On nights such as these the gods, as has already been pointed out, play games other than chess with the fates of mortals and the thrones of kings. It is important to remember that they always cheat, right up to the end...

'I'd like to know if I could compare you to a summer's day. Because well, June 12th was quite nice, and...'

'Tis not right, a woman going into such places by herself.' Granny nodded. She thoroughly approved of such sentiments so long as there was, of course, no suggestion that they applied to her.

Above the hearth was a huge pokerwork sign saying 'Mother'. No tyrant in the whole history of the world had ever achieved a domination so complete.

'A man could go far, knowing his rights like you do,' said Granny. 'But right now he should go home.'

'I daresay,' said Granny, pushing the Fool aside and stepping over a writhing taproot. 'If anyone locked me in a dungeon, there'd be screams.'

'He didn't take any notice!' whispered Tomjon.
'A born critic,' said the dwarf.
Discworld stage actors in conversation.

'Actors,' said Granny, witheringly. 'As if the world weren't full of enough history without inventing more.'

In fact, no gods anywhere play chess. They prefer simple, vicious games, where you 'Do Not Achieve Transcendence but Go Straight to Oblivion'; a key to the understanding of all religion is that a god's idea of amusement is Snakes and Ladders with greased rungs.

'Yes, bugger all that.' said Nanny. 'Let's curse somebody.'
Even Nanny Ogg gets upset occasionally.

The calender of the Theocracy of Muntab counts down, not up. No-one knows why, but it might not be a good idea to hang around and find out.

The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo.

'There must be a hundred silver dollars in here,' moaned Boggis, waving a purse. 'I mean, that's not my league. That's not my class. I can't handle that sort of money. You've got to be in the Guild of Lawyers or something to steal that much.'

"I know that man," said Granny. "He's the one that sells goldfish that tarnish after a day or two."
Yet another member of the Dibbler clan ?

Hour gongs were being struck all across the city and nightswatchmen were proclaiming that it was indeed midnight and also that, in the face of all the evidence, all was well. Many of them got as far as the end of the sentence before being mugged.

"And then there was that great hairy thing of his," said Nanny Ogg.
"Ah," said Granny Weatherwax distantly. "His droit de seigneur."
"Needed a lot of exercise," said Nanny Ogg, staring at the fire.
"But next day he'd send his housekeeper round with a bag of silver and a hamper of stuff for the wedding," said Granny. "Many a couple got a proper start in life thanks to that."
"Ah," agreed Nanny. "One or two individuals, too."
"Every inch a king," said Granny.
"What are you talking about?" said Magrat suspiciously. "Did he keep pets?"
Carrying on the royal strain...

....heard the young Assassins at play over the wall and envied them, even though, of course, the number of piping voices grew noticeably fewer towards the end of term (the Assassins also believed in competitive examination).

"What's to be afraid of?" she managed.
"Us," said Granny Weatherwax, smugly.
Ill-met by moon-light.

Witches are not by nature gregarious, at least with other witches, and they certainly don't have leaders. Granny Weatherwax was the most highly-regarded of the leaders they didn't have.

"She's lying out on the lawn." said Granny. "She felt a bit poorly."
And from outside came the sound of Nanny Ogg being poorly at the top of her voice.
No doubt the Hedghog Song again...

"Modern," said Granny Weatherwax, with a sniff. "When I was a gel, we had a lump of wax and a couple of pins and had to be content. We had to make our own enchantment in them days."
"Ah, well, we've all passed a lot of water since then," said Nanny Ogg sagely.

Herne the Hunted, the terrified and apprehensive deity of all small furry creatures whose destiny it is to end their lives as a brief, crunchy squeak..

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