They eventually found Verence II, King of Lancre, in the stable yard.
  Some people are born to kingship. Some achieve kingship, or at least Arch-Generallisimo-Father-of-his-Countryship. But Verence had kingship thrust upon him. He hadn't been raised to it, and had only arrived at the throne by way of one of those complicated mix-ups of fraternity and parentage that are all too common in royal families.
  He had in fact been raised to be a Fool, a man whose job it was to caper and tell jokes and have custard poured down his trousers. This had naturally given him a grave and serious approach to life and a grim determination never to laugh at anything ever again, especially in the presence of custard.

The third book in what is now probably called the first Lancre trilogy, Lords and Ladies introduces another bunch of evil other-worldly entities bent on wrecking the disc. This time, however, they are elves. An absolutely stunning, glamorous and downright nasty bunch of bastards, they are far closer to Celtic tradition than the "fair folk" of Tolkein's Middle Earth, for example. They steal children, torture any small, medium or large furry animal they can get their perfect hands on, and treat humans like stupid, ugly, uncouth cattle.

Silly, misguided people have been dancing around the stone circle, and the cast of the midsummer play have fallen asleep nearby - a very dangerous state of affairs, worsened by Nanny Ogg's apple scumble brandy. It smells of apples and happy brain-death. Try some: it'll really clear out your brain-cells. It only takes a little misguided thespianism (still no idea where Thespia is) to unleash the horrors of fairyland on the unsuspecting Lancrastrians. Be careful; the little buggers can really bite (see "Wee Free Men").

Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
  Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
  Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
  Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
  Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
  Elves are terrific. They beget terror.

  The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
  No one ever said elves are nice.
  Elves are bad.

No-one would be surprised to learn that A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare has been heavily satirised in this book. Everything but an actual Puck declaiming on the stage (the "play within the play" included). Casanunda, the disc's greatest (dwarf) lover, appears to court Nanny Ogg, of all people, and Magrat Garlick, in the midst of preparations for her wedding to the King, finds herself donning the armour of Queen Ynci the Spiky in order to save her kingdom - and her man.

  'I know she's in there,' said Verence, holding his crown in the
Ai-Senor-Mexican-Bandits-Have-Raided-Our-Village position. 'Millie heard her shout go away and I think she threw something at the door.'
  Nanny Ogg nodded sagely.
  'Wedding nerves,' she said. 'Bound to happen.'

Hodgesaaargh the Royal Falconer makes an early appearance in this book, and I absolutely love the guy. He trains his birds so well that they attack anything that moves - which is usually him. I admire people who suffer for their art; he usually goes to bed each night to bleed gently over a copy of Beaks and Talons... The wizards come to Lancre for the wedding celebrations, the Lancre Morris Men resort to the Stick and Bucket dance, with horrifying results, Ridcully and Esme remember old times, the Queen of the Fairies does her best to conquer the entire kingdom, and the Entertainment goes wrong, in the tradition of bad folksongs everywhere. "Wack-fol-a-diddle", etc.

  'Oook.' [. . .]
  Magrat blinked.
  'Um, he's just a bit annoyed at the moment,' said Ponder. 'One of the . . . elves . . . shot him with an arrow.'
  'But they do that to control people!'
  'Um. He's not a person.'
  'Oook!'
  'Genetically, I mean.'