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disc_festAuthor: dickgloucester
Title: Waist Not, Want Not
Characters and/or Pairing(s): pre-Sybil/Sam
Rating: G
Word Count: 1140
Medium (if applicable): werdz
Possible warnings and/or enticements: No warnings.
Summary: Lady Sybil Ramkin remembers her society debut.
Author's Notes: Prompt 37. Hoo-boy, writing in an unaccustomed fandom is not as easy as I thought! But the toe has been dipped.
Sybil permitted herself a rare moment of sentimentality as she picked up scattered pieces of armour and armament from the floor and stairs. Commander Vimes, generally an orderly man[1], could not be counted on to put his metalware away in the right place when he was within half a minute of being late for Young Sam's bedtime rendition of Where's My Cow, still a favourite even at the ripe old age of seven and three-eighths.[2] Sybil shouldered open the hall closet and began putting Sam's work clothes on their stand. Her fingers lingered on the one small dent he could never be persuaded to polish out of his cuirass.
It was an old dent in an old piece of metal – the very first of many dents. And it hadn't been Sam wearing the armour when the dent happened. Oh, no.
*
She had always tried to find something more constructive to do – something like making a catalogue of native Ankh-Morpork mud-dwelling fungi, complete with their uses in the care and feeding of Swamp Dragons[3] – when the other 'gels' started prating about fashion and the like, and they were generally courteous enough to allow that a gel of the sadly stolid build and temperament of a Ramkin should be allowed to fade into the background of such conversations, even though it had to be said that the only gels less able to go unnoticed were the trolls – and even they could blend into the architecture when they chose.
However, the Ankh Debs' Ball, with which the ladies of Quirm College were wont to celebrate their passage into adulthood and the opening sallies in their predation on the eligible males of their rank, was, apparently, a different matter. Sybil was informed that she would be wearing lace, and she would be wearing impractical colours, and she would be wearing her hair in something other than an unbecoming plait, and – most importantly of all – that she would be doing whatever it took to ensure that she had a waist. This, it seemed, was important when it came to the dancing.
Ramkins don't dance, as a rule. They know how to dance, of course, as befits any person of rank, and Sybil herself (having a turn for the geometric) had memorised the patterns of three hundred and seventy-five dances, of which only fifty were currently in vogue, and only twenty-nine of these known in Ankh-Morpork. However, while being an acknowledged expert, she had never, to anyone's knowledge, been observed in the act. Sybil intended to keep it this way, but the others were equally determined – and there were more of them. Throwing in the word Duty was merely, as dirty tricks went, an afterthought.
So Sybil was going to dance, and she needed a waist in order to do so. [4]
Corsetry was the only answer.
And when it came to making corsetry for a Ramkin, there was only one set of craftsmen worthy of the job.
The results were not unpleasing, but they were uncomfortable. When it came to breathing-optional clothing, Sybil was no expert, but she did wonder whether her corseteer[5] might have gone a little too far. Even the astonished praise of her classmates couldn't force oxygen further than half-way past her sternum. Preoccupation with survival, however, had the unexpected benefit of giving her demeanour a cool indifference to the glances of the male population that would otherwise have remained beyond her grasp. No such thing as a friendly chat about politics or civil engineering regulations when you can't so much as squeak. If she wasn't careful, she'd be getting a reputation for femininity.
Ah well, at least she had the benefit of seeing Serafine von Überwald's eyes widen in awed astonishment.
Or maybe not.
Serafine's eyes were focused on someone behind Sybil. Someone who, as it turned out, was raising a small crossbow bearing a silver-tipped arrow. Someone who failed to make good his escape. Someone who foolishly declared undying enmity for the red-haired goddess in pale blue who had thrown herself in front of her friend and fallen insensate to the ground. Someone who was foolish enough to make this declaration (somewhat muffled) to the smitten Watchman who was kneeling on his head.
Sybill opened her eyes (with a surprisingly ladylike flutter) somewhat later to meet the gaze of this same plain-faced and astonished Watchman, who was at that moment simultaneously trying to mourn the passing of what had never been while committing his prisoner to chains and sending word to the lady's family of her sad but heroic demise.
“Can't ... breathe,” wheezed the lady.
He blinked.
“Corset,” she whispered, giving her own midriff a metallic thump.
The Watchman looked down and realised that the arrow was merely tangled in blue drapery and that the lady was ...
... suffocating.
Fortunately for them both, the putative corpse had been carried to a curtained alcove, where nobody could witness the Watchman tearing the gown from the lady and taking his dagger to the lacing of her underwear.
Without it, he had later informed her[6], she was a firm and muscular armful to whom no yielding willow could hope to compare[7]. But even without being aware of the young man's opinions on the matter, Sybil decided that she much preferred having a strong arm around the place where she ought to have a waist than having a waist unable to feel the arm through its dwarf-made corsetry.
She never wore such underwear ever again.
Commander Vimes, however, wore it every day. Though to be fair, he wore it over his clothes. And never blushed at all when anybody remarked what a damn fine piece of armour it was.
Footnotes
[1] When his wife's stern eye was upon him, that is.
[2] It should be noted that there was now a competitive edge to the manner in which the two Sams populated their version of the book. Sybil still had a quiet snigger about the expressions on everyone's faces when Havelock dropped in unexpectedly just at the moment when “Don't let me detain you!” was the 'view-halloo' in a chase (the quarry being a dripping wet, naked small boy; the hunter a dishevelled man wielding a duck-patterned bath towel) down the stairs right into the drawing room, but she preferred to be elsewhere when it came to decisions about who did the best impersonation of Foul Ole Ron.
[3] None, actually, but even that was (when in desperate need) worth noting.
[4] No, she wasn't entirely convinced of the logic, either.
[5] Something between a builder and a buccaneer.
[6] Years later.
[7] Even Commander Vimes had his moments.
dickgloucesterTitle: Waist Not, Want Not
Characters and/or Pairing(s): pre-Sybil/Sam
Rating: G
Word Count: 1140
Medium (if applicable): werdz
Possible warnings and/or enticements: No warnings.
Summary: Lady Sybil Ramkin remembers her society debut.
Author's Notes: Prompt 37. Hoo-boy, writing in an unaccustomed fandom is not as easy as I thought! But the toe has been dipped.
Sybil permitted herself a rare moment of sentimentality as she picked up scattered pieces of armour and armament from the floor and stairs. Commander Vimes, generally an orderly man[1], could not be counted on to put his metalware away in the right place when he was within half a minute of being late for Young Sam's bedtime rendition of Where's My Cow, still a favourite even at the ripe old age of seven and three-eighths.[2] Sybil shouldered open the hall closet and began putting Sam's work clothes on their stand. Her fingers lingered on the one small dent he could never be persuaded to polish out of his cuirass.
It was an old dent in an old piece of metal – the very first of many dents. And it hadn't been Sam wearing the armour when the dent happened. Oh, no.
*
She had always tried to find something more constructive to do – something like making a catalogue of native Ankh-Morpork mud-dwelling fungi, complete with their uses in the care and feeding of Swamp Dragons[3] – when the other 'gels' started prating about fashion and the like, and they were generally courteous enough to allow that a gel of the sadly stolid build and temperament of a Ramkin should be allowed to fade into the background of such conversations, even though it had to be said that the only gels less able to go unnoticed were the trolls – and even they could blend into the architecture when they chose.
However, the Ankh Debs' Ball, with which the ladies of Quirm College were wont to celebrate their passage into adulthood and the opening sallies in their predation on the eligible males of their rank, was, apparently, a different matter. Sybil was informed that she would be wearing lace, and she would be wearing impractical colours, and she would be wearing her hair in something other than an unbecoming plait, and – most importantly of all – that she would be doing whatever it took to ensure that she had a waist. This, it seemed, was important when it came to the dancing.
Ramkins don't dance, as a rule. They know how to dance, of course, as befits any person of rank, and Sybil herself (having a turn for the geometric) had memorised the patterns of three hundred and seventy-five dances, of which only fifty were currently in vogue, and only twenty-nine of these known in Ankh-Morpork. However, while being an acknowledged expert, she had never, to anyone's knowledge, been observed in the act. Sybil intended to keep it this way, but the others were equally determined – and there were more of them. Throwing in the word Duty was merely, as dirty tricks went, an afterthought.
So Sybil was going to dance, and she needed a waist in order to do so. [4]
Corsetry was the only answer.
And when it came to making corsetry for a Ramkin, there was only one set of craftsmen worthy of the job.
The results were not unpleasing, but they were uncomfortable. When it came to breathing-optional clothing, Sybil was no expert, but she did wonder whether her corseteer[5] might have gone a little too far. Even the astonished praise of her classmates couldn't force oxygen further than half-way past her sternum. Preoccupation with survival, however, had the unexpected benefit of giving her demeanour a cool indifference to the glances of the male population that would otherwise have remained beyond her grasp. No such thing as a friendly chat about politics or civil engineering regulations when you can't so much as squeak. If she wasn't careful, she'd be getting a reputation for femininity.
Ah well, at least she had the benefit of seeing Serafine von Überwald's eyes widen in awed astonishment.
Or maybe not.
Serafine's eyes were focused on someone behind Sybil. Someone who, as it turned out, was raising a small crossbow bearing a silver-tipped arrow. Someone who failed to make good his escape. Someone who foolishly declared undying enmity for the red-haired goddess in pale blue who had thrown herself in front of her friend and fallen insensate to the ground. Someone who was foolish enough to make this declaration (somewhat muffled) to the smitten Watchman who was kneeling on his head.
Sybill opened her eyes (with a surprisingly ladylike flutter) somewhat later to meet the gaze of this same plain-faced and astonished Watchman, who was at that moment simultaneously trying to mourn the passing of what had never been while committing his prisoner to chains and sending word to the lady's family of her sad but heroic demise.
“Can't ... breathe,” wheezed the lady.
He blinked.
“Corset,” she whispered, giving her own midriff a metallic thump.
The Watchman looked down and realised that the arrow was merely tangled in blue drapery and that the lady was ...
... suffocating.
Fortunately for them both, the putative corpse had been carried to a curtained alcove, where nobody could witness the Watchman tearing the gown from the lady and taking his dagger to the lacing of her underwear.
Without it, he had later informed her[6], she was a firm and muscular armful to whom no yielding willow could hope to compare[7]. But even without being aware of the young man's opinions on the matter, Sybil decided that she much preferred having a strong arm around the place where she ought to have a waist than having a waist unable to feel the arm through its dwarf-made corsetry.
She never wore such underwear ever again.
Commander Vimes, however, wore it every day. Though to be fair, he wore it over his clothes. And never blushed at all when anybody remarked what a damn fine piece of armour it was.
Footnotes
[1] When his wife's stern eye was upon him, that is.
[2] It should be noted that there was now a competitive edge to the manner in which the two Sams populated their version of the book. Sybil still had a quiet snigger about the expressions on everyone's faces when Havelock dropped in unexpectedly just at the moment when “Don't let me detain you!” was the 'view-halloo' in a chase (the quarry being a dripping wet, naked small boy; the hunter a dishevelled man wielding a duck-patterned bath towel) down the stairs right into the drawing room, but she preferred to be elsewhere when it came to decisions about who did the best impersonation of Foul Ole Ron.
[3] None, actually, but even that was (when in desperate need) worth noting.
[4] No, she wasn't entirely convinced of the logic, either.
[5] Something between a builder and a buccaneer.
[6] Years later.
[7] Even Commander Vimes had his moments.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-31 05:20 pm (UTC)