(Untitled)

[atentded]

After a rather undignified end to her broomstick journey, a tall, imposing witch emerges from the thickets and glares at anyone who might have noticed her landing

"I know you're here somewhere, Gytha Ogg. I can smell you. You come here this instant."

Typist: Granny Weatherwax, Terry Pratchett's Discworld.

Comments

Typist

[enfantdeboheme]

SQUEE. *worships you* Granny rocks the Disc.

[our_gytha]

*sidles in with a grin that says You can't blame me for anything*

Hello there Esme, not like you to be late

[atentded]

I ain't late, Gytha Ogg, and I don't intend to be for a long time yet.

Really! It's just like you to waltz off like that with not a word to anyone. Magrat was worrying herself sick.

[our_gytha]

Just as well, I s'pose.

Magrat worries too much, I always said. Have you ever known me to get into sumthin' I can't get out of?

[atentded]

There was the incident with the well that one Hogswatchnight. Caused quite the spectacle, you did.

[finweson]

*Well, we need to have her meet an elf eventually, don't we?*
*So here's the worst sort, erm, by Tolkienish standards... oh well, at least he's pretty without glamour!*

*totally watched the landing, so can be glared at*

*drily* An interesting way to arrive.

[atentded]

*recognises him for what he is in a moment, and draws herself up* I'll arrive however I likes, and I won't have any of your kind tell me otherwise.

[finweson]

*raises eyebrow* I believe I only remarked that it was interesting, didn't I.

[atentded]

Aye, but it's the way you remarked it. I know your kind.