she often uses non-magical methods of helping, healing, and even cursing. Though she had incredible power at her command, she has learned over the years that the easiest and sometimes most effective solution to a problem is not always with magic. This is a lesson I’ve learned and learned often; being a witch isn’t just knowing how to use magic, but knowing when not to.
What three witches would you describe yourself with?
You just… you just know good and god damned well that Terry Pratchett either was a witch or or had a very intimate knowledge of witches. Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, Magrat Garlick, Agnes Nitt, Tiffany Aching… they are all very real characters who each practise very real brands of witchcraft.
Nanny Ogg: I said I’ve got an “acute angina”! Granny Weatherwax: DON’T BE SO DISGUSTIN’ Nanny: You’re not listenin’ to me! Granny: No, I DON’T want to HEAR IT Nanny: No, ACUTE-
“‘I don’t mind criticism,’ said Granny. ‘You know me. I’ve never been one to take offence at criticism. No-one could say I’m the sort to take offence at criticism -’
“Many people could say things in a cutting way, Nanny knew. But Granny Weatherwax could listen in a cutting way. She could make something sound stupid just by hearing it.”
— Terry Pratchett, “The Sea and Little Fishes” (A Blink of the Screen)
Granny had built a solid reputation on always knowing the answer to everything. Getting her to admit ignorance, even to herself, was an astonishing achievement. But the worm of curiosity was chewing at the apple of her mind.
Granny Weatherwax is the most character. One of the characters of all time. She knows more information than anyone else in the setting but she thinks reading is immoral.
doesn’t she also think elephants are the same as possums, but she doesn’t know what either one of those is? Or was it aardvarks?
Iirc she said an elephant was a kind of badger b/c she has no idea what an elephant is but refuses to admit ignorance
she also lies on the regular but hates theater bc it’s lies people like
The sun was well up when the three witches spiralled into the sky. They had been delayed for a while because of the intractability of Granny Weatherwax’s broomstick, the starting of which always required a great deal of galloping up and down. It never seemed to get the message until it was being shoved through the air at a frantic running speed. Dwarf engineers everywhere had confessed themselves totally mystified.
“There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.”
[…]
“You can’t go around building a better world for people. Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it’s just a cage.”
“I don’t hold with paddlin’ with the occult,’ said Granny firmly. ‘Once you start paddlin’ with the occult you start believing in spirits, and when you start believing in spirits you start believing in demons, and then before you know where you are you’re believing in gods. And then you’re in trouble.’
‘But all them things exist,’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘That’s no call to go around believing in them. It only encourages ‘em.’”
Summary: In the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork, a murder has taken place. Not especially unusual, but such a case happens to be the first for a new recruit to the City Watch; a working-class boy from the Ramtops called Ron Weasley.
(This is my first time writing for Discworld characters and my last writing for HP characters, so hopefully I haven’t messed up any characterisations too badly)
It was ingrained into humanity, a distant memory from the time where a fire in a cave was the only safe harbour from the things that lurked beyond. Things with teeth and instincts that came canine-in-canine with them.
Ankh-Morpork at night was roughly similar. Except the creatures in the dark took your wallet as well.
Summary: In the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork, a murder has taken place. Not especially unusual, but such a case happens to be the first for a new recruit to the City Watch; a working-class boy from the Ramtops called Ron Weasley.
(This is my first time writing for Discworld characters and my last writing for HP characters, so hopefully I haven’t messed up any characterisations too badly)
It was ingrained into humanity, a distant memory from the time where a fire in a cave was the only safe harbour from the things that lurked beyond. Things with teeth and instincts that came canine-in-canine with them.
Ankh-Morpork at night was roughly similar. Except the creatures in the dark took your wallet as well.
It was that sort of cold winter night that encouraged all sane people to stay inside in their bed, cosy or otherwise. The sort of night that made you feel sorry for the poor buggers working out in it.
The care-taker at the prestigious Mrs Chuttington-Warbley’s Finishing School For Young Ladies* was not one of these poor buggers. In fact, he was of the opinion that any outdoor activity should only be conducted by stout men who’d been brought up for that sort of thing.
The care-taker did have a name but, after so many years of being referred to as “caretaker” by those around him, had just decided to accept the majority vote and go by that title instead. His first name was ‘care’, his surname was ‘taker’ and his middle name was ‘dash’. Which made him rather dull company at parties.
As the new academic year was due to start within the week, the care-taker was making his usual preparations around the school. The sort of things that people only complain about if they go wrong. Staircases without wormwood. Windows that didn’t creak. And doormats that didn’t complain when you stepped on them**.
He was just about to turn in for the night, when he heard a noise from within one of the teachers offices.
The care-taker sighed, put down his broom, and trudged over to the door in question.
‘Bloody rats get everywhere,’ he muttered, opening the door. ‘Oh, sorry, Ms Smith, I heard a noise and I wondered if it were… were…’
He trailed off, noticing that Ms Smith, the new form tutor, was lying on the ground. And that a small pool of red liquid was slowly growing around her.
‘Oh, dear…’ the care-taker said, taking off his hat. ‘Oh, dear-oh-dear…’
‘How rude of them!’
The spirit of Ms Smith was glaring over at the open window, her hands on her hips. She was the sort of practical-minded person who wasn’t impressed by people making themselves out to be smarter than they actually were. And that included the person who had just ended her life.
The care-taker couldn’t see her, of course. In fact, he turned on his heel and left the room.
IN MY VIEW, RUDENESS IS ONE WAY OF READING IT.
Ms Smith turned. A large, cloaked figure was stood nearby. Very thin sort of chap. Almost skeletal, in fact.
‘It’s the principle of the matter!’ She continued, fussing with the sleeve of her cardigan***. ‘I hadn’t finished my lesson plans; how can a substitute continue without me if they don’t know what curriculum I had laid out?’
USUALLY, replied the figure, PEOPLE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT THOSE THINGS IN THESE CIRCUMSTANCES.
‘Not worry?’ Ms Smith repeated, as if offended by the very thought. ‘Well, maybe some people might, but I have my students to think about! I can’t have their education disrupted just because of a small thing like this.’
MS SMITH?
‘Yes, young man?’
ARE YOU, PERHAPS… AWARE THAT YOU ARE DEAD?
Ms Smith stared at Death.
‘Really?’
I’M AFRAID SO.
‘But I have so much to do! We have new students arriving within the week, and they’ll all need to sorted into classes and dormitories…’
Ms Smith’s form began to fade.
I’M SURE THAT WILL BE TAKEN CARE OF.
‘I really wish they’d just left it a week,’ Ms Smith continued. ‘There’s nothing I hate more than leaving without a proper goodbye.’
IF IT MAKES YOU FEEL ANY BETTER, I’M SURE YOUR STUDENTS WILL NOT BE OFFENDED.
Ms Smith smiled.
‘So… where do I go from here?’
Death couldn’t smile, but the eye sockets of his skull seem to round slightly. He reached out and took Ms Smiths’ hand.
ONWARDS.
*
* Known to its students by a variety of aliases including “the warblers”, “the finishers”, and -to a few of the more frank-minded girls- “a complete bloody waste of my time”.
** That last one was due to a rather unfortunate incident involving a travelling con-man, one very naïve housemaid and several sentient objects obtained “semi-legally” from within Unseen University. The care-taker would never forget the time he had stepped through the kitchen door, only to be told by the doormat that his left boot was smelling strongly of bird mess and would he kindly get his dirty great feet off my face-.
*** Well, technically it was the spirit of her cardigan, but it was a very good cardigan, after all.
*
For the moment, let us pan away from the sprawling streets of Ankh-Morpork (over which the sun was now dimly rising) and out over the Sto Plains, where the only things sprawling were the cabbages and their farmers who did not mind a) a strong smell of cabbages attached permanently to their person and b) having no friends.
A carriage was making steady progress down the long dirt road from the Ramtop mountains.
Or, at least, that was the case until two passengers decided that the carriage should stop by the side of the road so they could have a look around. For the seventeenth time.
‘C’mon, gel,’ replied the shorter of the two passengers in question, to a young redheaded girl sat on the seat opposite. ‘You go with Mistress Weatherwax while she looks for herbs.’
The girl let out a sigh, but followed the aforementioned Mistress Weatherwax out of the carriage.
The short lady then turned to the young man sat next to her.
‘Oh, don’t look so serious, lad!’
‘Sorry, nanny.’
She wasn’t actually his grandma, of course. Like many people in the small kingdom of Lacre and its surrounding countryside, Ron Weasley was (in some way he wasn’t sure how) related to Gytha Ogg. He had given up trying to understand the complicated familial relationships, vendettas and petty squabbles that went on within the Ogg clan. All that mattered was that Ron had far too many relatives for his own liking; all of them determined to elbow into each-others’ lives whether the person liked it or not.
Mercifully, Ron was -at most- a distant cousin of the Oggs. Somewhere on his mum’s side, through marriage, apparently. He never was much good at family history. Ron didn’t think he was good at much, to be honest. And his older twin brothers had encouraged this assessment at every opportunity.
Ron had been the odd-job man in his family for as long as he could remember (which, since he was sixteen, wasn’t that long, admittedly). He was the resident boot-maker, cook, baker, carpenter and snow-clearer.
He was also bitterly fed up with his lot.
His parents could tell. The youngest boy of seven children, Ron had always found it difficult to make his own place. To Fred and George, Ron’s place was “off the end of the bench”. Ron didn’t particularly like that place either, so he had asked his parents if he could do something that didn’t involve the jobs no-one else wanted to do at home.
Actually, Ron didn’t mind helping out. He often worked with his second-oldest brother Charlie with hauling carts up to Copperhead. Ron liked this because Charlie didn’t chuck wood chippings at his head like the twins did, and also because the dwarfs were a very straightforward sort of people.
Ron had also started to notice that, after several months of hauling carts up to the mine entrance, the twins had started to avoid chucking things at him. And that his shirts didn’t fit properly anymore.
His parents had seen that it was time for Ron to make his own way in the world, hopefully somewhere he wouldn’t be stuck with half a dozen brothers crowding his style.
So, Ron was being sent to join the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. A sensible profession, he had been told.
‘Now,’ Nanny Ogg said, grinning knowingly. ‘I heard you get a decent bit of money in the Watch. But I don’t want to hear that you’ve been spending half your pay packet over at the Guild of Seamstresses.’
‘Oh, you won’t need to worry, nanny,’ Ron replied. ‘I already know how to darn my socks.’
Nanny chuckled, although Ron wasn’t really sure why. But Ron could feel his mood improve already, which was a good sign. While he was looking forward to seeing the big city, he had also been a little nervous. After all, coming from such a small place as Lacre to city of over a million inhabitants was a big step.
Ginny, on the other hand, was not in such a good mood. She was being sent to a young ladies finishing school. Ron wasn’t entirely sure what a finishing school was, or why a place for young ladies would want Ginny, but he didn’t enquire further. He had spent most of his childhood learning from the twins that asking questions got wood chippings thrown at your head.
‘Oy, Esme!’ Nanny Ogg called out the window. ‘Let me have a talk with Ginny, will you?’
Nanny grinned again at Ron, before leaving the carriage. Ron instantly felt himself sit up straighter as Mistress Weatherwax climbed back into the carriage. Ron had a sneaking suspicion that Nanny was going to be talking to Ginny about the sort of potions that women back in Lancre only alluded to with hushed voices.
‘You packed everything you need, lad?’
‘Yes, Mistress Weatherwax,’ Ron replied, politely.
‘You aren’t going to ignore Ginerva when you’re in the Watch, are you?’
‘No, Mistress Weatherwax. She’s my sister; I’ll make sure to watch out for her.’
Like everyone in the Ramtops, Ron knew that being polite was very important to Mistress Weatherwax. It was a trait that she thought very highly of. Not for herself, but for everyone else to have, of course.
Mistress Weatherwax didn’t smile, but the sides of her mouth did raise slightly. Ron took this as a good sign.
‘I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I was a gel,’ Mistress Weatherwax said. ‘I’m sure Ginerva will too; she’s a bright one.’
Ron nodded.
He hadn’t been expecting for Mistress Weatherwax to give him any advice, but he did wonder whether what she had said was more for his benefit. After all, he knew that he didn’t want to do anything that his brothers had done. Or claimed not to have done, in the twins case.
‘C’mon,’ Nanny Ogg said, as she and Ginny climbed back into the coach. ‘Time to get going, driver!’
To the audible relief of the other passengers, the coach pulled away.
*
Ankh-Morpork was a sign for sore eyes. And sore ears too. Generally speaking, it was a place for soreness.
The city seemed to grip the surrounding area like a limpet. Ron had imagined wide towers and walls, elegant avenues made of marble. But Ankh-Morpork looked more like what a city spat out. Houses awkwardly cobbled together in a slapdash fashion, streets that seems to cling to the earth beneath like a limpet. A city that looked like it was constantly on guard, just in case someone tried to tell it that it was loitering.
The city seemed to thrive in the outdoors. On every street, people were jostling for position, as well as carts, animals and goodness-knew-what-else. And the smell…
Ginny gagged slightly.
‘Winds in the wrong direction,’ Nanny said, cheerfully. ‘That’s the river for you.’
Ron nodded, patting Ginny softly on the shoulder. She smiled queasily at him.
Eventually, the coach stopped and the two Weasleys followed their guides out of the coach and into a bustling open area. A dirty sign nearby labelled the place as ‘Sator Square’. Ron was already feeling wary, as if someone would make a ploy for his wallet at any moment. Which, given that he hadn’t paid the Thieves Guild rate for that financial year, was very accurate.
About ten minutes later, they managed to break through the crowds and crossed the Bridge of Size, passing across the river (Ginny and Ron making sure to breath only through their mouths and, when that failed, their ears) and into the more respectable Rimward side of the river. Ron really wasn’t sure what made it more respectable, but at least the air didn’t smell so bad.
The four of them headed across Hen and Chicken Field and into a smaller road, eventually coming to a stop outside a large gated building. Sure enough, a well-polished sign on the wall indicated this to be Mrs Chuttington-Warbley’s Finishing School For Young Ladies. A few girls of Ginny’s age were leaning out of windows and eyeing the younger redhead with slightly wary expressions.
‘Bye, Gin,’ Ron said, turning to his sister. ‘I’ll come and see you after my shift finishes tomorrow.’
Ginny smiled. She didn’t hug him, but Ron hadn’t expected her to. He knew she wanted to appear confident and cool in front of any other students that might be watching.
‘Thanks, Ron; see you later, then.’
Ron nodded, and waved as she walked in with Nanny Ogg, who had the letter written by Mrs Weasley addressed to the headmistress.
Feeling as awkward as he always did around Mistress Weatherwax, Ron stood in the road. Mistress Weatherwax didn’t say anything, but muttered something under her breath about ‘city people’.
A few minutes later, Nanny reappeared, grinning.
‘All settled in,’ she said, slapping Ron cheerfully on the arm. ‘C’mon, lad; let’s get you over to the Watch.’
Ron nodded, swallowing nervously.
He followed the two witches down a large avenue, passing several huge mansions and houses of the rich. There were less people here, and Ron got the distinct impression that, if he was ever caught here alone, he would have been asked to move along by some indignant butler*.
Eventually, this avenue ended and the two witches (for whom everyone dodged out of the way, including many who seemed surprised at having done so) veered left onto a large road that stretched back towards the river. Looking behind him, Ron could see that the road stretched all the way to the city wall in the far distance. Judging from the various cartloads of onions clattering along beside him, the road eventually led to Quirm**.
About ten minutes later, the witches and Ron emerged into another huge square, this one having the centrepiece of the Ankh-Morpork Opera House. Skirting around the impressive structure (albeit one which seemed to be missing parts of its roof), the two witches led Ron over to a building nearby. It wasn’t nearly as imposing, but it had a distinct earthiness to it. Like it had more important things to worry about than grandness.
“Watch House”
Ron swallowed, clutching the strap of his small satchel.
‘That’s the Watch house, lad,’ Nanny said, patting Ron cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘In you go.’
‘Oh, right…er…’ Ron said, turning to the two witches. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ogg and Mistress Weatherwax. For bringing me and Ginny down to the city. I really appreciate it.’
Mistress Weatherwax didn’t smile but nodded in reply. Nanny grinned, showing why Lacre was not known for its large index of dentists.
‘You’ll do fine, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’
Ron smiled, before turning and entering the Watch House.
He was immediately met by a mass of noise. Everywhere he looked, people were yelling and running back and forth. Representatives of every race on the Disc seemed to be represented, none in a “we are all together” way but instead in more of a “when does our bloody shift finish” situation.
Ron approached a set of desks. A dwarf was sat behind the moth-eaten wood, looking very bored as an irate vampire tried to submit a complaint.
‘I tell you, it’s a disvase,’ the vampire said, hotly. ‘Anyone vould think the place didn’t vant a vampire vorking there. I can work verever I vont!’
‘Yes,’ replied the dwarf. ‘But at Stronginthearm’s Garlic Wholesalers?’
‘That’s discrimination!’
‘What can I do you for, lad?’
Ron jumped slightly. The sergeant sat behind the desk next to the dwarf had a large red face and kind, albeit somewhat dim, eyes that stared over at the young redhead.
‘Er… Acting Constable Weasley,’ Ron said, quickly throwing up a salute. ‘Reporting for duty, sir!’
‘Ah, you’d be that lad down from the mountains,’ the sergeant replied, realisation dawning on his face. ‘Lacre, yes?’
‘Yessir!’
‘Okay… er-’
‘I’ll field this one, Fred.’
A captain had appeared behind the desk. He was enormously tall, and about as wide across the shoulders. He had short red hair and was wearing armour that Ron could see himself reflected in. Ron knew exactly who this was; he was a living legend back in the Ramtops.
‘Okay, Captain Carrot.’
Ron saluted again, feeling just as awkward as he had done the first time.
‘That’s alright, Acting Constable,’ Captain Carrot said, walking round the desk. ‘Please follow me this way for your orientation.’
Ron hurried after him up a staircase and into a room.
‘Tell me,’ the captain said, brightly as he gestured Ron towards a seat and taking the other. ‘How is shaft nine coming along in Copperhead?’
‘Er… I think they’ve almost completed it,’ Ron said, putting his satchel down next to him. ‘My brother Charlie was helping them with the final preparations earlier this week.’
‘Carrot, stop asking him about home.’
Ron felt the temperature of the room drop suddenly. A woman had entered through the door. She was short, with long blonde hair. He knew instinctively that this sergeant was not someone to be trifled with.
Ron swallowed, and stood up again, before saluting.
‘Constable, this is Sergeant Angua,’ Captain Carrot said, smiling.
‘Sergeant Angua is a werewolf, yeah?’
There was silence in the room for a second.
Ron felt a shiver go up his spine as Sergeant Angua turned to look at him. Bollocks. Why couldn’t he have kept his big mouth shut?
However, at that moment, Carrot leaned forward.
‘Care to explain how you noticed, Acting Constable?’
‘Er…’ Ron said, feeling very awkward. He had never felt all that comfortable talking about his thoughts. Generally because the twins usually made sure he felt uncomfortable after doing so. ‘The collar she wears; it’s a type of leather that can expand and retract easily under pressure without breaking, isn’t it? Perfect for having to change between forms on short notice.’
Angua stared at him.
‘Yes…’ she said. ‘That’s right. You’re very perceptive, constable.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Er… sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude.’
Carrot stared down at a piece of note paper that he had pulled from somewhere.
‘You say you’ve got experience with herbs?’
‘Er, yeah,’ Ron said, still feeling Sergeant Angua’s steely gaze on him. ‘I used to help Mistress Weatherwax with collecting things around the countryside.’
Carrot looked up and smiled at him.
‘In that case, I think our forensic division could use you very well. Report to Forensics, and ask for Cheery Littlebottom.’
‘Forensics is a couple of floors up,’ Angua continued. ‘In the old privy.’
Ron awkwardly saluted. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to doing this whenever he had to leave a room.
*
*This is what is often referred to a “class memory”. It doesn’t have much to do with class, although the people clamouring to use the whips often like to believe themselves to be men of it.
**Ankh-Morpork does use onions in many recipes, but all of them are labelled as “foreign food”, being just foreign enough for the rich to enjoy.
*
Ron headed up the rickety stairs, until he eventually began to smell something like an old latrine mixed with chemicals. He followed the corridor along, and slowed to a stop before a door labelled ‘Privy’. He was just about to knock when the door swung open.
‘GET DOWN!’
Ron got a brief flash of a bearded face, before he crashed backwards onto the floor. There was a colossal explosion.
Ron waited for the ringing in his ears to fade, before reopening his eyes.
There was now a dwarf lying on his chest.
‘Er…’ Ron said, saluting. ‘Acting Constable Weasley, reporting.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said the dwarf, before climbing off Ron and helping him to his feet. ‘Experiment went a bit wrong.’
‘No problem,’ Ron replied, as they headed back inside the room. Which did indeed appear to be an out-of-order toilet. ‘Er… are you… Cheery Littlebottom?’
‘That’s me!’ Cheery said, grinning. Ron was suddenly aware that the dwarf was wearing lipstick and eyeliner. ‘I take it you’re the new recruit? I’m not bothered by the title, so you can just call me Cheery, if that’s okay with you?’
Cute.
Ron felt his cheeks flush.
‘S-sure,’ he said.
‘Now, I’m sure Captain Carrot’s explained a few things,’ Cheery said, not seeming to realise Ron’s flustered expression. She pulled a tube of paper out of a pocket on her belt. ‘Used to dealing with herbs in the mountains, by the sounds of it. That’s why you’ve been put with me. Just between us, I’ve never had to manage anyone before; forensics isn’t something most Watchmen know much about.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Ron said.
Cheery smiled, patting him on the arm. Ron felt goosebumps raise up his arm.
‘So, how’s Copperhead doing nowadays?’ Cheery asked, climbing up and onto a rickety stool nearby. ‘I imagine you probably got grilled by Carrot about it; he’s always enquiring after news of the old place.’
‘Y-yeah,’ Ron replied, sitting down next to Cheery. ‘He’s a bit of a legend back home; we’re pretty caught up with what happens in Ankh-Morpork.’
‘I take it that’s why you didn’t say anything about me being a woman?’
Ron felt his face turn red. Copperhead dwarfs were generally a lot more progressive than some of their contemporaries over in Uberwald, but… well, Charlie had said that the subject of dwarf gender was something of a private matter still.
‘I… I don’t mind!’ he said, quickly. ‘Really! I think it’s brilliant!’
Thelast thing he wanted was his commanding officer seeing him as some backwards idiot from the countryside. Gender was something Ron had never really understood anyway, so who was he to say what was correct and what wasn’t? This was the century of the anchovy, after all. Or would be, once the astronomers had finally agreed.
‘That’s lovely of you to say; I appreciate it,’ Cheery replied, smiling. ‘Now, new recruits are scheduled to do patrols a few times a week during their orientation period. Get your bags unpacked in the dormitories upstairs and then head over to Uniforms; you need to receive your armour and helmet. I’ve got a few things to finish up here, but I’ll meet you downstairs in the main reception in twenty minutes ’
Ron nodded, before saluting and leaving.
There wasn’t anyone in the dormitory, but he found a bunk with ‘Weezely’ engraved above it*.
Ron packed his scant possessions (a change of clothes and a nightshirt) under the bed and headed downstairs to Uniforms. Mercifully, they had one in his size. It wasn’t very well polished and smelled vaguely of radishes, but Ron didn’t complain. Anything was better than wearing Percy’s old trousers.
Ron was just heading down to the main reception when he rounded a corner and walked straight into someone. Who promptly crashed to the floor.
‘Ow. Lad, you mind watching where you’re going?’
‘S-sorry!’ Ron exclaimed, hurrying forward and helping the man to his feet. He was short, with the bearing of someone who had previously had an awful diet but had finally started eating properly. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine, lad,’ said the man, wearily. ‘You new here, then?’
‘Er, yes,’ Ron said, before hurriedly saluting. ‘Acting Constable Weasley, sir!’
‘No need to salute,’ said the man, waving his hand. ‘I’m not a lord. You need to go on patrol, I take it? C’mon, I could do with a walk.’
‘But Cheery said-’
‘I’ll leave a note for her,’ said the sergeant, already writing a note and sending it into the pneumatic tubes that seemed to be used as a form of messaging within the Watch House. ‘Don’t worry, lad; I’ll show you the ropes.’
Ron followed the old sergeant out of the Watch house and into the sprawling city streets. Coming from the Ramtops, Ron still felt very shocked by the sights and sounds (not to mention smells) of a city that over a million inhabitants called “home”**.
They crossed Bronze Bridge and into Sheer Street, on the hubwards side of the river. This unfortunately meant that the air smelt of the river, but Ron was already finding that he was growing used to it.
‘No gagging, then?’
Ron shrugged.
‘And before your first day in the city is even finished?’ The old sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nice going.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Gotta learn to read the streets, son,’ said the sergeant, now lighting a horrible-smelling cigar and taking a deep draw on it. ‘It’s a dirty old slagheap, but we’re here to keep the peace.’
Ron nodded.
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘That’s all any of us can do, lad. Well, that and learn to use your elbow in a fight.’
Ron nodded again.
‘Not a talkative one, are you.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Where you from, lad?’
‘Lacre, sir.’
‘Huh,’ replied the sergeant. ‘That kingdom in the Ramtops you can spit across?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t worry; Captain Carrot comes from those parts too. Funnily enough, you even look a bit like him.’
Ron nodded, not sure what to say.
As they continued through the streets, Ron became aware that many of the passers-by seemed to recognise the old sergeant, and a few even darted away from him as he passed. Must be a proper old Watchman, then.
‘Is… is Commander Vimes tough?’ Ron asked, hesitantly as the two of them slowed to a stop to stare out over the river. ‘To work for, I mean?’
The sergeant stared at Ron, drawing on his cigar in apparent thought.
‘Hmmm. Yeah, I guess he is, a bit. Mind, between you and me, he’s a bit of a miserable old bastard. But you’ll do fine. You’ve just got to get some experience under your belt.’
‘Thank you. I… I just don’t want to let everyone down.’
The sergeant smiled at him. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful smile, but Ron could tell the sentiment was positive.
‘Excuse me?’ came a voice from somewhere near Ron’s right elbow. He turned.
A girl was glaring up at him. She was roughly Ron’s age, and about half his height, with an enormous mane of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth.
‘I’m very sorry, Miss…er…’
‘Granger,’ said the girl, quickly. ‘Listen, the Dwarf Bread Museum has been closed for most of the past two weeks; how am I supposed to organise an educational excursion if it never seems to be open anymore?’
Ron stared behind her. Sure enough, a sign labelled “Dwarf Bread Museum” pointed to a small, slightly musty looking building.
‘Miss Granger,’ Ron said, sighing. ‘Have you tried sending a Clacks to Captain Carrot? I believe he often looks after the place on his days off. I’m sure he’d been thrilled to help organise this excursion with you.’
‘I…’ Miss Granger replied, her mouth opening and shutting. ‘I… I didn’t think of that.’
‘Well, there you go.’
The bushy-haired young woman smiled, apologetically.
‘My apologies, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m a student teacher and I need this exertion to be a success.’
‘No problem,’ Ron said, tapping the side of his helmet and feeling immensely glad that Charlie had once mentioned that fact about Captain Carrot. ‘Happy to help.’
‘Thank you, Constable… er…’
‘Weasley.’
The girl smiled shyly up at him.
‘Constable Weasley, then. Thank you very much.’
‘It’s what I’m here for, Miss Granger.’
The young woman smiled once more and walked away. Ron felt strangely cheerful all of a sudden.
He turned back, to find the old sergeant giving him a very knowing look. This particular look could have held multiple degrees and at least twelve school leaving certificates.
‘What?’ Ron said, his ears turning pink.
The old sergeant grinned.
‘Nothing, just admiring how well you diffused that situation. You really are sure this is your first day?’
‘Er, yeah-’
‘Unlicensed thief!’
The cry had come from just across the street, where a woman was pointing towards a figure who was darting into an alley, holding a handbag that was clearly not their own.
‘Sidney Pickens!’ Exclaimed the Sergeant, throwing the remainder of his cigar into the river***. ‘You get back here right now!’
The sergeant sprinted off after the thief, putting on a burst of speed that wouldn’t have seemed natural coming from a man his age. Ron was just about to follow, when a hand patted him on the arm.
It was Cheery.
‘I see you’ve met Commander Vimes,’ she said, smiling up at Ron. ‘He’s alright. Bit weird but alright. Don’t worry; he’ll catch up with Pickens. C’mon; we’ve had a clacks come through, we’re needed over in Hen and Chickens Field-Ron? Ron, whatever’s the matter?’
Ron’s mouth had fallen open. He was now staring in horror after where the older Watchman had sprinted off.
‘You’re telling me that was… Commander Sir Samuel Vimes?’
It was his first day and he’d already let slip all his worries about joining the Watch to the leader of the entire bloody organisation. Oh, he was never going to live this down…
*
* Captain Carrot’s doing. Although a very good captain and able to recognise every resident of Ankh-Morpork by name and tax details, the finer points of spelling had always eluded him.
** Actually, most of them referred to it as “a stinking heap”, but it meant the same thing in the end.
*** For any environmentally-minded readers, please rest assured that the river suffered no ill-effects from this. While the cigar did eventually sink through the yellow crust covering the river Ankh, it was quickly dissolved by the lifeless miasma of grease, silt and faeces below.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks for reading, everyone! If you enjoyed it, please like, reblog and comment. If you want to be added to the tag list, please let me know.
Summary: In the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork, a murder has taken place. Not especially unusual, but such a case happens to be the first for a new recruit to the City Watch; a working-class boy from the Ramtops called Ron Weasley.
(This is my first time writing for Discworld characters and my last writing for HP characters, so hopefully I haven’t messed up any characterisations too badly)
It was ingrained into humanity, a distant memory from the time where a fire in a cave was the only safe harbour from the things that lurked beyond. Things with teeth and instincts that came canine-in-canine with them.
Ankh-Morpork at night was roughly similar. Except the creatures in the dark took your wallet as well.
Granny stared at him. She hadn’t faced anything like this before. The man was clearly mad, but at the heart of this madness was a dreadful cold sanity, a core of pure interstellar ice in the center of the furnace. She’d thought him weak under a thin shell of strength, but it went a lot further than that. Somewhere deep inside his mind, somewhere beyond the event horizon of rationality, the sheer pressure of insanity had hammered his madness into something harder than diamond.
Most people, on waking up, accelerate through a quick panicky pre-consciousness check-up: who am I, where am I, who is he/she, good god, why am I cuddling a policeman’s helmet, what happened last night?
And this is because people are riddled by Doubt. It is the engine that drives them through their lives. It is the elastic band in the little model airplane of their soul, and they spend their time winding it up until it knots. Early morning is the worst time–there’s that little moment of panic in case You have drifted away in the night and something else has moved in. This never happened to Granny Weatherwax. She went straight from fast asleep to instant operation on all six cylinders. She never needed to find herself because she always knew who was doing the looking.
“It’s the version my grandmother taught me,” said Oats.
“She was keen on crushing infidels?”
“Well, mainly I think she was in favor of crushing Mrs. Ahrim next door, but you’ve got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting.”
“Prob'ly true.”
“Not as much smiting and crushing as she’dlike, though, I think,” said Oats. “A bit judgmental, my grandmother.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human.”
“We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,” said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone.
“Bein’ human means judgin’ all the time,” said the voice behind him. “This and that, good and bad, making choices every day…that’s human.”
“And are you so sure you make the right decisions?”
“No. But I do the best I can.”
“And hope for mercy, eh?”
The bony finger prodded him in the back.
“Mercy’s a fine thing, but judgin’ comes first. Otherwise you don’t know what you’re bein’ merciful about.”
Magrat whirled away in the buffeting wind, clinging tightly to a broomstick which now, she feared, had about as much buoyancy as a bit of firewood. It certainly wasn’t capable of sustaining a full-grown woman against the beckoning fingers of gravity.
As she plunged down toward the forest roof in a long shallow dive she reflected that there was possibly something complimentary in the way Granny Weatherwax resolutely refused to consider other people’s problems. It implied that, in her considerable opinion, they were quite capable of sorting them out by themselves.
[id: fromCarpe Jugulum - “Oats was having some difficulty with his temper. He’d carried the old bit- biddy for miles, he was frozen to the bone, and now they were here she acted as if she’d somehow done him a favour.” fromTwoby Sleeping at Last - “A great honor to hold you up / Like a force to be reckoned with”. This artworkby@alda-rana of Granny and Oats sitting in front of Oats’ fire in the woods, combined with lyrics from Age of Kings by The Mountain Goats - “Felt like God’s annointed when you didn’t push me away”. end id]
My re-listen of the Discworld series in order of publication has yielded some art. Wyrd Sisters is when the trio witches start and I love them. Can’t wait for all the next books. It just keeps getting better!
@discworld-headcanons - When I saw the name of your blog this image popped into my head. It’s based on something @neil-gaiman said about the real ending TP wanted for The Shepherd’s Crown. Since my imagination and my drawing skills are not even remotely in line, I used free clipart to put it together (sincerest apologies to the artists!), so if anyone with the necessary skills wants to do a version of it, I would be forever grateful.
i keep trying to reread wyrd sisters but i can’t get further than this cause every time i see it i have to turn my phone off and close my eyes for twenty minutes…..this is SO funny. you just know there’s a little recipe book in goodie maysherestinpeace whemper’s old cottage with an entry that says RECIPE FOR HOT LEAD BONES: step one you get some lead step two you put it in their bones
[id: “Witches just aren’t like that,” said Magrat. “We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do no harm to anyone, and it’s wicked of them to say we don’t. We ought to fill their bones with hot lead.”
The other two looked at her with a certain amount of surprised admiration. She blushed, although not greenly, and looked at her knees.
“Goodie Whemper did a recipe,” she confessed. “It’s quite easy. What you do is, you get some lead, and you-” / end id]
![ayries:[James’ top ten Discworld characters.] #4: Esme Weatherwax. “There’s no grays, only white t](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcmjuea7vX1rxbm65o1_500.png "ayries:[James’ top ten Discworld characters.] #4: Esme Weatherwax. “There’s no grays, only white t")
![ayries:[James’ top ten Discworld characters.] #4: Esme Weatherwax. “There’s no grays, only white t](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcmjuea7vX1rxbm65o2_500.png "ayries:[James’ top ten Discworld characters.] #4: Esme Weatherwax. “There’s no grays, only white t")
