Sam Vimes had just wanted a walk.
A real walk, at that turning point between late night and early morning, when all the heat and most of the light had fled and anybody awake was automatically a suspicious figure. A real walk in real boots. He'd found a pair recently that were perfect, just the right size with soles so thin he'd probably have to
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Comments 47
Martel doesn't look like a wizard.
He looks all sorts of things - a competent warrior, a charismatic swine, a well-dressed nobleman, openly armed - but he doesn't look much like a wizard. No, even if the sword weren't a dead give away, he's far too fit, and too world-weary in the way of someone whose mind actually does generally occupy the world he's standing in as opposed to one seven dimensions away and full of cheese.
Right now, he looks like someone who has done this a few times before.
"New," he surmises, glancing behind Vimes as well; had there been a door? It doesn't look it, but it doesn't always.
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Still, the man is more familiar than anything else here. "New?" Vimes' tone is flat and cold.
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Probably.
"To the nexus- Xanadu, I beg your pardon." He's still not used to the more organized approach that the place has decided to take; it's odd, but in an interesting sort of a way that he finds more or less tolerable. Martel doesn't dislike the nexus, most of the time, but it's given him some really spectacular headaches over the past couple of years.
Vimes is then on the receiving end of a measuring look, on the end of which he says, "It's not a dream, you're not dead, and it's vastly unlikely that you're trapped here."
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"Only 'unlikely'?" Vimes asks while he surveys the man and his surroundings again, his tone carefully neutral. 'Vastly unlikely' still sounded likely to him.
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'Again,' as if she knows him. She doesn't personally, but as is the way of the divine, they like to think they know everyone so intimately, even when the poor person does not belong to their congregation. Hestia is, clearly, no exception; in fact, she is probably the worse offender there is. (How lucky for dear Samuel.)
None the less, she smiles at him gently, her face partly hidden by a white veil. Her incredibly red hair can't be hidden, though, nor can the warmth of her domain be extinguished. Would you like to listen to Homer? He has rather fantastic metaphors about fire and Her Florid Majesty.
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The voice isn't familiar, nothing that he can see of the woman is. Does that color red ever occur naturally? She seems friendly. Kind, even. But what her words had said 'power.' Power over other people, causally used. He grits his teeth together before forcing something like a smile. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met."
Yeah, he's pissed.
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...Hestia is, essentially, a troll.
"I'm afraid not," she replies. Then, "Amy." Now, she's just making it difficult to pinpoint her power. "And you, sir?" Please, she loves your full name; it makes her giggle.
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He really, really hates that.
"Commander Vimes, ma'am," he says, making the smile less forced and more goofy. Yeah, he's just the big, dumb copper, isn't he? Go on, just try to say that to his face.
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A harried young man emerges from a side street nearby, frowning around- when his gaze falls on Vimes, his expression clears momentarily. "Sir?" he calls, in a tone of resigned hopefulness, "Can I bother you a moment, sir?"
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"I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to hold my ladder still for me, sir; I can't keep it steady and get the little beast down at once." Ewar looks slightly pained at being forced to ask assistance in getting a bloody kitten down from a ledge, as would indeed any man.
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Saving kittens was Carrot's kind of "community-outreach" thing. Though, Vimes recalled with some embarrassment, pretty much everyone in the Watch had been drafted into it at one point. Or three.
He held out a hand. "Sure."
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