Progress Quest

Sly Fly · Posted: Tue Mar 25, 2003 8:09 am Post subject: A Discworld Story.

Brandon Longbeard was a typical dwarf in almost every way. He had a good dwarven name, was typically dwarf-shaped, wore traditional dwarven clothing, and had a beard that, as his name suggested, was rather long. He loved the things typical dwarves loved such as gold, drinking (while talking about gold), discussing the latest technological advancements (in respect to gold), and of course women (and how they managed to spend so much damn gold).

Most of his friends in the city were dwarves, and he even had a dwarf-friend called Robin. And like most dwarves, he wrote home to his parents each month with news, always enclosing half of his salary, and sometimes the occasional picture of Robin.

Being a Longbeard meant he had the choice of one of two career paths; mining or forging. The thought of spending half the day down a small tunnel didn't appeal all that much to Brandon. He liked fresh air. He liked open spaces. So it surprised everyone when he announced he leaving for Ankh-Morpork, as Brandon had decided he wanted to follow in his fathers footsteps and become a blacksmith.

And so, just after his twenty-first birthday, he left his parents and his home in Oredale and traveled to the big city, where they say the streets are paved with blood*. Within a week of arriving in Ankh-Morpork, he had already found an abandoned building in which to set up his forge, right in the heart of the city itself. he set up a forge in the heart of the city itself. Two weeks later he had passed the Forger's Guild exams and acquired his Trading License - Brandon became a blacksmith. And not just any blacksmith; but Ankh-Morpork's most successful metal-forger ever, although no one, including Brandon, ever knew this. It would have been incorrect, however, to say that Brandon was the best blacksmith the city had ever seen. It would be a lie if someone said he was good. It would even be stretching the truth to say he was useless.

Because Brandon was a typical dwarf in almost every way, except he was hopeless when it came to metallurgy. He was without doubt the worst blacksmith the Discworld had ever choked upon... and here he was up against some stiff competition.

In just his first month of business, a two-handed broadsword sent in for sharpening was handed back to the owner in the diminished form of a dagger. An old five-piece suit of armour in need of minor repairs was sent back to the customer in a hundred and twenty-five pieces, and a prize racehorse that went to Brandon's forge for reshoeing left a day later with a stunned look on its face and only three legs, of which only two had horseshoes on, and even then one of them fell off a day later**...

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*Usually your own, and usually within twenty-four hours of arriving

**A horseshoe. Not another leg.
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Sly Fly · Posted: Wed Mar 26, 2003 5:33 am Post subject:

Brandon was the first Longbeard in the history of Longbeards to never master, grasp, or even understand the art of blacksmithery, and was the first dwarf ever to once miss the anvil with his hammer. Yet in spite of all his failures and misgivings Brandon was also the first Longbeard to become successful, because he differed from his predecessors and almost everyone else in Ankh-Morpork in another unique way; every item that he put his hand to, everything that left his forge, worked... in one way or another...

The infamous barbarian Erin Skullcleaver had been drinking all day in The Mended Drum when the messenger returned from the forge and handed him his equally infamous sword "Deathbringer". Erin stood up, wobbled a bit, and drew the blade that had seen over a thousand deaths... the entire inn went completely silent.

"Is it supposed to be that small?" whispered someome at the back.

The inn suddenly became even more quiet, so much so that you could have heard a pin falling. But Erin didn't start killing everyone as the patrons had expected. He just stood there, mesmerised by the object he was holding in his hand. To say that he was disappointed with the workmanship would have been the biggest understatement since the travel book "A Tourist's Guide to Ankh-Morpork" described The Shades as being 'a bit of a rough area'.

The messenger took one look at Erin's face and wisely decided not to hang around for the payment. Everyone inside the inn - including the owner - also ran off, wisely deciding not to hang around for Erin's impending reaction. After a few more minutes of staring at his new dagger, the barbarian set off to the forge, having finally decided upon a suitably excruciatingly painful method of death for the blacksmith. Half way there he turned down an alleyway where a group of thieves were robbing a young lady. Being a barbarian, Erin couldn't ignore a damsel in distress (especially beautiful ones such as this) and took out a small fraction of his Brandon-fuelled anger on the thieves, killing all of the villains single-handedly.

The young lady turned out to be none other than Lady Urquell of Lancre, who had stopped by the city for an hour to see a friend. When returning to her carriage, the thieves had set up an ambush, killing all of her guards. They would have killed her as well had Erin not appeared in the nick of time. She was extremely grateful to Erin for saving her life, and asked him if he would accompany her back to Lancre as a personal bodyguard. Erin accepted, completely forgetting about his vendetta with Brandon, and set off with Lady Urquell for Lancre. Some two months later they were happily married, and are already expecting their first child anytime soon.
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Sly Fly · Posted: Wed Mar 26, 2003 5:50 am Post subject:

About the same time that Erin arrived in Lancre, there was a knock at the door where the out-of-work Theo Midge, his wife and ten children lived. He walked over to see who it was, and found a large box lying at the doorstep with a "Compliments of Brandon's Forge" note stuck to the side. The fact that he could see the delivery boy running off up the road was Theo's first indication that something was not quite right.

Almost a week ago he had sent his great great great great grandfathers plate mail armour to the forge, as it needed some small repairs and polishing. The armour had been used in combat against the first warriors to ever invade Ankh-Morpork, and had been handed down through generation of Midge's as a reminder of their heritage. Because of their current financial situation, Theo had been forced to spend the last of their money on repairing the armour so that they could sell it and buy food for the next month. Upon opening the box, however, his fears were confirmed when he discovered that their priceless family heirloom was now indeed truly priceless.

It took him half a day to strap all one hundred and twenty five pieces of his once beloved armour on, with the intention of parading around the city to show the people what an incompetent fool the forger was. After five minutes of walking around though, he had already noticed how flexible the armour was. A little while later, he marveled at the way he could run in it. By nightfall, he had several people interested in purchasing it for themselves. Today, Theo Midge owns two factories in Sto Lat, and has a contract with the local military to provide them with armour for the next five years.

And the course record at Morpark Racetrack is still held by the 1,000 - 1 outsider "Tripod" who bankrupted every bookmaker in the entire city by winning his only race a clear furlong from the competition. The owner (who had bet 10 gold pieces in several betting shops) was asked many years later how a horse with only three legs managed to run so fast. The owner just smiled and said to the reporter that he told the horse if he didn't win the race, he'd be sent in for reshoeing again...
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Sly Fly · Posted: Thu Mar 27, 2003 7:10 am Post subject:

In just over one year, from his first day of business to the present day, Brandon had worked for only twenty-one people. While other forges around the city were turning work down, Brandon would sometimes wait weeks until his next customer. He didn't mind all that much, as it gave him some time to work on his hobbies, or to walk around the city looking at the work other forgers were doing, but he couldn't help thinking about the first rule of business his father had taught him

'Repeat work' he'd said. 'That's the key to a successful forge. Treat your customers like they were part of your family and they'll keep coming back to you. If you don't, they'll just go off and find someone else.'

So when Brandon was fortunate enough to have someone ask him to do some work, he was very polite, sat them down, listened intently to what they needed, and gave them a good, competitive price. They shook hands to agree the deal, he held the door open for them when they left, and then he never saw them again. Ever.

The only contact he had with any of his customers again was when they sent him a message, sometimes a month or two after he'd finished whatever work they wanted doing. All the notes were the same - they thanked him for the work he had done and said that he would never know how much he had changed their life.

And then... there was the money... The notes always came with the payment, except it was often a hundred times the amount they agreed upon. In the year that Brandon worked in his fathers forge as an apprentice, the biggest tip he ever saw his father get was a silver piece for repairing a carriage wheel a few hours earlier then expected.

So all this left Brandon very confused. If his customers liked his work so much, and paid him a fortune for what he did, why didn't they come back for more work? It was just after three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, nineteen days since his last customer, and Brandon was sitting alone in his forge once again trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong.

He knew from the weekly guild meetings that all the blacksmiths in the city were finding it difficult to make a decent living in the city, despite the fact they were so busy they sometimes turned work away. Every month Brandon sent half his salary home and he yet he still had more money than he knew what to do with. But even though he'd accumulated a huge sum of gold over the past year, he felt that he'd let his father down by not being able to follow his golden rule. 'A regular customer' he thought to no one in particular. 'What I wouldn't give for just... one... regular...'

"Err... 'scuse me. Is this your forge? Only I got some work I need doin'" said a strange voice from inside the doorway.
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Sly Fly · Posted: Fri Mar 28, 2003 2:14 am Post subject:

Around the same time Brandon got up from his chair, a quarter of a mile away Steff Johnson was getting up off the floor in Magic Alley. He assumed he must have passed out, as his head felt a bit light and he couldn't remember anything of the past few minutes. But when he turned around to head home, he saw a man that looked just like him lying on the ground. And he didn't look that good either. Unlike most people who would normally scream, shout, panic or fall unconscious (again), Steff simply assessed the situation for a few moments in silence.

"Hmm," he sighed, "looks like I'm dead then".

I'M AFRAID SO replied a voice behind him.

"Oh... said Steff turning around, "Hello there. You must be Death I take it. Pleased to meet you."

ERR... YES... I'M... WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ARE PLEASED TO MEET ME? People dealt with the realization of dying in many ways, but Death had never yet met anyone that was pleased to meet him. Primarily because it meant they were dead, which most people weren't all that pleased about.

"I, er... just meant it's good that Death himself has taken the time to personally usher me into the next world. Sort of makes me feel important. Of course I'm not exactly ecstatic about the whole being dead thing, but I don't think moaning about it's going to get me anywhere. I doubt very much if whether you're going to give me a chance to return to the living."

NO, YOU ARE QUITE LIMITED ON OPTIONS FROM THIS POINT ONWARD. He was becoming slightly worried now. Very few people were ever this rational when they faced the grim reaper. And he didn't expect this sort of behaviour from this particular individual.

"Can I ask you how I died?" Steff asked matter-of-factly, looking at his now lifeless body. "It's just that I can't see any blood or bruises, so I'm guessing I wasn't murdered, and I've been feeling quite well lately so..."

DO YOU REMEMBER THE LAST THING YOU ATE?

"Yes, it was only a few minutes ago. It was a sausage. Inna bun if I remember correctly. Hang on - you're not telling me that after years of being sensible and sticking to a decent diet that the one time I decide to have a snack, some meat and bread goes and kills me?"

YES replied Death. Here it comes he thought, now the shock will kick in and he'll explode like a...

"Now you come to mention it, it did taste a bit funny."

Death was surprised, and it takes a lot to surprise someone who's been alive since the dawn of time.
I MUST SAY THAT YOU ARE TAKING THIS VERY WELL. YOU ARE QUITE DIFFERENT FROM MOST PEOPLE I GET TO MEET, AND NOT AT ALL LIKE THE DESCRIPTION IN YOUR FILE.

"I have a file?" asked Steff.

EVERYONE DOES replied death. EXCEPT ME He added.

"Really? What does mine say?"

IF YOU MUST KNOW, IT DESCRIBES YOU AS BEING GREEDY, TIGHTFISTED, DECEITFUL, DEVIOUS, AMBITIOUS, SELFISH, INCONSIDERATE, IRRESPONSIBLE, CALLOUS, AND THAT YOU WOULD SELL YOUR OWN GRANDMOTHER WITHOUT BATTING AN EYELID.

"Oh dear.", sighed Steff

WELL I KNOW IT MAY NOT THE BEST RESUME EVER, BUT...

"No no, it's not that. It's just that it doesn't sound like me at all. Is it possible you have the wrong person?"
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Sly Fly · Posted: Fri Mar 28, 2003 2:25 am Post subject:

Now Death was beginning to get that itch at the back of his skull. All sorts of strange things started to happen when he got that particular itch. From beneath his black robes, Death pulled out a small object shaped like an egg-timer, and held it up to the light. No matter how long he stared at it though, the tiny grains of sand within continued to flow. He even tapped the glass with his finger, but the sand wasn't having any of it. Now Death was surprised and shocked. It was turning out to be quite the day for him.

YOUR NAME IS NOT DIBBLER... IS IT.

"No. Steff Johnson's my name. Dibbler was the one who sold me the food. He was on the way to Gundarsson's Forge over in The Shades, but I told him to forget it, as all the forges in town are busy right now. Except the one on the silly of Celebration Square and Quality Street."

SOMEONE HAS BUILT A FORGE THERE? Death said suddenly.

"Er... yeah, about a year ago. Dibbler said he'd never seen it before, but I assured him it was there. He even let me have his last sausage inna bun at half price to say thank you. Some meal that turned out to be eh? I suppose that he was the one who should have..."

But Death was no longer listening. You turn your back for just one year, and all sorts of things start to happen. Typical. He thought nobody could see that area, but for someone to actually build a forge there. Death decided this situation would need some attention, or all sorts of trouble would happen.

"Umm... what happens now?" said Steff.

ALL SORTS OF TROUBLE

"Oh. I'm very sorry about all this. If I'd have known that eating Dibbler's sausage would..."

WHAT? OH, NO, I WAS THINKING ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE. HOLD STILL PLEASE. In what looked like a blur, Death swung his scythe down through an almost invisible fluorescent blue line that connected the two Steff's.

I HAVE TO BE GOING NOW Death said, and walked off to where his horse Blinky was waiting. Halfway there he stopped and turned around. IT WAS ERR... NICE... TO MEET YOU TOO he stuttered, as Steff began to fade away.

"No, the pleasure's all mine. Aside from the dying bit, this has been the best day of my life. Meeting Death himself, having a conversation, with him, and getting to know what

...

*PLOIK*

...

For one of the few times in his immortal life, he was sad to see someone die. Illness, plague, natural disasters, war, murder - they all caused deaths that cut short peoples lifetimes, but deaths that nonetheless were destined to happen since the beginning of time. As the saying goes, you can't cheat fate*. But when people died due to accidents like this, it made Death slightly annoyed. Nobody was supposed to be able to see that piece of land, for very good reasons. Something must have happened. Something he wasn't aware of. Death intended to find out just what it was.

BLINKY, LET'S GO HOME

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*This isn't strictly true. Once, in a game of Scrabble, DEATH managed to convince Fate that "Firstable" was in fact a legal word, and scored 73 points off a triple word tile.
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Twigler · Posted: Fri Mar 28, 2003 8:34 am Post subject:

"Mr. De Worde! Excuse me, but there has been a report of a mysterious death in Magic Alley. Can I cover it please?!"

William de Worde looked up from his paper covered desk to see the young and eager face of the latest addition to the staff of The Truth, Frank Gothard. Since Frank was close to seven foot tall this caused William some pain as his neck complained after a long day hunching over his desk. While William was used to all sorts of people and critters working for the paper the sight of Frank still caused some unease in him.

The lad had come to him about two weeks ago with a copy of the Truth in his hands and his face aglow with purpose, shouting "I want to be a reporter".
Normally William would hire people like that in an instant. The attitude meant that they were willing to work long hours for low pay but the problem with Frank was that everything about him screamed uncivilised barbarian. He had the height, the massive musculature, the relatively small head with helmet, the loin cloth and most importantly a very, very big sword strapped to his back.
So after one look around the office, seeing everyone edge away from his desk rapidly, William hired him.

Since then he had discovered that Frank didn't quite fit the stereotype of a barbarian. Surprisingly he was quite well read and intelligent, but more amazingly he still had all his possessions after a week in Ankh-Morpork. There was something about Frank's eyes combined with his appearance that screamed bloody retribution if you try to deal unfairly with him. The word was that even Dibbler steered well clear of him.

Funnily enough Frank was in fact quite gullible and believed what people told him face value. The staff at the Truth quickly found this out after he pulled in Mrs Weeble claiming she had a future telling pie*. Bodonni had to crawl under the printing machine to cover his laughing and the others suddenly had massive coughing bouts.
Only by looking at Frank's sword, and convincing his brain that it would be looking at that sword rather a lot closer than was healthy if it started laughing, could William keep his face straight. Since then he had kept Frank on the "human interest" stories.

"Nice suit, Frank", he answered.
"Thanks boss, bought it from the proceedings of the things I found last weekend in the Lost Temple of GoldHehhehheh**".
"Don't know about keeping the helmet and sword though. And I think the loin cloth would be better worn under the pants, Frank."
"Sorry boss, can't do that. They're important cultural symbols. I cannot deny my heritage. Despite being banned from my home lands I am still a barbarian."

William had heard that story before. Apparently Frank was a bit of a disgrace despite being one of the strongest and most successful barbarians in history. His habits of keeping books instead of burning them or using them as lavatory paper had enstranged him from the mainstream of barbarian society. Also his tendency to invest his spoils instead of blowing them all on drink and women was considered to be perverse, but what really sealed his fate were the small reading glasses he bought. Condemned for corrupting society he was banned and told never to return.

"So boss, can I cover it!?"

William shook himself from his musings and looked through the office. all reporters were out looking for stories. He knew he was going to regret it, but he felt a bit sorry for the big guy as well as scared shitless.

"Yeah, okay. Just be careful..."

"Thanks boss, you won't regret it!" Frank shouted before running out.

".. not to hurt anyone." William finished.
He'll probably do okay, he thought. Yeah right, the part of his brain that lived in constant fear of being cleaved in two added.
William heaved a big sigh and went back to work.

* Mrs Weeble was a local member of the beggar's guild who earned her upkeep by pushing a mouldy pie in people's faces claiming it could tell them their future. Most people gladly paid to make sure that their future would be free of mouldy pie and handed her a few dollars in advance.
In a strange twist of Fate, unbeknown to all the fungus culture on the pie had indeed evolved a form of second sight and it would crawl into the pie whenever impact was imminent. It was however still working on the vocal cords to tell mrs Weeble to stop doing that.

** So named by the sadistic locals who like to see nothing more than adventurous types be chopped up by the immense amount of traps installed in the temple. In fact the whole top is glass covered and huge crowds come, watch and bet whenever a visitor appears***.

*** Needless to say Frank's performance was a huge disappointment to the crowds.

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Sly Fly · Posted: Mon Apr 07, 2003 2:10 am Post subject:

Brandon rose from his chair, straightened his blacksmith's apron, and turned around to greet his new customer. He recognised him immediately, having seen him selling all sorts of things - normally food - out on the streets of Ankh-Morpork, but he couldn't quite remember his name.

"Good afternoon sir. I'm Brandon Longbeard, and welcome to my forge. Would you like anything to drink?"

"Well it's about this..." but then he stopped and replayed in his mind what he'd just heard. The only sentence he was used to starting "Would you like" was normally followed with "to say anything in your defense" and ended up with a sentence in the local cells... He looked around the forge but couldn't see any hidden watch people or recording imps, so he guessed it wasn't a trap.

"Yeah. Go on then. I'll 'ave a beer if you got one."

"Of course. Never too early in the day to have a beer. I was just about to have one myself actually." Brandon lied. How could anyone drink alcohol at this time of the day he thought? But he wasn't going to give any reason for a customer not to feel comfortable in his workshop, so he opened up the cupboard and grabbed two bottles of 'Old Speckled Sorcerer', opened them, and handed one to the man who's name he still couldn't recall.

"There you go Mr. ........."

"Dibbler. CMOT Dibbler." He replied, looking suspiciously at his beer. "This is mine, yeah? I don't need to pay nuffin' for it?"

"No, no, of course not Mr. Dibbler. Just take a seat and tell we what it is you need doing, I'll give you my best price, and that's all you have to pay. No hidden extras."

"I see", said Dibbler thoughtfully, who started to drink his beer before Brandon could change his mind. He'd never been given anything free before, unless you count the things that fell out of people's pockets into his hand.

"Well, what I need," said Dibbler in between gulps, "is a small repair job on my food cart. See... the axel at the bottom has snapped, meanin' the wheels can't go round, meanin' I can't push it 'round Ankh-Morpork, meanin' I ain't in business. Wouldn't sell anythin' if I was just stationary now would I? Volatile market Ankh-Morpork. Can change in a second. Got to keep on the move. So if you could make the cart mobile again I could get back to business."

Sly Fly · Posted: Mon Apr 07, 2003 2:18 am Post subject:

"Ah. A simple wheel job. No problem at all. If you..."

"Nice beer that." Dibbler interrupted. "Mind if I 'ave another?"

"Err... yeah, sure." Brandon replied. He got up and walked over to the cupboard once more, feeling quite happy with the way things were going. Nobody had ever been relaxed enough to ask for a second beer before. He returned to the table, and handed it to Dibbler.

"Right, " continued Brandon, "if you can just leave it with me here overnight, I can have it delivered to your door free of charge tomorrow."

"You mean you can't fix it right away?" cried Dibbler, spraying beer everywhere, "I'll lose a whole night's earnings!"

"I'm sorry sir, but it's going to take me all night as it is. I have to make an exact mould of the axle, get the forge fired up, pour the iron, wait for it to cool, temper it, and then fix the wheels as well. I'm afraid it isn't going to be a quick job. But if you want, you can always try another forge."

Dibbler remembered what the fellow in Magic Alley had told him about all the other forges being busy. Well, lately he wasn't getting many customers during the weeknights as of late, so missing just one night might not hurt him too much.

"Alright. But I gots to have it back very early tomorrow, 'cos I'll have to make up for lost time tonight. How much is this gonna cost then? I'm not exactly rolling in money you know."

"Well, material cost will be... rhubarb and rhubarb and then the labour cost of a nights work is... custard and custard and a one-off mould costs... what are you reading this for? coming to a total of four copper pieces."

Dibbler almost choked on his beer again. "Is that all?" he blurted, before he could think. "*cough* I mean, *cough*, is that all you've got to say because I have to be off soon."

"That's all sir. I realise time is important to business men such as yourself." Brandon replied. In truth, it would cost him nearer three silver pieces for the materials alone, but that didn't matter. What he wanted even more than gold right now was a regular customer, and he had a funny feeling having met Dibbler* - a feeling that he'd definitely be seeing a lot more of him.

"So can we agree it's a deal?"

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*Most people had a funny feeling having met CMOT Dibbler, but this normally turned out to be some sort of stomach trouble after eaten his "Morpork" Barbeque Ribs.

Sly Fly · Posted: Mon Apr 07, 2003 2:27 am Post subject:

"Yeah." replied Dibbler, who still couldn't believe he was going to get his cart fixed for less than two of his sausages inna bun. "If you could 'ave it delivered to the center of the Town Square at six-thirty tomorrow morning, I'll be waiting with the money."

"No problem sir. Rest assured my apprentice will be there on time."

Dibbler finished his beer and stood up. "The cart's just outside. 'elluva job trying to drag it all the way here yer know."

"Let's take a look at it shall we?" said Brandon, who went over to the door and held it open for his customer.

"How long did you say you've been open for ?" asked Dibbler.

"Since about seven o'clock this morning. A-ha-ha-ha..." laughed Brandon theatrically. "Just joking sir. I've been working here for a little over a year now."

"It's funny," said Dibbler, who was now standing outside looking back at the forge, "but I've walked up and down this street almost every day in that time, and I've never noticed this place at all..."

"Really? Oh. Maybe I should get a bigger sign or something. I've placed adverts in all the local papers you know. Is that the mobile cafeteria that needs fixing?"

"You what?" asked Dibbler.

"Mobile Cafeteria. It's just a little name I thought up for what you call Food Carts. Makes it sound a little more, now what's the word again, ah yes - executive."

"Mobile Cafeteria..." mumbled Dibbler, "Yeah. That's her. Thirty-four years we've been in business together, and it's the first time something's gone wrong."

"Don't worry Mr. Dibbler. I'll take very good care of her. It'll be as good as new when returned to you tomorrow morning. And I hope you'll be so impressed you'll be back here soon with some more work for me."

Dibbler was only half listening though, and muttered a quick "Sure" in response. Even though he was only a few metres away from the forge, he was having difficulty in actually looking at it. It was if his brain couldn't concentrate on the building for more than a few seconds, and told his eyes to look at something else. Dibbler rubbed his face with his hands and hoped he wasn't coming down with an illness. Perhaps it was the beer he thought.

Trevoke · Posted: Thu Apr 24, 2003 5:27 pm Post subject:

Rincewind had, once again, understood why the Mended Drum had its name.

"Amazing what you can undo by removing just one nail",Rincewind thought to himself. He was only slightly worried about the fate of the Mended Drum; after all, it had been rebuilt before and would be rebuilt again.

He wasn't so worried either about the horde† of barbarians†† that was currently chasing him. That had happened before as well, and Rincewind was rather certain it would happen again. He could understand perfectly well why a gathering of gentlemen, all weighing about the same as their swords or axes (200 pounds on a windy day), and covered in bearskin (or was that their own fur?), could be troubled by an entire bar collapsing upon their heads. He wasn't sure how many were chasing him, nor did he care to look behind him to count: he knew from experience that looking behind you when running away has never made you run faster. If anything, it made you run more scared.

He was slightly more worried by the fact that he had cast the spell that had removed the nail while hiccuping. The hiccup wasn't the worrying part - after all, he had been drinking proficiently. What worried him is that he had cast a spell. Rincewind's teachers had described him as a natural wizard - much in the same way that fish naturally build nests on trees. The last time he had cast a spell, he tried to remember, was... He tried again. The last time he had successfully cast a spell he meant to cast was... slightly over five years ago, when he somehow managed to pull a wheelbarrow out of his hat. And even then, he had had to run away after that †††.

Rincewind ran past a forge, registered CMOT Dibbler talking to somebody, tripped over a food cart, and suceeded in (in order) not falling, grabbing his hat mid-air, and running away before CMOT Dibbler tried to sell him one of his sausages.

Another two miles and I'll be at the Unseen University, Rincewind thought. I wonder if they're still after me?

Rincewind glanced back - and ran into somebody face first.

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† For lack of a gentler word
†† For lack of a gentler word
††† He was trying to convince people that he was a regular magician and could only perform simple tricks, and pulled a wheelbarrow out of his hat. Then someone accused him of having hidden the wheelbarrow in his sleeve - and he had to run away.

Sly Fly · Posted: Thu May 01, 2003 4:20 am Post subject:

And before the dwarf had the chance to reply, Dibbler turned around, dodged a small boy with a huge pointy hat, and walked off. 'That went pretty well' Brandon said to himself, watching his twenty-fourth customer disappear out of view. He knew, he just knew that he would be seeing a lot more of Dibbler. Of course, he had said the same thing about all his previous twenty three customers as well, but this time he was certain of it. He would make the cart better than new, and Dibbler would be so impressed that he'd soon be back with more work. Brandon smiled, nodded his head, walked back into the forge and cleared away the empty beer bottles.

"Itchy?" he shouted out.

A few moments later, a young looking boy in his late teens appeared from a doorway. Physically, he looked to be the complete opposite of Brandon - whereas the dwarf was short, stocky, and very muscular, Itchy was tall, very slim, and very lean, almost resembling a rake. His real name was Mitch Crevice, but almost everyone called him "Itchy", on account of his never-ending fidgeting and scratching. This greatly annoyed the Crevices - one of the very well-to-do families in Ankh Morpork - who found it a constant embarrassment at cocktail parties and state dinners to have their eldest son continually squirming around and clawing at his hair as if he'd never washed before.

Mitch had been Brandon's apprentice since he opened the forge over a year ago. He had seen the advertisement for the position in the local paper, and, against the wishes of his family, and gone along for an interview - even though he had no prior experience at being a blacksmith. He was amazed to find that he was the only person to show up, despite the current unemployment problem in the city*

Brandon was also puzzled at the low turn out, and by the end of the week Mitch had gotten the job on account of there being no one else to choose from.

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**Meaning Ankh-Morpork wasn't at war with anyone, and that the wizards in the Unseen University had been very quiet of late and had not "accidentally" let any demons "escape" from the dungeon dimension.

Trevoke · Posted: Thu May 29, 2003 5:25 am Post subject:

The Librarian was unhappy. This was rare because happiness depended on two things for him: the prompt availability of peanuts, and the prompt availability of not being bothered. He usually found both quite easily: after all, who in their right mind would go annoy an orangutan? I mean this literally.

Now, the problem that he was faced with is that he extended himself to the Library which he was responsible of: the Library of Unseen University. The Library was a dangerous place; in fact, it was more dangerous that the orangutan could ever be, which explained that even less people came around, except the occasional apprentice and the rarer veteran (being a veteran meant you survived every visit).

I'm sure you know the saying "knowledge is power". Well, the books had understood that perfectly well. What the scholars agree on is that the books are alive and willing to eat pretty much anything they find. What the scholars disagree on is how the hell that happened. They've asked their Automatic-Answer-Finder-Through-Analysis-of-Large-Amounts-of-Data, which was comprised of a keyboard (it was a board and it had keys of various sizes, shapes and colors), an output thingy which displayed words better than the Bursar could speak them, and the bulk of the Thing† itself. The answer came out clearly :

Death · The Reaper Joined: 03 Dec 2002 Posts: 14

Death felt surprise. At least, that's how he analyzed the annoying prickling at the back of his skull that was telling him something happened which he hadn't foreseen. Then Death turned around and realized that the annoying prickling was Rincewind who had run into him.

AH. RINCEWIND. AREN'T YOU UP YET?

Death had a very strange way of talking. It wasn't spoken words so much as thought words. It felt a bit like someone was whispering something to you from inside your head, and you could feel them inhale and exhale. In short, it was uncomfortable. That came from the fact that Death was an idea more than a fact, and mortals aren't usually ready to accept the fact that ideas can talk, walk, and occasionally come reap you when you crop up dead†. Moreover, Death was invisible to most people, except really small children, cats and wizards. Wizards and small children could see Death because, simply, their eyes were still open and they had little conception of a 'closed' reality where nothing that is not supposed to happen actually happens. Cats could see Death because Death liked cats. If you've ever kicked a cat, chances are Death might be angry at you. You wouldn't like Death when he's angry†.†

Rincewind was a wizard, albeit a rather failed one, so he was able to see Death. And Death knew Rincewind personally. They had met several times, mostly because Death thought Rincewind's time was up; obviously Death had been wrong. Rincewind's hourglass was very peculiar. It twisted and went up and down, and sometimes backwards. As a result, you couldn't tell whether the sand was up or down, in or out, or where it was going. Rincewind, to be honest, didn't really enjoy seeing Death, but they had grown to rather like each other. Death because Rincewind never ceased to surprise him, Rincewind because, well, if you're going to die, might as well have a comfortable welcome to the after-death.

- I'm not up, no. Am I? I don't think so, I've done this before. Check my hourglass. What have you been up to? Funny seeing you here. Gotta go now. Bye!

And Rincewind ran. This sentence could have been omitted, but the sake of completion it was included. And the horde ran. And Death picked one out, the one who was about to trip on a dog and fall face first on a spear, and followed. He was curious to see where Rincewind would end up.

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† I don't think I could have avoided that one, had I tried.
†† Not that he turns green or comes get you before your time is up, but simply, he feels a lot scarier. Really.

Sly Fly · Posted: Tue Jun 10, 2003 6:51 am Post subject:

Within a month of working at the forge, Mitch had already discovered three things :

Firstable, Brandon was a fantastic person to work for. He was easy going, never strict, polite, had time to explain things to Mitch, and always took him out for a beer at the local pub every Friday.

Secondable, Brandon didn't have a clue what he was doing. Mitch had seen Klatchian Warlords with a more delicate touch than Brandon - he was a mass murderer to anything metallic. It wasn't that the dwarf was careless, or didn't try his hardest, as Mitch would sometimes arrive at the forge in the morning to find that his boss had been working through the night on a piece of work. It was just that Brandon was no more a blacksmith than Mitch was a weightlifter. No matter how hard he tried, Brandon would never be any good at smithing, even though he put his heart and soul into every thing he worked on.

The most bizarre thing was that the dwarf was oblivious to all of it! Brandon managed to single-handedly ruin every item that entered the forge at yet still had the audacity to wrap it up and return it to the customer. Brandon didn't see it that way however - to him it was a work of art, a customers needs fulfilled to the highest order, another job well done. To Mitch and everyone else of course it was a disaster. It was Mitch that got the "enviable" task of delivering the "repaired" item back to the customer and receiving the payment. In each instance he watched with fear as the customer opened the box containing their goods, and then ran off having seen the look of utter shock on the persons face when faced with something that almost resembled a something they once knew.

This tactic had undoubtedly kept Mitch alive up until now, but he was forced to come up with an excuse each time as to why he had returned yet again without any money.