random-nexus:

thecolossalennui:

roachpatrol:

notbecauseofvictories:

Vimes has a mutt.

There’s really not a nicer way to describe her, a bow-legged cross between a terrier and a feral sewer rat, mostly the color of dishwater. And she doesn’t really clean up—it becomes more embarrassing after he’s married Sybil, whose pygmy hippo daemon can go from placid river god to defensive bellowing ferocity in seconds flat, and might as well have stepped from the Morpork coat of arms. But even freshly cleaned and trussed in a gold ducal collar, his daemon looks like it was dragged backwards through a nasty bit of the Ankh.

she’s a patient tracker, though, and a rat-worrier and a sheep-herder and a snarling, protective beast—there must be some wolf in that mongrel of yours, Wolfgang tells him on that snowy plain, and Vimes figures it’s pretty likely, he’s got a wolf in him too.

Vetinari has a golden orb-weaver, who only occasional deigns to make an appearance—usually resting on the back of Vetinari’s hand, as if to make a point. (There are heads of guilds with enormous bull daemons who shiver in fear of that little spider, on that pale hand.)

Carrot has a frankly impressive lioness, whose presence made the whole watch-house fall silent the first time Carrot walked in. Vimes had been a little taken aback at the sight of her, gold and somehow not of their world, standing in their grubby and undistinguished midst.

(No one has ever asked Carrot about her, not even Angua, who has her own lovely wolfdog daemon.)

Moist has a mockingbird who perches on his shoulder, the same color as dust and utterly forgettable. (In his old glory days, he would sometimes bring a turtle or mouse with him, hiding her under his hat—sorry, wrong daemon is not an ironclad alibi, but it’s enough of a distraction to run away.) She gets along well with Spike’s terrifying peregrine, though she’s a little too excited by the feeling of being snatched out of the air in Moist’s opinion.

William de Worde has a hedgehog, who immediately curled up in a ball when faced with Sacharissa Cripslock’s ermine. (It took a while to get him to relax.)

Witches tend toward cats—or women with cat daemons turn out to be witches, they never quite decided that one. Granny Weatherwax has pure grey cat, utterly unremarkable in every way but that. (She has always been privately disappointed in him, for it. She would have preferred something a little more imposing, more obviously witchy—which, of course, is ridiculous, it is choosing that makes a witch, not her nature. But still.)

Nanny has a fat piebald cat whose amorous adventures with other daemons rival Greebo’s—he’s been known to slip off for days, only returning when Nanny is called out. Magrat has a cream shorthair who looks very handsome beside Verence’s—slightly excitable, a little graceless—hare. Even Susan, though technically not a witch, has a cat daemon, a sleek black thing that likes to play with the Death of Rats when he’s bored.

Tiffany is among the few witches who doesn’t have a cat daemon—hers doesn’t settle until she faces the hiver, until she ushers it through the black door to its death. Afterwards, Tiffany Aching knows herself to be a witch, and walks the downs with her sheepdog daemon at her side, her hat full of sky.

Sgt Colin has a mild, pleasant brown toad, a sit-and-see kind of predator. Something with the patience to outlast storms, and droughts, and long frosts. Something with a set territory and a bottomless stomach, something that can launch itself sudden, startling blur to become the last thing the unwary insect ever sees. 

Nobby Nobbs, well— no one actually knows what his daemon is. She’s as matted and filthy and scrofulous as the rest of him, a dark, oil-iridescent clot of fur— or are those bristles? or matted feathers?— nestled in between the collar of his breastplate and the dirt-stiff rim of his shirt. Rat? Pigeon? Spider? No one wants to ask. No one wants an answer. Sometimes she will extend one scaly, brittle claw out into the open air, and he will deposit into it a sugar cube, or a coin, or a bright little shard of glass, and she— whatever she is whatever she’s named— will retreat into the comfortable hollow of his armor, purring and pleased. 

She can scream like hell though, and frequently will. 

Dorfl, of course, has a phoenix— when he opened his mouth to speak his first word, there she was, a scrap of flame, on his tongue. 

Rincewind’s daemon is the luggage is a hare, all sharp bones and hide like an old carpet. Most only see her white tail shrinking in the distance.

Ridcully’s is an enormous and beautiful standard poodle: a hunting dog with a popular image as foppish or buffoonish, but there’s a reason why wizardly assassinations have fallen out of vogue.

Ponder Stibbons I’m going to give a snowy owl daemon due to some amusing design coincidences between illustrations of him and another later series about wizards and magic. cough

Hex has a daemon, and isn’t that interesting. (It’s a gnu.)

I adore these with a squeeful, giggly flailing that is probably as dangerous to myself as it may be to others. No, srsly, these were a joy to read, my face hurts from grinning so hard! ❤