Fic Meme!
Stolen from tygermama
To celebrate International Women's Day, name a woman in one of my fandoms and I will attempt a drabble about her.
If you give me a keyword or lyric, I will use it if it sparks something for me.
Fandoms: Many and various, and I'll even throw in a crossover if you want :-P
To celebrate International Women's Day, name a woman in one of my fandoms and I will attempt a drabble about her.
If you give me a keyword or lyric, I will use it if it sparks something for me.
Fandoms: Many and various, and I'll even throw in a crossover if you want :-P
***
It was a teashop on a street that was, if not exactly desirable, at least a respectable distance from the Shades. In short, it was not sort of place that one went looking for trouble... yet trouble still seemed to find Susan Sto-Helit, nonetheless.
"Go away, before someone sees you," she hissed at the small skeletal rodent perched on the milk jug.
"SQUEAK!"
"I don't care what he said," she said chillingly. "Grandfather is more than capable of-"
A large shadow filled the teashop's entrance and the door was prised from its hinges, pulling the frame and a goodly portion of the brickwork with it. A Troll filled the doorway, and the elderly granny at the table next to her showed a surprising amount of sprightliness as she ducked under the table. Susan surveyed the room. Unsurprisingly, she seemed to be only one still sitting at the table, instead of talking cover under it.
'Fee, Fi, Foe, Fum-” the Troll began.
“I smell the whiff of a spell gone wrong,” Susan finished for him, sighing. She could already feel her hair coiling back into the familiar constraints of a bun - and she had just had it coiffed that morning at Madam Guddfingers Hair and Beard Emporium - dwarven hairstylists were especially tenacious when it came to troublesome hair.
“Uh...” the Troll said, blinking as it came a standstill. It was August, and Ankh Morpork was having a heatwave. The poor thing was obviously having a problem walking and talking at the same time - never mind thinking.
There was only thing for it.
Her voice dropped to freezing point, resonating off the pale pink walls as she stood. "I THINK YOU NEED TO BE SOMEWHERE ELSE," she said, before adding, “THE REFRIGERATED MEAT PACKING WAREHOUSE, DOWN ON ALCOTT STREET, SOUNDS GOOD.”
It was a funny thing about the voice. It seemed to have a direct line to the hind brain of just about any creature, no matter what compulsion it was under. The Troll spun on its heels, grinding into the polished floor, and frogmarched out of the room.
The Death of Rats, hopped onto her shoulder, and tapped his foot meaningfully. “SQUEAK.”
Susan pursed her lips. “Oh, very well, tell me that happened,” she said, as she retook her seat.
“SQUEAK.”
“No. You may not have my crumpet.”
“SQUEAK?”
“And my tea is off limits too,” she said, slapping his hand away.
“SQUEAK?!”
“STOP THAT!”
His hand stopped halfway to the sugarcube. SQUEAK?
Susan stifled a groan. "This is my life, isn't it? Being Death?"
The Death of Rats shrugged. "SQUEAK..."
She smiled wryly. Metaphysics from a skeletal rat, why was she even surprised anymore?
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Oh this was fantastic! (If you're finished with Susan, could you point her my way, she seems to be avoiding me)
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Poor Susan though!
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