(no subject)
May. 4th, 2007 06:17 amI had a dream in which there was an entire episode of Doctor Who about a witch who had kept a church in a time loop for one hundred and seventy years because she was in love with the Doctor. And then I dreamed I was telling people about the dream I'd had about Doctor Who, and they were telling me they'd had the exact same dream. And William Shakespeare was in it, too, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rowanberries was the new companion.
Somehow this led to me waking up with this in my head:
He didn't have a pen, no, but he did have the genuine honest-to-god underground ticket that had got him into this mess in the first place. Richard tucked himself into a damp corner, avoiding the worst of the drips, and carefully tore the card into the shape of a sloppy and lopsided 'R', making sure to leave the name of the station intact. He hoped the Marquis was as much smarter than him as his eyebrows were always insinuating.
(It was probably better not to even think about whether or not he'd care.)
When he was done, the cardboard already worryingly bedraggled and spongy under his fingers, he looked around vaguely.
"Bugger," he said, and whistled vaguely. "Hello? I don't suppose anyone's there?"
De Carabas had told him about the rats once, in a fit of whimsy. It was the only way to get information out of the man that didn't lead to a strange and complex network of favours that would be quite impossible to escape. They'd been fishing for something - he chose not to think too hard about what - in the sewers and the Marquis had been in a strangely good mood, kicking his black motorcycle boots against the brickwork and whistling snatches of strange music. Richard had asked and the Marquis had answered, telling him of how the rats had become so powerful by being at wherever the right place might be, at just exactly whatever was the right time. Nothing so important down here as information, and all that.
So it wasn't so much a question of whether anyone was there as it was of whether they'd be willing to help.
There was a rustling in the darkness.
"Oh thank god," said Richard; he'd not managed to pick up the colloquial exclamations, just yet. "I don't suppose you could take this to the Marquis for me? I'll owe you a favour for it - you, I don't mind, it's owing things to him that gives me the willies."
He considered for a moment.
"You'll have to get someone to tell me what it is, though," he added apologetically as he passed the ticket across. "I don't even understand the people that speak English most times, down here."
He got the distinct impression that the rat was laughing at him. It wasn't as unusual a feeling as you'd think.
*
This is obviously part of something longer. Something that's been percolating vaguely in the back of my mind since I first read the book. No idea if I'll ever write it. :D?
rowanberries was the new companion. Somehow this led to me waking up with this in my head:
He didn't have a pen, no, but he did have the genuine honest-to-god underground ticket that had got him into this mess in the first place. Richard tucked himself into a damp corner, avoiding the worst of the drips, and carefully tore the card into the shape of a sloppy and lopsided 'R', making sure to leave the name of the station intact. He hoped the Marquis was as much smarter than him as his eyebrows were always insinuating.
(It was probably better not to even think about whether or not he'd care.)
When he was done, the cardboard already worryingly bedraggled and spongy under his fingers, he looked around vaguely.
"Bugger," he said, and whistled vaguely. "Hello? I don't suppose anyone's there?"
De Carabas had told him about the rats once, in a fit of whimsy. It was the only way to get information out of the man that didn't lead to a strange and complex network of favours that would be quite impossible to escape. They'd been fishing for something - he chose not to think too hard about what - in the sewers and the Marquis had been in a strangely good mood, kicking his black motorcycle boots against the brickwork and whistling snatches of strange music. Richard had asked and the Marquis had answered, telling him of how the rats had become so powerful by being at wherever the right place might be, at just exactly whatever was the right time. Nothing so important down here as information, and all that.
So it wasn't so much a question of whether anyone was there as it was of whether they'd be willing to help.
There was a rustling in the darkness.
"Oh thank god," said Richard; he'd not managed to pick up the colloquial exclamations, just yet. "I don't suppose you could take this to the Marquis for me? I'll owe you a favour for it - you, I don't mind, it's owing things to him that gives me the willies."
He considered for a moment.
"You'll have to get someone to tell me what it is, though," he added apologetically as he passed the ticket across. "I don't even understand the people that speak English most times, down here."
He got the distinct impression that the rat was laughing at him. It wasn't as unusual a feeling as you'd think.
*
This is obviously part of something longer. Something that's been percolating vaguely in the back of my mind since I first read the book. No idea if I'll ever write it. :D?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}