Discworld....ankh-morpork....everyone Welcome, As Long As Youve Read The Guards Books

[undying_imp]

Constable Bjǿrn Sharpaxe, a dwarf, stood in the shelter of one of the many doorways of Ankh-Morpork, city of a thousand sewers, the rain, the only reasonably fresh water in the whole city, running off his helmet, non-regulation issue, and into his plaited beard. In his belt rested two medium weight throwing hatchets, Bjǿrn found the light weights didn’t pierce armour with the satisfying ‘crunch’ noise he liked, and heavyweights didn’t spin in the air well enough to build up suitable speed for impact. At first the watch had wanted him to carry a sword, but he couldn’t lift one and well, he always felt more comfortable with an axe in his hand. Bjǿrn cast a look up at a clacks tower, and then back down. No messages. No robberies. Not murders. Not lawbreaking of any type. It was quiet. But not too quiet. No, it was never _too_ quiet, and there was never true quiet in Ankh-Morpork, there was a buzzing of a magic sign above the rat-pie shop down the road, the sounds of taverns and, everywhere, the sound of running water, that defiantly wasn’t the river… and coming round the corner, pretty quickish, the sound of running feet…

[Peony]

((Oh God, you are my hero. Discworld rp! I will join in a short while.))

[undying_imp]

((he he he. everyone loves me, they just don't know it yet!))

[Switchblade]

"Announcing His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Sir Samuel Vimes, and The Duchess of Ankh, Lady Sybil!"

Vimes winced. being a Duke wasn't so bad, but he hated the term "duchess". Oh, he loved Sybil, of course, but being married to a duchess was unbearable.

He also really hated functions such as this that they attended in the Omnian embassy. Hours of bad jokes, careful diplomacy, veiled insults, and little cucumber sandwiches with the crusts removed stretched before him, and the only solace was that he had managed to convince Sybil to let him wear his Watch dress uniform, as opposed to the formal ducal regalia, which had obviously not been designed with a duke in mind. "Duke" was a military title, and no man had ever gone to war in tights and dress armour.

"Ah! Youw gwace." the voice belonged to a tall man with a nose you could have carved a roast with, and one of the most extraordinary sets of teeth Vimes ha dever witnessed outside of the mouth of Corporal Nobbs, the only man in the entire city with a signed affidavit from the Patrician attesting to his species. These teeth looked like a nasty accident in a domino factory, and protruded a little further forward than the nose. a pair of watery blue eyes peered over the lower half of the face, almost as an afterthought.

Only one man in the entire city had a face that consisted mostly of upper lip. The mostly-reverend "thou-shalt-labour-fruitfully-for-all-thy-days-yea-and-thou-shalt-give-praise-to-Om" Kinwikkle. the man never actually introduced himself any longer, largely because of the lisp that had people dizzolved into peals of laughter immediately after the word "fwuitfuwy". They also tended to accidentally begin lisping in sympathy a few seconds into the conversation.

"And Wady SybiW!" Kinwikkle continued. "I twust you awe in good heawth? It was most joyous news to heaw of the biwth of youw son, young samuew.""

Sybil's family had been nobles for years, and not even the mostly-reverend Kinwikkle could break Sybil's composure when she was in "duchess" mode. She thanked the reverend for his concern, said that young Samuel was perfectly healthy, and was being looked after by the house staff, but that she was quite tired, and should like to find somewhere to sit for a few minutes. Kinwikkle found himself at a loose end until he noticed Vimes.

"youw Gwace! So nice of you to join us! I don't bewieve we've spoken since that affaiw at the univewsity!"
Vimes cringed. "that affair" had ended with a Klatchian dignitary being shot during a parade, an event that nearly sparked of a war. He made noncommital noises.
"I wemembew that thewe was some fowm of distuwbance. some Kwatchian fewwow was assassinated?"
"nearly murdered." Vimes corrected. "the assassin's guiwd, uh, guild had no hand in the affair."
"Ah yes." Kinwikkle paused. "Who is that swuffy-looking fewwow in the cownew?" he asked. Vimes turned, and followed the reverend's gaze. "Is it some fowm of chimpanzee?"
"Corporal Nobbs." Vimes said. even as he spoke, Nobby fished a crumpled dog-end from the tobacco graveyard between his helmet and his ear, and lit it. the man was skulking - there was no other word for it - behind a potted plant, desperately trying to avoid notice. Supposedly, Nobby was the Earl of Ankh, but Had taken careful steps to avoid the downsides of nobility, such as axes, and attention from the guild of assassins. these steps had carried him out of a window, and quite a long way across the city before he'd stopepd running. He caught Vimes' eye, and waved a grubby piece of paper - any paper in nabby's vicinity immediately became grubby - at him.

"If you'll excuse me, your reverendship?" Vimes asked, grateful for the release
"Of couwse, youw gwace." Vimes left the reverend to find another victim to talk to.
"What's up Nobby?"
"Igor says there's something back at the yard you may want to look at, sir." Nobby replied, glancing furtively at the crowd. Vimes breathed a sigh of relief.
"Okay, tell Lady Sybil I've gone to kick some arse. but do it with discretion Nobby." he interpreted the corporal's sudden panicky look correctly.
"With discretion, means doing it gently. don't tell her I'm kicking arse, tell her I'm..."
"Prodding buttock, sir?"
"Something like that."

[undying_imp]

((wooow..... you certainly know your terry prachett! but i've met him! *sticks out tounge*)) Bjǿrn Sharpaxe stood in the morgue, scratching his nose nervously. “Are you _sure_?” he asked again to Igor, who was now poking a little shoal of swimming noses. “Sure as anything.” Igor replied, dropping the lisp. “Defiantly dead.” “oh hell…” the dwarf repeated, for about the tenth time. “Commander Vimes will not be pleased.” Igor added happily.

The dwarf gulped, and looked over at the covered lump on a table in the corner of the room. “what would you, as a professional, say killed him?” Bjǿrn asked hopefully. “Hard to sway.” The watch’s surgeon said, prodding on floundering nose with a finger tip, a finger tip that did not match any of his other digits. “The multiple stab wounds, internal bleeding, or the amount of Slab I found in his stomach.” The dwarf flinched, but look relieved.

He’d chased, as you did. Anyone in Anhk-morpork who ran, especially when being chased by several angry men waving weapons, was going to attract the attention of the Watch. And then, next thing he knew, he was running, on his own, no men in front. The chasing men had disappeared into the shadows of Dolly Sisters, and Bjǿrn was left standing in the middle of a street. Alone, apart from the stiffening corpse, and a very heavy nervous feeling in his stomach.

Of course, there was only his word for it. And the Dwarfs had been causing trouble lately, but that was all in celebration Bloodhammers-tag. It was only in fun, no one ment anything by it....

[Switchblade]

Pseudopolis Yard.

The Watch had Sybil to thank for that, as well. The old watch building had been destroyed by an unexpected dragon, but Lady Sybil had generously offered to let them have a piece of property in one of the richest parts of the city, right next to the opera house. Vimes stomped through the door at full speed, not even stopping as he flung his waxed leather cloak onto a free peg with a wet slap. it slithered off and onto the floor, but Vimes was already halfway down the steps into the dungeon by then. He passed a couple of cells, in which the night's drunks were resting peacefully, except for the one who was cursing profusely in dwarvish, a language perfectly designed for cursing.

Igor's lab was at the far end, and Vimes clattered through the door. His "all right, Igor, what's going on?" died as he noticed the sad sheet-covered form on the bench.
"oh." he said.

Igor was unusual, even for an Igor. At least he was easy to recognize. any man with stiches all the way around both wrists, one eye significantly higher than the other, and a slicked-up quiff half as long as his left arm, and three-quarters the length of his right arm was going to be fairly distinctive. This Igor, however, was unusual because he sometimes forgot to lisp, sometimes walked without a limp, and was altogether a bit to keen on experimenting. the shoal of potatoes idly swimming back and forth in the glass tank on the windowsill were evidence of that, as were the jarred ears, and the noses with legs.

"who was it?" he asked.

[undying_imp]

Bjǿrn Sharpaxe’s feet scuffed the floor uneasily as he saluted. “Don’t know as yet sir. No identification, sir…” he paused, gulping again. “We…. I think he was some kind of unlicensed thief… from what happened before hand…” his hands came together, twisting. Then, noticing the look on Vime’s face, and seemed to snap out of it, standing straighter.

“I was patrolling the Plaza end of Small Gods, sir, and everything was well, nothing going on, when all of a sudden this man,” he nodded to the table, “runs around the corner. I thought, ‘that’s odd, but hardly an offence,’ so I lets him be, but a minute later, a posse runs around the same corner, knives a-glinting, and chases this bloke down towards Dolly Sisters. I followed, thinking that something’s not right, sir, and then, in the middle of Dolly sisters, they all disappear.”

He glanced up, having heard rumours of Vime’s opinion of magic and wizards in general. “Not like in magic though. Non of this poetic ‘dispersing into the night’ nonsense. But they all just continued running, in different directions, some off towards Easy, some off towards the Brass Bridge... So I though the poor bugger they were chasing got away…. And then I tripped over him, poor sod.”


He swallowed, the uneasiness returning, and continued. “I sent a clacks back here, A.S.A.P., sir, and well, seeing there’s been some hostility, between dwarfs and humans, I though I best stay out of sight until back up arrived.”

[Switchblade]

"Not like the thieve's guild to do things so publicly." Vimes said. or so cleanly... he mentally added as he twitched the sheet back, and looked at the corpse. Vimes didn't recognize him, but that didn't really mean much.

"Okay, as soon as Corporal Littlebottom and Captain Carrot get in, I want them to come in here. Igor, you and Cheerie'll be going over the corpse for anything suspicious. Carrot will be trying to ID him. Sharpaxe, come with me."

He dropped the sheet, and left the dungeon, pulling a cigar from the case at his hip. Pantweed's slim panatellas, best smokes in the city. mentally, he was cursing as he lit up. Murder was rare in Ankh-Morpork. death was comon enough, bt it was normally suicide, with the definition of "suicide" in Ankh-Morpork extending to cover a range of activities, such as walking into the Shades, knocking over somebody's pint in the Mended Drum, or striding into the Troll's Head and announcing yourself as "Korven the Invincible". Murder - killing somebody in the street - was so rare as to be unbelievable, especially in full view of a Watchman, which suggested that the guy had, somehow, deserved it.

That kind of thing always made Sam Vimes determined to establish how he had deserved it.

[undying_imp]

The dwarf followed Vimes along the corridor, passed the cells, pausing to ask something of the swearing dwarf, then grinning from ear to ear at the answer, quickened his pace, making sure he caught by before Vimes went up the stairs. He wondered want Vimes’ wanted of him.

There were rumours amongst some of the new recruits that Vimes rented out the Scorpion Pit at The Patrician’s Palace, and he’d heard nasty stories from some of the taverns near the Assassin’s School about what Vimes did to those set out to forfil contracts involving him. apparently he’d left one swimming in a old sewage pit in his gardens, and another had broken several ribs falling from the roof, on especially oil tiles, it was said.

[Vanz]

please carry on the rp