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Dec. 15th, 2003 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnySo it would appear that the consensus is that I should get rid of my seekrit journal and post my rubbish here. Thing is, none of it's finished, as yet. And much of it is of questionable quality. And there are some *seriously* dubious crossovers. (Due South/Discworld? The hell was I thinking?). So I'll see what I can salvage. *g* In the meantime, here's a tiny snippet of a gen Discfic I was working on.
Tuesday
Ridcully was sitting behind his desk.
It was generally assumed that he didn’t own a desk- there was a large pool table in the middle of the room which essentially served the same purpose; as repository for all timetables, notices, letters, schedules and other paperwork that the Archchancellor’s office naturally accumulates. Towering stacks of paper that littered the floor attested to his tendency to clear the table every now and again to have a go at the more fiendishly difficult of trick shots, the kind that only a wizard should ever attempt. The piles had the added advantage of forming something of an obstacle course across the office floor, which very few people ever bothered to brave. In some of the larger stacks, students swore, you could hear things move.
Tucked away at the back of the office however, directly under a large window,* there was a small writing desk where the Archchancellor attended to his Correspondence. This would have been something of a surprise to those people in Ankh Morpork that wrote to him with various queries, requests, complaints and bills… It was easier to get blood from a golem than to get a written reply from Mustrum Ridcully, and in the long run far less painful. But he wrote, every now and again, to his mother in the Ramtops, assuring her that he was well and remembering to wash behind his ears.
It was something of an undertaking.
He had lined up the equipment necessary along the edge of his desk, and there was very little room left for the letter itself. There were six quills in three different sizes (two of each, in case one broke), a small paring knife for quill sharpening, a whetstone for knife sharpening, three inkwells, two bottles of spare ink, a sheaf of blotting paper, candle, flint, sealing wax, seal, a ball of string, a dictionary**, a small roll of bandages (in case of enthusiastic paper cuts), and a small sponge for cleaning his nib.
Ridcully settled back in his chair, squeezed a piece of paper onto the little remaining desk space, and picked up his pen to begin.
“BURSAR!”
*Which was never closed, even in the depths of winter. Ridcully’s beliefs about the power of fresh air were steadfast even in the face of the stench that rose from the Ankh in Midsummer; and had contributed to the flu epidemic that had stricken Unseen University the previous winter.
**It was in Orangutan and the entries all came under ‘o’, but it was the principle of the thing.
*
The Bursar’s desk was situated directly opposite that of the Archchancellor, and Ridcully’s idea of getting his attention was often to fire a crossbow at the target above his desk. This may have gone some way toward explaining the poor man’s mentality, which seemed to lie at around ninety degrees to reality- and since ‘reality’ at UU was something of a misnomer in any case, there were few in the city that would have understood him were it not for the dried frog pills he consumed. The wizards would perhaps have been better off placing him somewhere with beefy nurses and delightfully soft furnishings, were it not for his astonishing capacity for numbers, even in his less lucid moments.
The Bursar liked paperwork. Unlike most other things in the University, paperwork was unlikely to shout at him, drop things on him, trip over him, or cause rips in the fabric of reality and attract beasts from the Dungeon Dimensions which could in all probability destroy the world. This happened a lot more often than you’d expect. There was a toilet on the fifth floor that emitted hideous noises every now and again, which the faculty did not dare use… though this might have been because it was the domain of- he shuddered slightly- Students.
He winced at the Archchancellor’s bellow, and raised his head.
“Yes, sir?”
“What day is it today?”
“I-I believe it’s Tuesday, Archchancellor.”
“Nonsense, man. It can’t be Tuesday already.” The Archchancellor hadn’t raised his head, but his hand was worryingly close to the crossbow that sat beside his desk. The Bursar’s eyelid began to twitch slightly.
“I-I that is I believe it’s Tuesday…”
Ridcully raised his head and glared at him. “It is not possible for it to be Tuesday. There is no question about that, because if it were Tuesday we would have had pheasant at lunch, and I distinctly remember eating the chicken…”
“I-I-I believe I Tuesday I-I Tuesday…”
“…and if pheasant had been on the menu I would have eaten it. It’s always been my favourite, though of course the pheasant here isn’t a patch on the Ramtop pheasants,” his eyes grew misty with recollection. “Big as dogs, they were, peck your knees off as soon as look at you.” He stroked his crossbow with a loving hand, and there was a terrified whimper from the Bursar.
*
“What have you been doing to him this time, Archchancellor?”
The Dean was looking curiously at the Bursar, who was rocking back and forth with a glassy eyed expression. The occasional mumble, which sounded suspiciously like ‘Tuesday’, was emerging from his lips.
“Me? I didn’t do anything to the man, don’t be ridiculous!” His raised voice prompted another whimper from the Bursar, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Ridcully and the Dean glanced at him for a second before resuming their conservations in a very slightly lowered tone. “The man’s far too delicate, in any case. Could do with some fresh air, a little exercise.” He raised his voice, to the tone reserved for the elderly (which naturally didn’t include him), foreigners, and the mentally deficient. “Isn’t that right, Bursar? See, he’s smiling already. Soon have him back on his feet.”
Tuesday
Ridcully was sitting behind his desk.
It was generally assumed that he didn’t own a desk- there was a large pool table in the middle of the room which essentially served the same purpose; as repository for all timetables, notices, letters, schedules and other paperwork that the Archchancellor’s office naturally accumulates. Towering stacks of paper that littered the floor attested to his tendency to clear the table every now and again to have a go at the more fiendishly difficult of trick shots, the kind that only a wizard should ever attempt. The piles had the added advantage of forming something of an obstacle course across the office floor, which very few people ever bothered to brave. In some of the larger stacks, students swore, you could hear things move.
Tucked away at the back of the office however, directly under a large window,* there was a small writing desk where the Archchancellor attended to his Correspondence. This would have been something of a surprise to those people in Ankh Morpork that wrote to him with various queries, requests, complaints and bills… It was easier to get blood from a golem than to get a written reply from Mustrum Ridcully, and in the long run far less painful. But he wrote, every now and again, to his mother in the Ramtops, assuring her that he was well and remembering to wash behind his ears.
It was something of an undertaking.
He had lined up the equipment necessary along the edge of his desk, and there was very little room left for the letter itself. There were six quills in three different sizes (two of each, in case one broke), a small paring knife for quill sharpening, a whetstone for knife sharpening, three inkwells, two bottles of spare ink, a sheaf of blotting paper, candle, flint, sealing wax, seal, a ball of string, a dictionary**, a small roll of bandages (in case of enthusiastic paper cuts), and a small sponge for cleaning his nib.
Ridcully settled back in his chair, squeezed a piece of paper onto the little remaining desk space, and picked up his pen to begin.
“BURSAR!”
*Which was never closed, even in the depths of winter. Ridcully’s beliefs about the power of fresh air were steadfast even in the face of the stench that rose from the Ankh in Midsummer; and had contributed to the flu epidemic that had stricken Unseen University the previous winter.
**It was in Orangutan and the entries all came under ‘o’, but it was the principle of the thing.
*
The Bursar’s desk was situated directly opposite that of the Archchancellor, and Ridcully’s idea of getting his attention was often to fire a crossbow at the target above his desk. This may have gone some way toward explaining the poor man’s mentality, which seemed to lie at around ninety degrees to reality- and since ‘reality’ at UU was something of a misnomer in any case, there were few in the city that would have understood him were it not for the dried frog pills he consumed. The wizards would perhaps have been better off placing him somewhere with beefy nurses and delightfully soft furnishings, were it not for his astonishing capacity for numbers, even in his less lucid moments.
The Bursar liked paperwork. Unlike most other things in the University, paperwork was unlikely to shout at him, drop things on him, trip over him, or cause rips in the fabric of reality and attract beasts from the Dungeon Dimensions which could in all probability destroy the world. This happened a lot more often than you’d expect. There was a toilet on the fifth floor that emitted hideous noises every now and again, which the faculty did not dare use… though this might have been because it was the domain of- he shuddered slightly- Students.
He winced at the Archchancellor’s bellow, and raised his head.
“Yes, sir?”
“What day is it today?”
“I-I believe it’s Tuesday, Archchancellor.”
“Nonsense, man. It can’t be Tuesday already.” The Archchancellor hadn’t raised his head, but his hand was worryingly close to the crossbow that sat beside his desk. The Bursar’s eyelid began to twitch slightly.
“I-I that is I believe it’s Tuesday…”
Ridcully raised his head and glared at him. “It is not possible for it to be Tuesday. There is no question about that, because if it were Tuesday we would have had pheasant at lunch, and I distinctly remember eating the chicken…”
“I-I-I believe I Tuesday I-I Tuesday…”
“…and if pheasant had been on the menu I would have eaten it. It’s always been my favourite, though of course the pheasant here isn’t a patch on the Ramtop pheasants,” his eyes grew misty with recollection. “Big as dogs, they were, peck your knees off as soon as look at you.” He stroked his crossbow with a loving hand, and there was a terrified whimper from the Bursar.
*
“What have you been doing to him this time, Archchancellor?”
The Dean was looking curiously at the Bursar, who was rocking back and forth with a glassy eyed expression. The occasional mumble, which sounded suspiciously like ‘Tuesday’, was emerging from his lips.
“Me? I didn’t do anything to the man, don’t be ridiculous!” His raised voice prompted another whimper from the Bursar, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Ridcully and the Dean glanced at him for a second before resuming their conservations in a very slightly lowered tone. “The man’s far too delicate, in any case. Could do with some fresh air, a little exercise.” He raised his voice, to the tone reserved for the elderly (which naturally didn’t include him), foreigners, and the mentally deficient. “Isn’t that right, Bursar? See, he’s smiling already. Soon have him back on his feet.”
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Date: 2003-12-15 10:27 pm (UTC)It's here. Shhhhh. ;) (http://www.livejournal.com/users/need_frog/1052.html#cutid1)
no subject
Date: 2003-12-15 10:44 pm (UTC)OMFG, *loves* I heart your Fraser. I heart him so much! Cannot arrest him until after he's committed the crime, which is small comfort for you, I'm afraid, hee!
Also, I heart the Luhrmann's Pearl story -- is v. v. canon and v.v. intriguing. Wants more, precioussss...
And--and--and-- everything! everything there I absolutely heart and adore and am incoherent about! See, this is why I ship Nny/copperbadge. You two with your Disc and your HP and your Lupin and your insight and everything make me incoherent and squeeful and fangirly. *gasps from her own t00biness*
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Date: 2003-12-15 10:59 pm (UTC)And comparisons with Sam are undeserved but gratefully received. *g*