SquidgeWorld Archive

Oz wasn't quite certain how he'd ended up here. He'd been climbing mountains in Tibet, debating going back to Sunnydale to let Willow know the good news, and then he'd been walking down a narrow street. There weren't any mountains anywhere to be seen, either.

There were quite a few things that were weird about this new place though. Some of the people smelled funny, not 'funny' as in they needed a bath, though most of them did, or 'funny' as in strange perfumes, though there were some of those too. A lot of them didn't smell human. He might have worried a lot more if the people on the street hadn't been so unconcerned about it. "huh."

"Sausage inna Bun! Get your sausage inna bun! Three copper, and that's cutting my own throat!" A vendor walked along the street, carrying a tray of... Oz wasn't really sure what those things were. They didn't smell like any sort of sausage that he'd ever tasted, though they did smell like they might have met meat, once upon a time.

Oz kept moving, not willing to try that 'sausage', with or without the bun. He wasn't that hungry, and if he got desperate, there were plenty of rats. Of course, he'd rather not resort to that either, but the rats were probably much safer than that 'sausage.' At least he knew what was in a rat.

He saw a trio of figures, none taller than his ribs, all with shoulders easily as wide as a football player's, huddled in an alley. As he blinked, trying to figure out just what they were besides not human, the trio moved, producing instruments from under their beards. They started to play, a mournful song about the mines of Uberwald, and how they longed for the golden halls of their home. They were actually pretty good at it.

A crowd of more similarly proportioned people soon gathered, muttering soft comments about the music. The sentiment of wishing for home, of missing it was echoed, and several made the comment of 'they got hole.'

Oz kept walking, feeling a little better. The music had been sad, but when a place had music, there was life to it.

"We need another one! Otherwise, there's no band." A man's voice wailed.

"I know that, but where are we going to find another one who can play a guitar?" This voice was more reasonable, and seemed to demand calm.

Frowning, Oz realized that the voices were coming from there, a room that smelled like it held three other werewolves. Werewolves looking for a werewolf guitarist? Walking closer, he knelt by the tiny window, tapping on the half-open glass. "You have a band?"

"We have most of a band. Our guitarist ran off with a sheep-dog." A deep voice growled back.

Deciding not to think about that too hard, Oz nodded. "Bummer. I can play some."

The next thing he knew, a door had opened, and he was being towed into a basement room, where three guys sat with an assortment of instruments. A guitar was thrust towards him by a blond werewolf with a pleading expression. "Join our band? Without a guitarist, Stepping Wolves is done for."

Oz ran his hands over the guitar, examining it. This one was all wooden, with metal strings, and looked a little rough around the edges. Strumming a chord, he adjusted the tune of half the strings, and tried again. "Not bad guitar."

The others were looking very excited, and picked up their instruments. "Can you try to go along with this?"

He didn't bother to say anything, just nodded and listened as they started a song. After the first verse, he started to harmonize, adding a few supporting chords and a couple riffs here and there. The music swept over him like a wave. When the song was over, the silence seemed to hurt, so he launched into one of the songs that he'd played with the Dingoes, slightly slower. By the time that was over, the quiet didn't feel so painful.

He opened his eyes, looking at the others to judge their reactions. Oz hadn't expected open-mouthed shock. "He can play!" "Kris never sounded that good!" "You're in."

Oz grinned back at them. This wasn't Sunnydale, but maybe it was time for a fresh start. New beginnings could be good. Besides, here he could have a band. "So, can you help me figure out a place to stay? I just got here today."

"No pack to stay with?" The blond blinked, and then flushed as he said, "I'm Gregori."

"No pack, no family." Oz glanced at the others, wondering how many werewolves there were in this Ankh-Morpork.

The calmer, deep voiced one spoke again, from inside his circle of drums. "Now you have a pack. Band, pack, whatever you want to call it, we'll stick together."

"Just don't go chasing any sheep-dogs." Gregori grumbled.

"Not a problem." Oz assured.