“Keep it away from me!” barked His Lordship.
William shook his head.
“Oh, yes?” said Otto, still advancing. “You think I am an it? Vell, let me act like an it.”
He grabbed Lord de Worde’s jacket and held him up in the air, with one hand, at arm’s length.
“Ve have people like you back home,” he said. “Zey are the ones that tell the mob vot to do. I come here to Ankh-Morpork, zey tell me things are different, but really it is alvays the same. Alvays zere are damn people like you! And now, vot shall I do with you?”
He wrenched at his own jacket, and tossed the black ribbon aside.
“I never liked zer damn cocoa anyvay,” he said.
“Otto!”
The vampire turned.
“Yes, Villiam? Vot is it you vish?”
“That’s going too far.” Lord de Worde had gone pale. William had never seen him so obviously frightened before.
“Oh? You say? You think I bite him? Shall I bite you, Mister Lordship? Vell, maybe not, because Villiam here thinks I am a good person.” He pulled Lord de Worde close, so their faces were a few inches apart. “Now, maybe I have to ask myself, how good am I? Or maybe I just have to ask myself… am I better zan you?” He hesitated for a second or two, and then in a sudden movement jerked the man towards him.
With great delicacy, he planted a kiss on Lord de Worde’s forehead. Then he put the trembling man back down on the floor and patted him on the head.
“Actually, maybe zer cocoa is not too bad and zer young lady who plays zer harmonium, sometimes she vinks at me,” he said, stepping aside.

– Otto Chriek | Terry Pratchett, The Truth

The Morpork Mountains

A small and isolated coastal range.  In spite of being no great distance from Ankh-Morpork the area remains wilderness: there are no decent roads nor any clacks terminal.  This is dangerous country completely overrun by two warring families of small-time miners.  When they are not poisoning each other’s vile home-distilled hooch, boobytrapping each other’s banjos or undermining each other’s mines, they are liable to turn on anyone else who strays into their path, with unbelievable ferocity.  In Professor Rincewind’s opinion they show no respect for their environment: he has personally discovered cave walls covered in graffiti of bulls and antelope.  There are also bears.

—  Terry Pratchett, “The Compleat Discworld Atlas”

heroineimages  asked:

So, out of curiosity, have you played Age of Wonders III at all? I'd be curious to get your thoughts on the Rogue character class for that game. Particularly in regards to the idea of a rogue as military-leader/empire-builder.

I’m afraid I haven’t played it, and have zero insight to offer on that.

For rogues as military-leaders/empire-builders in fiction (wait, did you mean historically?), I’ll give you just one name: the trained assassin and master of stealth Lord Vetinari.

The only reason he hasn’t conquered the world is because he doesn’t want to. ;)

[There] are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don’t say no.
—  Lord Vetinari, (Terry Pratchett, Guards! Guards!)

Overhead, a shrouded chandelier jingled gently. William looked up.
“Oh no,” he said. “Please… don’t kill anyone!”
“What?” said Lord de Worde.
Otto Chriek dropped to the floor, hands raised like talons.
“Good evening!” he said to a shocked bailiff. He looked at his hand. “Oh, vot am I thinking of!” He bunched his fists, and danced from foot to foot. “Put zem up in the traditional Ankh-Morpork pugilism!”

– MVP | Terry Pratchett, The Truth

There is a fury to Terry Pratchett’s writing: it’s the fury that was the engine that powered Discworld. It’s also the anger at the headmaster who would decide that six-year-old Terry Pratchett would never be smart enough for the 11-plus; anger at pompous critics, and at those who think serious is the opposite of funny; anger at his early American publishers who could not bring his books out successfully.

The anger is always there, an engine that drives. By the time Terry learned he had a rare, early onset form of Alzheimer’s, the targets of his fury changed: he was angry with his brain and his genetics and, more than these, furious at a country that would not permit him (or others in a similarly intolerable situation) to choose the manner and the time of their passing.

And that anger, it seems to me, is about Terry’s underlying sense of what is fair and what is not. It is that sense of fairness that underlies Terry’s work and his writing, and it’s what drove him from school to journalism to the press office of the SouthWestern Electricity Board to the position of being one of the best-loved and bestselling writers in the world.

—  Neil Gaiman, (x)

“I had the best interests of the city at heart, you know. You’ll understand, one day. Vetinari is ruining the place.”
“Yes… well… that’s where it all becomes difficult, doesn’t it?” said William, amazed that his voice hadn’t even begun to shake yet. “I mean, everyone says that sort of thing, don’t they? ‘I did it for the best,’ ‘the end justifies the means’… the same words, every time.”
“Don’t you agree, then, that it’s time for a ruler who listens to the people?
“Maybe. Which people did you have in mind?”

– on listening to the people | Terry Pratchett, The Truth