He wondered what kind of life it would be, having to keep swimming all the time to stay exactly in the same… — Terry Pratchett

The Watch were always careful not to intervene too soon in any brawl where the odds were not heavily stacked in their favour. The job carried a pension, and attracted a cautious, thoughtful kind of man.

It was octarine, the colour of magic. It was alive and glowing and vibrant and it was the undisputed pigment of the imagination, because wherever it appeared it was a sign that mere matter was a servant of the powers of the magical mind. It was enchantment itself.

Don't ask me how I knew—I suppose it was because it was just about the worst possible thing that was likely to happen.