commander samuel vimes

“I’m an Excellency?” said Vimes to Inigo.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And still My Grace as well?”
“Yes, Your Grace. You are His Grace His Excellency the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Your Grace.”
“Hang on, hang on… His Grace cancels out the Sir, I know that. It’s like having an ace in poker.”
“Strictly speaking that is true, Your Grace, but great score is set by titles here and it is best to play with a full deck, mmm.”
“I was once blackboard monitor at school,” said Vimes sharply. “For a whole term. Would that help? Dame Venting said no one could clean a blackboard like me.”
“A useful fact, Your Grace, which may possibly be helpful in the event of a tie-breaker, mmm, mhm,” said Inigo, his face carefully blank.

– blackboard monitor | Terry Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant

He hated games they made the world look too simple. Chess, in particular, had always annoyed him. It was the dumb way the pawns went off and slaughtered their fellow pawns while the king lounged about doing nothing. If only the pawns would’ve united … the whole board could’ve been a republic in about a dozen moves.
—  Terry Pratchett - Thud


Lawful Good: Mr. Nutt/ Brutha/ Susan Sto Helit/ Carrot/ Granny Weatherwax
Lawful Neutral: Ponder Stibbons/ The Librarian/ Rufus Drumknott/ *Death/ Lady Margolotta
Lawful Evil: Lord Hong/ The Queen/ Dee/ Mr. Slant
Neutral Good: Tiffany Aching/ Otto Chriek/ *Death
True Neutral: *Death/ Cohen the Barbarian/ The Bursar/ Sacharissa Cripslock/ *Fred Colon/ Havelock Vetinari
Neutral Evil: *Greebo/ *Teatime/ Alice Weatherwax/  *Fred Colon
Chaotic Good: Nac Mac Feegles/ Teppic/ Maurice/ *William de Worde/ Mustrum Ridcully
Chaotic Neutral: Nobby Nobbs/ Mort/ *Greebo
Chaotic Evil: *Teatime/ *Greebo

Sam “World’s Most Incorruptible Lawful Good Badass Copper With A Moral Code So Strong It Should Be It’s Own Character” Vimes, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, is a total doting father and is pretty sure that his wife actually runs the world.

Pass it on.

Vimes with a v

Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett

You know, these books are my usually stand by. Whenever I don’t feel like reading something new, or had just read something unsatisfactory or sad, I always come back to the Discworld. The Discworld has everything, fun, excitement, food for thought, drama, humor, and on and on.

His Grace, His Excellency, The Duke of Ankh, Blackboard Monitor, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes hears the news and stops in his tracks. No. Not now! Not when things are finally coming together, the Watch is working like a well-oiled machine that only occasionally loses a spring, the dwarfs and trolls are finally managing to not kill each other on sight, the railroad is improving the quality of life for people disc-wide, why does he have to die now? Why can’t he live longer and enjoy the fruits of his labor? Years of coppering have taught Sam Vimes that life is not fair, and that good people don’t always get the happy endings they deserve. He thought he was immune to bad news by now, but this news… well, this news hit him in the face like a half-brick. He feels the half-empty bottle of Jimson’s calling to him from his desk drawer. If he deserves to get drunk any time, it is now. But no. No. He wouldn’t want me to. I won’t.




Lord Vetinari steeples his fingers on his desk, lost in thought. The Ankh-Morpork Times lies in front of him, open to the crossword, which is blank. Drumknott enters and clears his throat softly.

“Not in the mood for the crossword today, Sir?”

Vetinari looks up.

“No. I think… I think that I do not have the mind for it. Not today.”




Dear Mume and, Dad

Thinggs in, the Watch are doing, well. I was prommoted to Akting-comander while, Commmander Vimes was away. WEe are, all very happy he is back and, theyr is no mowr troublble with, the Dwarfs and the kinge is safe.

I hav also,summe very sad news to shayre. Sirr Terry Pratchett, ov the Roundworld, hahs mette up withe, Death. WEe are, all verryy, saddened bye thys newse.

i hope things at howm are, good and the new mine iss succesfule.

Yr loving sone,





“What do you think, Fred?” Nobby Nobbs, purportedly-human member of the Watch, asks.

“I think that All Jolson would be very happy to give officers of the city a free lunch, on the house, as it were.”

“No, Fred, I mean about the news!”

“The news? Oh, of course, the news.” Fred tries to give his partner a knowing wink. He succeeds, in a sense. He looks much like a man who knows he is constipated.

“You mean you haven’t heard? Why did you think Mister Vimes is so upset?”

“Well… because he’s Mister Vimes?”

Nobby considers this for a moment, and nods. “Good point. But today he has an extra reason to be upset.”

“Really? Are the undead trying to push another vampire into the watch? Sally is great and all, but I agree with Mister Vimes, there’s something creepy about those buggers.”

“Fred, stop for a moment and listen, will you?” Nobby turns and looks Fred in the eyes. This is quite a feat, as most people, even Nobby’s friends, do anything to avoid looking Nobby in the eyes.

“Sir Terry Pratchett has died, Fred!”

Fred sits down heavily. “…Oh. I don’t think I want to go to All Jolson’s after all…”




Lady Sybil Vimes takes a moment to compose herself. The news is terrible, but Ramkin women are tough, bred to send their husbands off to war happily and bury their remains happily when they return. She sniffs, dabs her eyes, and pastes a smile on her face. Sam will need her.




Angua von Uberwald cannot contain herself. She paces back and forth, forth and back, over and over. Finally, she gives it up as a lost cause. She goes to her room, strips off her clothes, and changes to wolf. Chasing chickens always helps her take her mind off things. She makes sure to note where each chicken comes from so she can pay for them later. It’s what he would have wanted her to do.




Blind Io turns to face the newcomer, his many eyes floating into position to get a better look.

Fate looks up from the game board, and the Lady smiles.

Offler offers something that might be a welcoming grin, but it is hard to tell exactly on his crocodile face. He shifts over to make some room.

Sir Terry Pratchett walks forward and takes his place at the table.

Get to Know Me

RULES - Tag nine people you want to get to know better.

Relationship status Partnered, will probably not get married. I’ve *been* married, but he wasn’t great.

Lipstick or ChapstickMostly neither. If I had to pick, I’d want long-term lipstick, or deep staining gloss.

Last Song I Listened ToTwo Sunsets, by Ludovico Einaudi

Last Movie I Watched – He rode a BLAZING SADDLE(S), he wore a shining star…! 

Top 3 Characters – Thorin Oakenshield, His Grace Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Samwise Gamgee

Top Three Ships Bagginshield, Snupin, Anne/Frederick

tagged by: @wikdsushi, who is a sweetheart and an amazing writer. :)

Discworld: Mother of Dragons

500 Followers! Thank you all so much, it’s been a wild ride since I started posting fanfic earlier in the year and my activity feed went totally nuts. My first ever fic on here was a Discworld one, so it seems only fitting I celebrate with you now by returning there. Thank you for the support, your comments and being wonderful people. Have some Sam Vimes being Vimes <3

                                Mother of Dragons (Ao3)

Commander Sir Samuel Vimes was on his day off. Which was to say he was currently doing work from home, and waiting on the inevitable call from the Yard which always seemed to come when life handed him nothing more complicated to handle than another coffee with the morning post.

It was a glorious spring day in Ankh-Morpork, the kind of day where the sun is deceptively bright, the skylarks are singing, and the dragons were in heat. Technically dragons were always in heat, it was— as it were—fundamental to their physiological structure. But there was only ever that special time once of year, where a lady dragon and a boy dragon (though one should never judge) might size the other up and decide to risk the maneuvers that went in to the act of what could quite literally be, explosive mating.

Vimes had heard the expression “survival of the fittest”, but as he sat reading at the breakfast table, listening to the mating call of what could only be described as a dented water boiler heating up—punctuated by the occasional hiccupping implosion— he thought it ought to be “survival of the luckiest and/or the stupidly brave.”

It didn’t quite roll off the tongue as well, but it was more accurate at least.

This being dragons of course, it wasn’t as simple as trying to keep the pen doors closed and reminding yourself not to light a match before the air had cleared. No, this was dragons, and that meant that Mother Nature had done everything in her power to make life as complicated for the poor buggers as possible.

The eggs were ready to hatch. Eggs which had been so carefully nested and kept warm for the last eleven months, and so possessively protected you didn’t dare reach into the pens with anything shorter than a ten foot pole with a lump of coal on the end…and now in the frenzy to create more eggs, they were being trampled.

“It’s their instincts you see,” Sybil had told him, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief covered in soot. “They only have enough room in their heads for one at a time, and the need to create more eggs outweighs the other. It’s all about continuing the bloodline.”

Vimes hadn’t said anything, not because he couldn’t think of what to say but because he could think of exactly what to say and it was not something Sybil would ever want to hear. So instead he’d patted her arm and taken the broken mess from her cradled arm and…well, what did you do with a thing like that? Which was how he’d come to learn the secret from Willikins of just how the rose bushes were quite so hardy and flowered longer than any other rose Vimes had ever known.

Poor little buggers, he’d thought, and promptly pricked his finger on a thorn.

Still all hope was not yet lost, so far this morning, very early this morning in fact (there is nothing quite like an amorous dragon outside your bedroom window to wake you up at four in the morning) Sybil had counted no less than five new wyrmlings, all as happy and healthy as a swamp dragon can ever hope to be. Which isn’t saying much, but it was something. He’d peered in around the door, sometime around dawn and found her stooped over the nearest pen, one of the many interchangeable Emmas waiting patiently with what Vimes could only think of as ‘the iron cradle’. Both women, fully armored and armed with what passed for swamp dragon corralling gear, had waved at him with their giant oven mitts.

“Should have another five by lunch!” Sybil had called out cheerfully, and Vimes had smiled, nodded and made a hasty retreat before anyone could try and hand him anything hotter than a cup of coffee.

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