brutha

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Discworld sketchdump - Small Gods

“Life in this world is, as it were, a sojourn in a cave. What can we know of reality? For all we see of the true nature of existence is, shall we say, no more than bewildering and amusing shadows cast upon the inner wall of the cave by the unseen blinding light of absolute truth, from which we may or may not deduce some glimmer of veracity, and we as troglodyte seekers of wisdom can only lift our voices to the unseen and say, humbly, ‘Go on, do Deformed Rabbit… it’s my favorite’.”

‘How many talking tortoises have you met?’ it said sarcastically.
'I don’t know,’ said Brutha.
'What d'you mean, you don’t know?’
'Well, they might all talk,’ said Brutha conscientiously, demonstrating the very personal kind of logic that got him Extra Melons. 'They just might not say anything when I’m there.’
—  Brutha’s logic | Terry Pratchett, Small Gods

Can we talk about Brutha?

Brutha, who walked through the desert, carrying an injured man. Brutha, who knew Vorbis was a murderer, an Inquisitor, a cold torturer of men. Brutha, who saw Vorbis injured on the beach and, knowing the apathy of the desert, carried him on his own back.

Let’s talk about Brutha who was betrayed by the man he trusted entirely, the same man he carried through the desert. Brutha, the true prophet, who spoke to his god every day and knew Vorbis for what he was.

Brutha, who knew his god walked with him every day in the desert. And when he looked back he saw only one set of footprints in the sand, because when things got really difficult he carried his god. Under the arm not supporting Vorbis.

Brutha, who was thrashed to within an inch of his life at the word of the very man he protected and carried through the desert. Brutha, bleeding and hurting and chained to the iron turtle, with the oven under his back getting hotter all the time—he looked up into the merciless gaze of Vorbis and, knowing Om would smite him, did not gloat. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Brutha, who was slow and stupid, illiterate, unworthy, looked into the face of his torturer, his killer, and promised justice. But he wasn’t glad of it. He was sorry.

Brutha, who loved his god and strove to be his moral superior. Brutha, who carried his god through the wilderness, fed and nurtured his god when all others shunned him, who gave his god commandments not on stone tablets but on a murmur. Brutha, who promised his god life everlasting if his god believed in him.

Brutha, who was slow and stupid and simple, who knew that an army of ten thousand could not save Omnia from the wrath of her neighbors, but perhaps one man would be enough.

Brutha, who would not die for his god but he would live for him. He would live for him every day, busily, and teach others to do the same. Who filled each day to the brim until, at last, he died. Quietly.

Brutha, who walked with Death into the black desert, setting out on a journey to find Judgement. Brutha, who saw Vorbis there. Cruel, tyrannical, calculating Vorbis, so small and helpless after a near infinity on the cold, lightless dune, the man who not only killed but forced others to kill gladly. And Brutha looked upon this shell of a man, and lifted him up to carry him through the desert once again, leaving behind only one trail of footprints.

Brutha

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“This is about the porridge. You remember, don’t you? I can’t recall where we were, Saint Germain, I expect…”

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This used to be the shit in high school!!!!!! (insert real tears) lol

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