His back aches, his head aches, and he remembers nothing. Aside from the obvious,* he has a hunch that this isn’t the first time he’s had this particular experience before. But back when he drank (past tense, right?? asks some panicked voice in the back of his head that he swiftly handcuffs and throws into the deepest depths of his mind dungeon**), he never forgot this much. He never forgot who he was.
He’s sure of that. Well, he’s mostly sure. Well, he thinks that must be the case. Stands to reason, right?
At least this cave seems to be surprisingly well-lit. In fact, what would be deep gloom to anyone else’s eyes appears as bright as a sunny day to his own. Vimes can’t tell where the brightness is coming from, which is really fucking weird, and definitely something he’ll be stewing over later. For now, just wants to get the hell out of here and find his way home. Wherever the hell that is.
So he gets to his feet, brushes himself down, and proceeds into the dark.
*The cave.
**Some detectives have Mind Palaces. Vimes has a Mind Dungeon because certain thoughts deserve to be arrested and locked up for the safety of society.
Ride 'em Cowboy: The Summoning Dark
“Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”
It didn’t take long for Vimes to find his way out of the cave, and it didn’t take much longer than that to find a cheap cigar, which he’s now smoking as he stands in the town’s only bar, eyebrow cocked as he stares down the currently-unoccupied mechanical bull. Come on, hot stuff, whispers a voice that seems to come from an invisible speaker standing just beside him. Somehow, he knows it’s talking about riding the stupid bull. It’s been happening for a while now, and he’s given up trying to figure out who’s talking.
You think you can tame me?
“No, no, I really don’t, and I’m perfectly fine with that,” he announces to the empty air, taking a pull on his cigar. Yet something still draws him forward; something makes him stare at the bull like a criminal about to be arrested, or a rich toff who called him the wrong name. In fact, despite his protests, Vimes is beginning to smile. And that smile says, Like hell I can’t.
Sam Vimes | Discworld
Sam Vimes awakes in a cave.
His back aches, his head aches, and he remembers nothing. Aside from the obvious,* he has a hunch that this isn’t the first time he’s had this particular experience before. But back when he drank (past tense, right?? asks some panicked voice in the back of his head that he swiftly handcuffs and throws into the deepest depths of his mind dungeon**), he never forgot this much. He never forgot who he was.
He’s sure of that. Well, he’s mostly sure. Well, he thinks that must be the case. Stands to reason, right?
At least this cave seems to be surprisingly well-lit. In fact, what would be deep gloom to anyone else’s eyes appears as bright as a sunny day to his own. Vimes can’t tell where the brightness is coming from, which is really fucking weird, and definitely something he’ll be stewing over later. For now, just wants to get the hell out of here and find his way home. Wherever the hell that is.
So he gets to his feet, brushes himself down, and proceeds into the dark.
*The cave.
**Some detectives have Mind Palaces. Vimes has a Mind Dungeon because certain thoughts deserve to be arrested and locked up for the safety of society.
Ride 'em Cowboy: The Summoning Dark
“Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”
It didn’t take long for Vimes to find his way out of the cave, and it didn’t take much longer than that to find a cheap cigar, which he’s now smoking as he stands in the town’s only bar, eyebrow cocked as he stares down the currently-unoccupied mechanical bull. Come on, hot stuff, whispers a voice that seems to come from an invisible speaker standing just beside him. Somehow, he knows it’s talking about riding the stupid bull. It’s been happening for a while now, and he’s given up trying to figure out who’s talking.
You think you can tame me?
“No, no, I really don’t, and I’m perfectly fine with that,” he announces to the empty air, taking a pull on his cigar. Yet something still draws him forward; something makes him stare at the bull like a criminal about to be arrested, or a rich toff who called him the wrong name. In fact, despite his protests, Vimes is beginning to smile. And that smile says, Like hell I can’t.