The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1)

by Terry Pratchett

But what would happen to Twoflower, all alone in a city where even the cockroaches had an unerring instinct for gold? A man would have to be a real heel to leave him.

Aww rincewind is alright

“Aye, lord. We had to shoot the horse before he would stop.” “Which, by a fairly direct route, brings you here,” said the Patrician, looking down at Rincewind. “And what have you got to say for yourself?”

Hahaha or not

No, what he didn’t like about heroes was that they were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk. There were too many of them, too. Some of the most notable questing grounds near the city were a veritable hubbub in the season. There was talk of organizing a rota.

Picturesque meant—he decided after careful observation of the scenery that inspired Twoflower to use the word—that the landscape was horribly precipitous. Quaint, when used to describe the occasional village through which they passed, meant fever-ridden and tumbledown.

Twoflower was a tourist, the first ever seen on the Discworld. Tourist, Rincewind had decided, meant “idiot.”

“The Soul Eater. His number lyeth between seven and nine; it is twice four,”

He must be french

“I have had many names, you know.” “Amazing,” said Rincewind.

The dragon stood up, lumbered heavily across the meadow, and fluttered into the air. Rincewind occasionally had nightmares about teetering on some intangible but enormously high place, and seeing a blue-distanced, cloud-punctuated landscape reeling away below him (this usually woke him up with his ankles sweating; he would have been even more worried had he known that the nightmare was not, as he thought, just the usual Discworld vertigo. It was a backward memory of an event in his future so terrifying that it had generated harmonics of fear all the way along his lifeline). This was not that event, but it was good practice for it.

Hey,” Hrun added, brightening up, “did you notice all those rooms they brought us through? Pretty impressive, I thought. Lot of good stuff about, plus some of those tapestries have got to be worth a fortune.”

He loves to loot, like a true hero

She was also wearing a thoughtful expression.

This was because, in the instant of enfolding Hrun gently in his claws, Ninereeds the dragon had momentarily synchronized their bodily rhythms. Since the dimension of the imagination is much more complex than those of time and space, which are very junior dimensions indeed, the effect of this was to instantly transform a stationary and priapic Hrun into a Hrun moving sideways at eighty miles an hour with no ill effects whatsoever, except for a few wasted mouthfuls of wine.

A trick Neo knows too, I think

He wondered what kind of life it would be, having to keep swimming all the time to stay exactly in the same place. Pretty similar to his own, he decided.

I’ve seen excitement, and I’ve seen boredom. And boredom was best.

Surely Hades wasn’t this uncomfortable?

“You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind. “Scrofula.” “Scrofula?” “Death couldn’t come,”