Categories > Celebrities > Beatles > Xanadu
Supporting Character Disclaimers: Nanny Ogg and Greebo the cat are the creations of Terry Pratchett.
Against all probability, his hair hurt. He could feel the ends of his hair, and the tips of his very toenails. They both ached. As did everything in between. Calling it a hangover, Ringo felt, didn't really do it justice. There had to be another word for the way he felt. Hell, even a description would do. But he couldn't think of one. Why, oh why, had he had so much to drink last night?
For that matter, what had he been drinking? He'd had hangovers before. In fact, he'd woken up with a hangover every morning since Warrior had brought him here. The hangovers had been getting less intense - he had a suspicion that his capacity for ale and mead was increasing. He was grateful for that.
Whatever they'd poured down his throat last night had not been mead. Or ale, for that matter. And it certainly wasn't whiskey and coke. He suspected that, even if they were using the original recipe of Coca Cola, complete with the cocaine, he wouldn't feel this bad. Carefully, he looked over to the tapestries, in the hopes that they would provide him with some answers.
The tapestries had proven to be very helpful since he'd come here. For his first few days, they had provided him with an invaluable series of reminders as to why, exactly, he felt so sore, and why he couldn't actually remember what had happened. Usually the soreness of body was a direct result of the weapons training Warrior was giving him, and the lack of memory was a direct result of the amount of alcohol that Warrior's henchmen had poured down his throat in an effort to help him recover from the training.
Fortunately, the side effects of all that helpfulness were starting to wear off. He only wished that it would happen a little more quickly. Then, perhaps, it wouldn't be so difficult to recover from the recovery.
The tapestries showed a picture of an elderly woman with a large, and somewhat battered cat slung over her shoulders. She was carrying a tray. Warrior had introduced him to Nanny Ogg the day after his arrival. She had patched up his bruises, told him some off-colour stories which had made him blush to the roots of his hair, and then had proceeded to drink him under the table. In the process, she had taught him a song about a hedgehog. Despite the cost to his pride, he still couldn't sing it without blushing.
The tray had a flask sitting on it. The flask, he began to remember, contained a drink that Nanny Ogg had made. It contained apples. Well...mainly apples. Ah, he thought. Scumble. That's why I hurt so much.
Jogged by the tapestry, his memory started to return. Nanny Ogg's entrance to the hall was usually greeted with enthusiasm, since she knew the filthiest stories that any of them had ever heard - which was quite a claim, considering some of the stories that Estrelda had been known to come up with. She had, at varying stages, made every single person in that hall blush. Last night, however, they had fallen silent when they had caught sight of what was sitting on her tray. A simple flask, accompanied by a single ceramic cup.
It had been quite a small cup, and Ringo wondered what could be so impressive about the flask that the others were in such awe. She came up to him, and stopped. Handing him the tray, she poured a small measure of the flask's contents into the cup. Then, she carefully stoppered the flask. One drop from the flask had fallen onto the metal tray, and it had started to smoke. Ringo had started to feel a little alarmed at that stage, he remembered.
Taking back the tray, she handed him the cup, and told him to drink. Ringo had glanced around, and realised immediately that this was some kind of rite of passage. He had shrugged, and then tipped the contents down his throat. All at once. He had had a feeling that that would be the best way to drink it. Judging by the way his throat had burned as it went down, he had been right to do it the way he had.
He had already developed a considerable head for drink. In fact, he could already drink several of the henchmen under the table. As he nursed his hangover, he suspected that he was a much more experienced drinker than he should have been, given his age. Flashes started to come to him, of working as a very much underage barman, clearing tables and sometimes drinking with the patrons.
As if in a dream, the patrons turned into friends, and he remembered an all-night party. Somehow, he had a feeling that the party had ended badly. Somehow, as a result of the party, he was separated from the others. He tried to remember more of it, but failed. "It'll come back to me," he decided.
Outside, he could hear the ringing of metal on metal, and the shouts of squires and pageboys learning to fight. He knew he was supposed to be there. He wondered why he hadn't been awoken by an angry fight master, the way he had the first few days he'd been there. Before he'd learned to wake up early enough.
Almost as if that thought had summoned it, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for his reply, the door opened and Warrior came in. She looked unwelcomely cheerful and disgustingly healthy. He hoped that she'd speak quietly - the sounds of the youths outside was already doing nasty things to his head.
Fortunately, she did. "How's the head?" she asked.
Ringo groaned. "Vibrating like me skins," he told her.
She grinned. "I thought it might be. My fight master tells me that you have learned all you can from him."
Ringo was surprised at this news, and startled at the flash of familiarity. Automatically, he glanced over at the tapestries, but they only held a picture so out of focus that he couldn't tell what it was. Warrior followed his glance, and her smile got broader. "Congratulations!" she said. "It looks like your mind is being broadened."
He gave her a puzzled look. "I wish I felt well enough to be happy about that. What do you mean, broadened?"
"A man is the sum of his memories," she told him seriously. "In cyberspace, even more so. Poor characterisations tend not to have many memories - just a sequence of actions that the character repeats. If a character has motivations outside the simple reactions to the events he or she is presented with, then that character has a collection of memories extending back before the story began that the character is drawing on. Even if the author has only a hazy idea of what those memories are."
Understanding dawned. "Is that why George came out so badly?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "George never did or said much in the movie. He mostly just followed along, and did what the rest of you did. Estrelda included links to other websites detailing the backgrounds of all four of you on the websites that my sisters and I inhabit, in hopes that you would be able to draw on that information. You certainly have. My sister informs me that John has as well."
"What about Paul and George?" he asked, suddenly afraid for them.
"Ah, well," Warrior said, looking as though she wanted to dance around the issue. Uncertainty crossed her face for a moment, but was soon replaced by determination. "Apparently, the website she was using for Paul suddenly vanished. Unfortunately, that website also had a novelisation of the movie Help! on it, and Paul had, apparently, latched onto that website as the source of his entire personality."
That didn't seem to make much sense to Ringo. "Why would he do that?" he asked.
"It wasn't deliberate," she said. "In fact, he probably didn't even realise that he was doing it. Any more than you know precisely where your memories of that party come from. At any rate, he's lost everything. Even, apparently, his understanding of the English language." She sighed. "Gardener is doing her best to put him back together, and Estrelda's looking for another website to replace the one that vanished, but it's starting to look like she's going to have to put the information together herself."
Ringo was silent for several long moments. "And George?"
But, before she could answer, the shouts of the boys and the ring of steel against steel were abruptly replaced by cries of fear and horror. Ringo and Warrior immediately rushed to the window. The sight that met them filled them with horror. A humanoid figure below them had his face buried in the crook of somebody's neck. As they watched, the victim slumped to the ground and crumbled into nothingness. Then, as the others ran about in a state of panic, the figure started to stalk more of them.
Warrior tossed him a sword. "Cyber-vampire," she told him tersely. "Chop off it's head to kill it. That's all that'll kill it."
He caught the sword, and nodded once. Hangover forgotten in the surge of adrenaline, he followed her down the stairs at a death-defying pace. Half a minute later, they were in the courtyard. Warrior issued a challenge in a ringing voice that made Ringo wince, and the vampire turned to face them.
"No!" Ringo cried in horror. It was George.
Against all probability, his hair hurt. He could feel the ends of his hair, and the tips of his very toenails. They both ached. As did everything in between. Calling it a hangover, Ringo felt, didn't really do it justice. There had to be another word for the way he felt. Hell, even a description would do. But he couldn't think of one. Why, oh why, had he had so much to drink last night?
For that matter, what had he been drinking? He'd had hangovers before. In fact, he'd woken up with a hangover every morning since Warrior had brought him here. The hangovers had been getting less intense - he had a suspicion that his capacity for ale and mead was increasing. He was grateful for that.
Whatever they'd poured down his throat last night had not been mead. Or ale, for that matter. And it certainly wasn't whiskey and coke. He suspected that, even if they were using the original recipe of Coca Cola, complete with the cocaine, he wouldn't feel this bad. Carefully, he looked over to the tapestries, in the hopes that they would provide him with some answers.
The tapestries had proven to be very helpful since he'd come here. For his first few days, they had provided him with an invaluable series of reminders as to why, exactly, he felt so sore, and why he couldn't actually remember what had happened. Usually the soreness of body was a direct result of the weapons training Warrior was giving him, and the lack of memory was a direct result of the amount of alcohol that Warrior's henchmen had poured down his throat in an effort to help him recover from the training.
Fortunately, the side effects of all that helpfulness were starting to wear off. He only wished that it would happen a little more quickly. Then, perhaps, it wouldn't be so difficult to recover from the recovery.
The tapestries showed a picture of an elderly woman with a large, and somewhat battered cat slung over her shoulders. She was carrying a tray. Warrior had introduced him to Nanny Ogg the day after his arrival. She had patched up his bruises, told him some off-colour stories which had made him blush to the roots of his hair, and then had proceeded to drink him under the table. In the process, she had taught him a song about a hedgehog. Despite the cost to his pride, he still couldn't sing it without blushing.
The tray had a flask sitting on it. The flask, he began to remember, contained a drink that Nanny Ogg had made. It contained apples. Well...mainly apples. Ah, he thought. Scumble. That's why I hurt so much.
Jogged by the tapestry, his memory started to return. Nanny Ogg's entrance to the hall was usually greeted with enthusiasm, since she knew the filthiest stories that any of them had ever heard - which was quite a claim, considering some of the stories that Estrelda had been known to come up with. She had, at varying stages, made every single person in that hall blush. Last night, however, they had fallen silent when they had caught sight of what was sitting on her tray. A simple flask, accompanied by a single ceramic cup.
It had been quite a small cup, and Ringo wondered what could be so impressive about the flask that the others were in such awe. She came up to him, and stopped. Handing him the tray, she poured a small measure of the flask's contents into the cup. Then, she carefully stoppered the flask. One drop from the flask had fallen onto the metal tray, and it had started to smoke. Ringo had started to feel a little alarmed at that stage, he remembered.
Taking back the tray, she handed him the cup, and told him to drink. Ringo had glanced around, and realised immediately that this was some kind of rite of passage. He had shrugged, and then tipped the contents down his throat. All at once. He had had a feeling that that would be the best way to drink it. Judging by the way his throat had burned as it went down, he had been right to do it the way he had.
He had already developed a considerable head for drink. In fact, he could already drink several of the henchmen under the table. As he nursed his hangover, he suspected that he was a much more experienced drinker than he should have been, given his age. Flashes started to come to him, of working as a very much underage barman, clearing tables and sometimes drinking with the patrons.
As if in a dream, the patrons turned into friends, and he remembered an all-night party. Somehow, he had a feeling that the party had ended badly. Somehow, as a result of the party, he was separated from the others. He tried to remember more of it, but failed. "It'll come back to me," he decided.
Outside, he could hear the ringing of metal on metal, and the shouts of squires and pageboys learning to fight. He knew he was supposed to be there. He wondered why he hadn't been awoken by an angry fight master, the way he had the first few days he'd been there. Before he'd learned to wake up early enough.
Almost as if that thought had summoned it, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for his reply, the door opened and Warrior came in. She looked unwelcomely cheerful and disgustingly healthy. He hoped that she'd speak quietly - the sounds of the youths outside was already doing nasty things to his head.
Fortunately, she did. "How's the head?" she asked.
Ringo groaned. "Vibrating like me skins," he told her.
She grinned. "I thought it might be. My fight master tells me that you have learned all you can from him."
Ringo was surprised at this news, and startled at the flash of familiarity. Automatically, he glanced over at the tapestries, but they only held a picture so out of focus that he couldn't tell what it was. Warrior followed his glance, and her smile got broader. "Congratulations!" she said. "It looks like your mind is being broadened."
He gave her a puzzled look. "I wish I felt well enough to be happy about that. What do you mean, broadened?"
"A man is the sum of his memories," she told him seriously. "In cyberspace, even more so. Poor characterisations tend not to have many memories - just a sequence of actions that the character repeats. If a character has motivations outside the simple reactions to the events he or she is presented with, then that character has a collection of memories extending back before the story began that the character is drawing on. Even if the author has only a hazy idea of what those memories are."
Understanding dawned. "Is that why George came out so badly?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "George never did or said much in the movie. He mostly just followed along, and did what the rest of you did. Estrelda included links to other websites detailing the backgrounds of all four of you on the websites that my sisters and I inhabit, in hopes that you would be able to draw on that information. You certainly have. My sister informs me that John has as well."
"What about Paul and George?" he asked, suddenly afraid for them.
"Ah, well," Warrior said, looking as though she wanted to dance around the issue. Uncertainty crossed her face for a moment, but was soon replaced by determination. "Apparently, the website she was using for Paul suddenly vanished. Unfortunately, that website also had a novelisation of the movie Help! on it, and Paul had, apparently, latched onto that website as the source of his entire personality."
That didn't seem to make much sense to Ringo. "Why would he do that?" he asked.
"It wasn't deliberate," she said. "In fact, he probably didn't even realise that he was doing it. Any more than you know precisely where your memories of that party come from. At any rate, he's lost everything. Even, apparently, his understanding of the English language." She sighed. "Gardener is doing her best to put him back together, and Estrelda's looking for another website to replace the one that vanished, but it's starting to look like she's going to have to put the information together herself."
Ringo was silent for several long moments. "And George?"
But, before she could answer, the shouts of the boys and the ring of steel against steel were abruptly replaced by cries of fear and horror. Ringo and Warrior immediately rushed to the window. The sight that met them filled them with horror. A humanoid figure below them had his face buried in the crook of somebody's neck. As they watched, the victim slumped to the ground and crumbled into nothingness. Then, as the others ran about in a state of panic, the figure started to stalk more of them.
Warrior tossed him a sword. "Cyber-vampire," she told him tersely. "Chop off it's head to kill it. That's all that'll kill it."
He caught the sword, and nodded once. Hangover forgotten in the surge of adrenaline, he followed her down the stairs at a death-defying pace. Half a minute later, they were in the courtyard. Warrior issued a challenge in a ringing voice that made Ringo wince, and the vampire turned to face them.
"No!" Ringo cried in horror. It was George.
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