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[forged_hero]

Moist was roaming around the kitchen speculatively, dragging jars of various toast condiments out of the pantry as he waited for the bread to jettison out of the toaster. With the fridge open, he gazed briefly at the jug of hard cider, suddenly and desperately wanting a glassful. Or several. That it was before noon was hardly consequential -

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[self_named]

"You may prostrate yourself," Duo said, lounging a seven year old lounge against the doorway, reaching a hand behind him, into the thick base of his braid, and pulling out a tiny notebook, "if you wish, but do try not to make a scene."

He grinned.

[forged_hero]

"Oh my god," Moist said, eyes drifting open. He slid down off the counter, arching an eyebrow at the invitation. "What else do you have in there? Are there mice?"

But he couldn't deny the curiosity. The toaster boinged up, but he didn't notice, instead moving across the room to Duo.

"Is that his - oh, god." The last time Moist had seen that notebook, he'd had a black eye and was sitting in the Watch holding tank, answering to the name of Alfred Spangler. Vimes hadn't been amused then, either. "How far back does it go?"

[self_named]

"Let's find out!" Duos aid gleefully, dodging lightly across the room and taking up perch on one of the chairs and flipped it open.

"Lessee... see, none of this means anything to me. Stuff about..." He rifled through the pages, picking random words out, "clay, gonnes, Nobby Nobbs? Wow, there's a lot of really creative spelling in here, but the man sure does his coppering. Huh." He skipped ahead a slew of pages, quick-flipping.

"...Oh shit, son, that is a lot of stolen money."

[forged_hero]

"My postmen," Moist said fondly, to the mention of clay, "And a semi-sentient copper."

It was very unsettling to have to peer over the shoulder of a seven-year-old. He dropped down a little, reading over his shoulder.

"It," Moist said primly, "Was a gift from the Gods. Here, let me see that," he said, going to snatch it away. He'd never been a killer, sure, but there were still nasty things he'd done that he didn't necessarily want Duo to know about.

The ghosts of dead clacksmen. He still couldn't figure out if the con made him more proud or ashamed.