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Greebo wrote:Nice little tale,Rasti -- next time I meet a sweet, young girl coaxing beautiful sounds out of a flute, I'll try to contain my fear and keep my claws sheathed!
Sir Terry Pratchett awakens. A skeleton stands at his bedside, wearing a long black robe. He sits up. “Well, hang on, let me get my hat,” he tells it.
The skeleton reaches into its robe. From abyssal depths it produces a heavy book bound in sheets of lead and night. It is the kind of book that gets stolen by a rugged adventurer from a temple with more spike-traps than the average house of worship contains. It is the kind of book to which the word “tome” might properly be applied. Frost forms on its pages from the lingering chill of the void.
The skeleton coughs once and holds the book out to the man sitting on the bed.
WOULD YOU SIGN THIS? it asks. BIG FAN.
Greebo wrote:Am I just feeling a sense of déjà vu, Rasti, or have I seen the tale of the werewolf and the child before on the shores of this illustrious lagoon?
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