There was a wolf there. Not a usual kind of wolf. It had a blond coat, which around its ears was long enough to be a mane. And wolves did not normally sit calmly on their haunches in the middle of a street. This one was growling. A long, low growl. It was the audible equivalent of a shortening fuse. The horse was transfixed, too frightened to stay where it was but too terrified to move. One of the men carefully reached for a crossbow. The growl rose slightly. He even more carefully took his hand away. The growl subsided again. "What is it?" "It's a wolf!" "In a city? What does it find to eat?" "Oh, why did you have to ask that?" "Good morning, gentlemen!" said Carrot, as he stopped leaning against the wall. "Looks like the fog's rising again. Thieves' Guild licenses, please?" They turned. Carrot gave them a happy smile and nodded encouragingly. One of the men patted his coat in a theatrical display of absent-mindedness. "Ah. Well. Er. Left the house in a bit of a hurry this morning, must've forgotten--" "Section Two, Rule One of the Thieves' Guild Charter says that members must carry their cards on all professional occasions," said Carrot. "He's not even drawn his sword!" hissed the most stupid of the three-strong gang. "He doesn't need to, he's got a loaded wolf."
- Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett
Angua is a tall, beautiful woman with blond hair and blue eyes. Don't let her looks fool you, though, behind that show-stopping smile is a row of pearly white wolf fangs just waiting to take a bite out of you if you piss her off. Of course, you won't have to worry about Angua suddenly sprouting a tail and claws on Tabula Rasa.
But it's still not a good idea to piss her off.
She comes to the island wearing:
- a white camisole - a pair of white pajama shorts
Angua belongs to PTerry, or Terry Pratchett, and his fantastic Discworld series. Gwyneth Paltrow belongs to herself, and that damn Coldplay dude, kind of. No profit is being made of this, it's just for fun and games at the_blank_slate.