Also: In my mind his whole team is Herdier, mightyena, drapion (which I didn’t want to draw so I drew it’s younger self), noctowl (because owl= morpork), rattata, and hippowdon (because of the ankh morpork crest)
Nobby: A buddy of mine saw Vetinari take his shirt off in the shower, and he said that his lordship had an eight pack; that Vetinari was shredded. Colon: What?! Your friend’s a liar, mate. Vetinari is a punk bitch. That guy looks like he weighs thirty pounds soaking wet underneath that little black dress.
The most intriguing and terrifying part of this submission is the implication that Nobby Nobbs is Vetinari in disguise.
Ridcully: I don’t want to fuck my clone because it would be gay sex and I’m not gay.
Angua:I’m not gay but I would totally fuck my clone.
Cheery Littlebottom: I’m gay but I still don’t want to fuck my clone, that’s gross and weird.
Rincewind: I don’t want to fuck my clone because my self-loathing is THAT strong.
Moist: I’d fuck my clone because who would know better how to fuck ME than ME?
Glenda: I’d totally do all sorts of weird things to my clone I’d be embarrassed to ask somebody else to do.
Sally: To be honest, fucking my clone has always been my fantasy.
Fred Colon: It’s basically the same as masturbating, right? So no big deal.
Carrot: It’s not the same as masturbating; it’d be like having sex with your twin. Wrong and bad!
Sam Vimes: I would not have sex with my clone because what if my clone is evil.
Nanny Ogg: Not only would I have sex with my clone, I’d probably make a bunch of clones and just get it on with all of them at once because that’s how pro-clone fucking I am.
Stoker Blake: A buddy of mine saw Vetinari take his shirt off in the shower, and he said that his lordship had an eight-pack; that Vetinari was shredded. Moist: What?! Your friend’s a liar, mate. Vetinari’s a punk bitch. That guy looks like he weighs thirty pounds soaking wet underneath that little black dress.
Dracula revival clashing with my Discworld brainrot is really making me revisit the sadly off-screen adventure where a recent graduate on a truly horrible ivy league frat boy eurotrip comprised entirely of assasins and an ancient evil entity help each other become the girlboss of their dreams and then stay lifelong penpals
Just consider the fact that Vetinari wears the lilac for a second.
It’s one hell of a political statement, coming from a man who is typically all about being very subtle and understated and keeping his cards close to his chest. Just consider how much of a— aha… ballsy move that is.
He’s openly stating with each passing year that he believed in the Glorious Revolution, that he believed that Lord Winder should have been assassinated, that he believed that police brutality on that scale needs to be stamped out once and for all.
That he believed, and still believes, that unfit rulers should be overthrown.
He meets with aristocrats and the “perennial waverers” as they are termed in the book with a lilac bloom pinned to his robe. He wears a symbol of the hopes and dreams of his youth, every year.
It almost reads as a throwaway statement at the end of an incredibly emotional book, but it’s far from it. There’s so much meaning in the fact that Vetinari wears the lilac and visits the little graveyard each year under the cover of darkness. Is it any wonder that he wound down a corrupt City Watch, and is so vehemently against the prospect of war and loss of life?
THE CLOWN WHO opened the little sliding door in the Fools’ Guild’s forbidding gates looked from Vetinari to Moist to Adora Belle, and wasn’t very happy about any of them. “We are here to see Dr. Whiteface,” said Vetinari. “I require you to let us in with the minimum of mirth.” The door snapped back. There was some hurried whispering and a clanking noise, and one half of the double doors opened a little way, just enough for people to walk through in single file. Moist stepped forward, but Vetinari put a restraining hand on his shoulder and pointed up with his stick. “This is the Fools’ Guild,” he said. “Expect…fun.” There was a bucket balanced on the door. He sighed, and gave it a push with his stick. There was a thud and a splash from the other side. “I don’t know why they persist in this, I really don’t,” he said, sweeping through. “It’s not funny and it could hurt someone. Mind the custard.” There was a groan from the dark behind the door.
-Making Money
this april fool’s day, JUST SAY NO to silly pranks!
“I know exactly what you never said. You refrained from saying it very loudly.” Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “I am extremely angry, Mr. Lipwig.”
“But I’ve been dropped right in it!”
“Not by me,” said Vetinari. “I can assure you that if I had, as your ill-assumed street patois has it, ‘dropped you in it,’ you would fully understand all meanings of ‘drop’ and have an unenviable knowledge of ‘it.’”
“You know what I mean!”
“Dear me, is this the real Moist von Lipwig speaking, or is it just the man looking forward to his very nearly gold chain? Topsy Lavish knew she was going and simply changed her will. I salute her for it. The staff will accept you more easily, too. And she’s done you a great favor.”
“Favor? I was shot at!”
“That was just the Assassins’ Guild dropping you a note to say they are watching you.”
“There were two shots!”
“Possibly for emphasis?” said Vetinari, sitting down on a velvet-covered chair.
““Kings and lords come and go and leave nothing but statues in a desert, while a couple of young men tinkering in a workshop change the way the world works.””
— Lord Havelock Vetinari, The Truth, Discworld book 25
One of my favourite things in Guards! Guards! is imagining Vetinari booking it from room to room in the palace in order to appear wherever Wonse goes to escape him. Just going full tilt down hidden passageways only to skid to a halt, quickly smooth himself down, take a deep breath and slip into each new room.
“‘In my experience Miss Cripslock tends to write down exactly what one says,’ Vetinari observed. ‘It’s a terrible thing when journalists do that. It spoils the fun. One feels instinctively that it’s cheating, somehow.’”
And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding-
The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humor was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.
The survival instinct cut in again. Stagger around backward, it said. So he staggered around backward, waving his legs in the air. Fall down heavily, it said. So he sat down, and almost squashed a chicken. Lose your dignity, it said; of all the things you’ve got, it’s the one you can most afford to lose.
Lord Vetinari helped him up. “Our very lives depend on your appearing to be a stupid fat idiot,” he hissed, putting Colon’s fez back on his head.
Colon tossed him the knives, slowly and gingerly. He’s going to try to stab the guards, he thought. It’s a ruse. And then everyone’s going to tear us apart.
Now the circling blur glinted in the sunlight. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.
“Yet somehow dull,” said the Patrician.
And his hands moved in a complex pattern that suggested that his wrists must have moved through one another at least twice.
The tangled ball of hurtling fruit and cutlery leapt into the air. Three melons dropped to the ground, cut cleanly in two. Three knives thudded into the dust a few inches from their owner’s sandals.
And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding-
The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humor was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.
A couple of armed men had drifted over to them. Sergeant Colon’s heart sank. In those bearded faces he saw himself and Nobby, who at home would always saunter over to anything on the street that looked interesting.
“You are jugglers, are you?” said one of them. “Let’s see you juggle, then.”
Lord Vetinari gave them a blank look and then glanced down at the tray around Al-jibla’s neck. Among the more identifiable foodstuffs were a number of green melons.
“Very well,” he said, and picked up three of them.
Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.
After a few seconds he opened them again because a guard had said, “All right, but anyone can do it with three.”
“In that case perhaps Mr. Al-jibla will throw me a few more?” said the Patrician, as the balls spun through his hands.
Sergeant Colon shut his eyes again.
After a short while a guard said, “Seven is pretty good. But it’s just melons.”
Lord Vetinari pushed him aside. “We are strolling entertainers,” he said. “We were hoping to get an engagement at the Prince’s palace… Perhaps you could help?”
The man rubbed his beard thoughtfully, causing various particles to cascade into the little bowls in his tray.
“Dunno about the palace,” he said. “What’s it you do?”
“We practice juggling, fire-eating, that sort of thing,” said Vetinari.
“Do we?” said Colon.
Al-jibla nodded at Nobby. “What does…”
“…she…” said Lord Vetinari helpfully.
“…she do?”
“Exotic dancing,” said Vetinari, while Nobby scowled.
