"Hey, watch where you're going," Ray snapped as he was nearly knocked over by a huge freak in armor. He rubbed at his shoulder, giving the guy a good glare. Who walked out of a room backwards, anyway?
While Carrot was not aware of how nicely parts of his body came together under his breastplate and chainmail, he was indeed aware that his body was perfectly capable of hurting another body. "Oh, I'm sorry," he blinked down at the man, one thousand and one apologies clear in his bewildered face.
Ray's glare only increased at the apologetic look, especially since the guy was at least half a foot taller than him. "Uh-huh. You off to war or something?"
"Not that I'm aware of," he spoke slowly, carefully, his features righting themselves into something less, well, unaware, and more keenly curious.1 "You feel that I should be?"
1. But apparently not about his surroundings. This may or may not have been a hint as to the kind of person the man was dealing with.
You would be suprised. Whipping would only get you so far, and even now (or then, or whenever), the mail for Mrs. Cake fell mostly to the Golems, who often returned with headaches and requests to modify their Chem to state specifically that it should not harm old ladies. Or fear them.
Moist was reading "The Great Train Robbery" by Crichton as he walked, the cover folded back and the spine cracked comfortably. When he sensed the shadow, he looked up.
And then, he looked further up.
"Oh," he said, a little flatly. "Captain Carrot. Of course."
Vimes was just going to be a treat about this.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded a lot like, "...only a matter of time anyway."
Captain Carrot immediately brightened, despite the prominent arch of confusion between his eyebrows.
"Postmaster General, oh this is a horrible breach of privacy," he said, complete with pink-cheeked guilt. "But in my defense, I wasn't aware Mrs. Cake owned property in Empirical Crescent. If you'd be so kind, where am I?"
Moist blinked at him. Up at him. Very carefully, he closed his book, stuck it in his back pocket, and crossed his arms across his chest.
Firstly, he hadn't known he had missed being called Postmaster.
Secondly...only Carrot could pull of a blush and that armor. The cup was starring at Moist. Moist tried very hard not to stare back.
"You are not any where near Emperial Crescent, Captain Carrot. You are on an island, a magic island from which there is no obvious way home. We do not not know how we got here. And by 'we' in the instance, I mean three hundred plus individuals from across the multiverse. This world is round. The island is a magical delinquent."
Captain Carrot stood with the rigid posture of seasoned copper1, and listened.
After a moment he gave one nod, and then another. "How much of a delinquent?" he asked, his tone suggesting that he was perfectly ready to arrest the island for its mischief.
1. Security and guilt. These are the two most common feelings evoked by said posture. Undoubtedly there exists somewhere some sort of formula designed to calculate the fluctuation in feelings of security and guilt when faced with a stiff back, set jaw, and a breastplate. It is fair to assume that when Carrot's dimensions are factored into the equation, the numbers will almost always shoot off the charts.
Wednesday's eyes followed his progress, though she remained lying flat on her back with her arms crossed over her chest, the curtains surrounding the pair of beds wide open.
"The one behind you," she said, lifting herself straight up, without use of her arms, into a sitting position, her legs still extended in front of her. "But you're overdressed for that, too."
The Captain believed in the underlying goodness in all peoples, until given good reason not to.1
"Really?" he asked, innocently fascinated by the child and more than willing to hear her out. "What will I find behind that door?"
1. Even then, he did a fantastic job of ignoring the evidence of Evil Doing Tendencies. This was, however, the only evidence he was capable of not uncovering.
Capatain Carrot was difficult to miss. He was six-foot-six, despite claims to dwarfishness that Vimes had stopped trying to figure out ages ago, had bright red hair, and tended to stand like he owned the place, even when he didn't mean to. Even when he probably didn't know what 'the place' was. What did Fred always insist on calling it?
Crisma, right.
It would have been very innaccurate to say that Vimes had never been happier to see the Captain. There had been plenty of times when he had been much happier, and most of them had involved near and certain death*. But as he stepped out of the kitchen and saw the first member of his squad that he had seen in what felt like a very long time, the Commander was pretty damn happy.
"You're late," he told Carrot cheerfully**. "I'm pretty sure it's the first time, so I'm gussing I'll have to let it slide this time."
*And a few of them, yes, Mrs. Cake. Which often felt like the same thing at the time.
Captain Carrot did what anyone1 would do upon sight of his commander.
He saluted, shoulders back, knees locked, chin lifted. "Sir," he said with all due respect, of course, "Thank you, sir."
A pause.
And then, "Er, what exactly am I late for, sir?"
1. And by anyone, we're talking those not only willing, but able, to grab reality by the ear, give it a violent shake for acting out, then pat it on the head before telling it, kindly, mind you, to go run along and play nice with the rest of the parallel universes.
Oh, good gods. The... Carrot-ness of it all was ridiculously reassuring.
"The end of the world," Vimes answered dryly, and then waved his hand and added before he could be taken literally, "the bloody damned magical island party, complete with messed up weather, lunatics, and the kind of antics the University gets up to on an even more absent-minded day than usual."
And then, because that really wasn't much better, "You're not really late, Carrot, don't worry."
Carrot's mouth made to round itself into an 'o' of grave wonder at his commander, and then when one explanation was waved away, his eyebrows joined the bewildered mix.
"That is good news, sir. I try.1" Taking the cue to stand at ease, he glanced around, apparently unfazed. "Magical island, sir?"
Azalyn peeked out the door of the room she'd just been in. She had her staff clasped tightly in her hands as she watched the giant with awe. Alright, so he wasn't exactly a giant, but he was bigger than even the marines on the Soyokaze and it was enough to make her stare.
Just her head was poked out of the door, her giant, purple eyes following the guy carefully as he walked. She almost said something, but all that came from her mouth was a tiny squeak.
Oh this was worrying. "I did not mean to frighten you," he frowned, holding his helmet respectfully to his chest.
A gentle smile softened his otherwise intimidating features significantly, a blush still very obvious in his cheeks. He did not know her; this would have to change. "I need your help, miss, but I promise not to ask too much of you. How's that?"
She stood up straight in front of him, chest puffed out a little. She was still well over even a foot and a half shorter than the man, but she didn't back down. This was probably from his less than dangerous tone.
"You didn't," she said, closing her eyes, chin up a little. There was no way she was going to show weakness, just because this guy could probably stomp on her if he wanted.
"Maybe I could help you," and she tossed her hair back a little.
And Captain Carrot wholeheartedly believed her. He was familiar1 with deceptively small women with surprising strength beneath their delicate features.
"Really? Oh, thank you. I do appreciate your patience. You see, I seem to have lost my way. Am I upstairs or downstairs, Ms. ..." It was clear that the silence that followed was meant to be filled with her name, and, of course, only if she wished to tell him, no pressure.
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1. But apparently not about his surroundings. This may or may not have been a hint as to the kind of person the man was dealing with.
Reply
Moist was reading "The Great Train Robbery" by Crichton as he walked, the cover folded back and the spine cracked comfortably. When he sensed the shadow, he looked up.
And then, he looked further up.
"Oh," he said, a little flatly. "Captain Carrot. Of course."
Vimes was just going to be a treat about this.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded a lot like, "...only a matter of time anyway."
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"Postmaster General, oh this is a horrible breach of privacy," he said, complete with pink-cheeked guilt. "But in my defense, I wasn't aware Mrs. Cake owned property in Empirical Crescent. If you'd be so kind, where am I?"
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Firstly, he hadn't known he had missed being called Postmaster.
Secondly...only Carrot could pull of a blush and that armor. The cup was starring at Moist. Moist tried very hard not to stare back.
"You are not any where near Emperial Crescent, Captain Carrot. You are on an island, a magic island from which there is no obvious way home. We do not not know how we got here. And by 'we' in the instance, I mean three hundred plus individuals from across the multiverse. This world is round. The island is a magical delinquent."
"Also, your boss is here."
There. That pretty much covered it.
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After a moment he gave one nod, and then another. "How much of a delinquent?" he asked, his tone suggesting that he was perfectly ready to arrest the island for its mischief.
1. Security and guilt. These are the two most common feelings evoked by said posture. Undoubtedly there exists somewhere some sort of formula designed to calculate the fluctuation in feelings of security and guilt when faced with a stiff back, set jaw, and a breastplate. It is fair to assume that when Carrot's dimensions are factored into the equation, the numbers will almost always shoot off the charts.
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"You're overdressed," she informed him.
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"I'm afraid my bedtime is a long ways off, miss," he said, carefully looking around. "But I am sorry for my intrusion. Which door should I try next?"
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"Really?" he asked, innocently fascinated by the child and more than willing to hear her out. "What will I find behind that door?"
1. Even then, he did a fantastic job of ignoring the evidence of Evil Doing Tendencies. This was, however, the only evidence he was capable of not uncovering.
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Crisma, right.
It would have been very innaccurate to say that Vimes had never been happier to see the Captain. There had been plenty of times when he had been much happier, and most of them had involved near and certain death*. But as he stepped out of the kitchen and saw the first member of his squad that he had seen in what felt like a very long time, the Commander was pretty damn happy.
"You're late," he told Carrot cheerfully**. "I'm pretty sure it's the first time, so I'm gussing I'll have to let it slide this time."
*And a few of them, yes, Mrs. Cake. Which often felt like the same thing at the time.
**No, really.
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He saluted, shoulders back, knees locked, chin lifted. "Sir," he said with all due respect, of course, "Thank you, sir."
A pause.
And then, "Er, what exactly am I late for, sir?"
1. And by anyone, we're talking those not only willing, but able, to grab reality by the ear, give it a violent shake for acting out, then pat it on the head before telling it, kindly, mind you, to go run along and play nice with the rest of the parallel universes.
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"The end of the world," Vimes answered dryly, and then waved his hand and added before he could be taken literally, "the bloody damned magical island party, complete with messed up weather, lunatics, and the kind of antics the University gets up to on an even more absent-minded day than usual."
And then, because that really wasn't much better, "You're not really late, Carrot, don't worry."
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"That is good news, sir. I try.1" Taking the cue to stand at ease, he glanced around, apparently unfazed. "Magical island, sir?"
1. More importantly, he succeeds, as a rule.
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Just her head was poked out of the door, her giant, purple eyes following the guy carefully as he walked. She almost said something, but all that came from her mouth was a tiny squeak.
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A gentle smile softened his otherwise intimidating features significantly, a blush still very obvious in his cheeks. He did not know her; this would have to change. "I need your help, miss, but I promise not to ask too much of you. How's that?"
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"You didn't," she said, closing her eyes, chin up a little. There was no way she was going to show weakness, just because this guy could probably stomp on her if he wanted.
"Maybe I could help you," and she tossed her hair back a little.
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"Really? Oh, thank you. I do appreciate your patience. You see, I seem to have lost my way. Am I upstairs or downstairs, Ms. ..." It was clear that the silence that followed was meant to be filled with her name, and, of course, only if she wished to tell him, no pressure.
1. Very, very familiar. And so was his mattress.
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