Jaja, ich weiss, ich sollte mich erstmal begonnenem widmen aber nachdem mir mir festplatte mit den entwuerfen verreckt ist muss ich jetzt sachen nochmal schreiben, die ich im kopf schon abgehakt hatte :angry:
zuerst mal dank an shoker, dass er mir die dunkelelfen zurueck in den wahrnehmungshorizont gekickt hat.
noch eine kurze anmerkung zur uebersetzung, da die sprache der druchii sich von der der menschen grundlegend unterscheidet sind fuer jedes gesprochene wort unzaehlige moeglichkeiten gegeben, hier zu lesen ist eine annaeherung, jedoch keine praezise uebersetzung.😀
ich glaube ich lasse hierzu einfach mal einen meiner meist geliebte, wenn auch lange toten rpg- nscs sprechen: "This is a story of love and sorrow, a story of loss and hatred. a story as fantastic and unbelievable as one might think of. and yet it is true, for this my friend is an elven story..." klappe zu jetzt, galaher, denn der vorhang oeffnet sich...
The Bone Orchard
Part I A storm is coming
zuerst mal dank an shoker, dass er mir die dunkelelfen zurueck in den wahrnehmungshorizont gekickt hat.
noch eine kurze anmerkung zur uebersetzung, da die sprache der druchii sich von der der menschen grundlegend unterscheidet sind fuer jedes gesprochene wort unzaehlige moeglichkeiten gegeben, hier zu lesen ist eine annaeherung, jedoch keine praezise uebersetzung.😀
ich glaube ich lasse hierzu einfach mal einen meiner meist geliebte, wenn auch lange toten rpg- nscs sprechen: "This is a story of love and sorrow, a story of loss and hatred. a story as fantastic and unbelievable as one might think of. and yet it is true, for this my friend is an elven story..." klappe zu jetzt, galaher, denn der vorhang oeffnet sich...
The Bone Orchard
Part I A storm is coming
A lord of old,
a crystal crown,
warded threefold
in the garden of bone.
Warded by sea and spear and stone.
The prophecy of the bone orchard
a crystal crown,
warded threefold
in the garden of bone.
Warded by sea and spear and stone.
The prophecy of the bone orchard
Light as red as blood was leaking from the braziers. The coals glowing in the darkness made the shadows grow rather than shrink. And indistinctive figures were dancing on stone, the cave a battleground of ghosts, souls long lost and gone...
"The one who dwells in shadow will try to trick you! He will betray you, if you forget..." A voice, faint and unknown clung to his mind like cobwebs, shards of memory, broken glass.
"Look into the mirror..." A hoarse whisper, one among a thousand. But the prophet was smiling, and suddenly the dreamer knew: this was real.
His face a ruin, where the spear had ripped through his flesh, his eyes like embers, glowing like madness in the dark the scholar of shadow and death stood beside the well. His wolfish grin tearing his face apart, blood dripping into the clear waters, obscuring the story they told.
Although the dreamer was stricken with terror of that smiling half-face, hovering in the blackness he did, as he had been told.
And the prophet spoke again...
"Look into the mirror. For soon you will fade, forget and be forgotten. And only the ivory trees of the bone orchard will sing your death..."
The smile grew wide and wider, "And I will have my revenge, oh king of nothing."
It was then that the dreamer stepped forward.
And he saw, and he remembered...
A wind was arising in the mountains of doom, as winter awoke. And it's breath spread far across the land, over woods, dark and hidden in the misty dreams of autumn, over high cliffs of broken stone it flew, until it reached the sea.
Black ships were cutting through the waves, wood moaned, and the sails were singing.
Packed into their holds were hundreds of slaves, rowing the oars, groveling in their own dirt. Their skin scorched by the whip, sweat burning in their wounds. Many had died, and sometimes the living envied the dead, for they had lost everything, even their memories of home, their dreams of hope, which were more painful than any torture, their dark masters seemed able to think of. For not even in their worst nightmares the children of the east had seen the darkness of the days to come. But the ships kept on crawling over the cold waters like giant insects. The drums beating like restless hearts. Full of hatred and rage, and hunger that all life in the world couldn't feed.
Sometimes one of the beasts, which were chained to the largest of the slave-ships raised it's head above the waves and screamed. A shrieking noise that made even the creaking planks, which had known a hundred lifetimes of misery shiver.
At the prow of this devourer of souls stood a lonely figure, staring into the west, where black clouds were rising. 200 long years had come and gone, since he had fled the tower of doom, going into exile.
His name was Vythrael, Aendar'yss, the Stormlord he was called and he was dreaming, dreaming of a treasure long lost.
Golden her hair had been and even among the elves, who were known to be the fairest of mortals her beauty had been legend.
She had been his, a thousand lifetimes ago it seemed.
"Mylord, a storm is coming,..." the captains harsh voice shattered his memories, and every shard cut bleeding wounds.
"Shall I give orders to change course?"
"No, captain, for too long I have waited, hidden and run. Let the waves and wind sing of my return. Naggaroth deems us welcome..."
So, hier die einfuehrung (wer mir den philosophen nennen kann, von dem ich das hoehlengleichnis geklaut hab kriegt nen gedankenkeks), ich hoffe es gefaellt, und sobald ich meine lyrische ader entdeckt hab und mich ein wenig in den hintern trete gehts auch mit den anderen geschichten weiter, bis dahin pog mahon
danke fuer eure geschaetzte aufmerksamkeit
the_lifeless
"The one who dwells in shadow will try to trick you! He will betray you, if you forget..." A voice, faint and unknown clung to his mind like cobwebs, shards of memory, broken glass.
"Look into the mirror..." A hoarse whisper, one among a thousand. But the prophet was smiling, and suddenly the dreamer knew: this was real.
His face a ruin, where the spear had ripped through his flesh, his eyes like embers, glowing like madness in the dark the scholar of shadow and death stood beside the well. His wolfish grin tearing his face apart, blood dripping into the clear waters, obscuring the story they told.
Although the dreamer was stricken with terror of that smiling half-face, hovering in the blackness he did, as he had been told.
And the prophet spoke again...
"Look into the mirror. For soon you will fade, forget and be forgotten. And only the ivory trees of the bone orchard will sing your death..."
The smile grew wide and wider, "And I will have my revenge, oh king of nothing."
It was then that the dreamer stepped forward.
And he saw, and he remembered...
A wind was arising in the mountains of doom, as winter awoke. And it's breath spread far across the land, over woods, dark and hidden in the misty dreams of autumn, over high cliffs of broken stone it flew, until it reached the sea.
Black ships were cutting through the waves, wood moaned, and the sails were singing.
Packed into their holds were hundreds of slaves, rowing the oars, groveling in their own dirt. Their skin scorched by the whip, sweat burning in their wounds. Many had died, and sometimes the living envied the dead, for they had lost everything, even their memories of home, their dreams of hope, which were more painful than any torture, their dark masters seemed able to think of. For not even in their worst nightmares the children of the east had seen the darkness of the days to come. But the ships kept on crawling over the cold waters like giant insects. The drums beating like restless hearts. Full of hatred and rage, and hunger that all life in the world couldn't feed.
Sometimes one of the beasts, which were chained to the largest of the slave-ships raised it's head above the waves and screamed. A shrieking noise that made even the creaking planks, which had known a hundred lifetimes of misery shiver.
At the prow of this devourer of souls stood a lonely figure, staring into the west, where black clouds were rising. 200 long years had come and gone, since he had fled the tower of doom, going into exile.
His name was Vythrael, Aendar'yss, the Stormlord he was called and he was dreaming, dreaming of a treasure long lost.
Golden her hair had been and even among the elves, who were known to be the fairest of mortals her beauty had been legend.
She had been his, a thousand lifetimes ago it seemed.
"Mylord, a storm is coming,..." the captains harsh voice shattered his memories, and every shard cut bleeding wounds.
"Shall I give orders to change course?"
"No, captain, for too long I have waited, hidden and run. Let the waves and wind sing of my return. Naggaroth deems us welcome..."
So, hier die einfuehrung (wer mir den philosophen nennen kann, von dem ich das hoehlengleichnis geklaut hab kriegt nen gedankenkeks), ich hoffe es gefaellt, und sobald ich meine lyrische ader entdeckt hab und mich ein wenig in den hintern trete gehts auch mit den anderen geschichten weiter, bis dahin pog mahon
danke fuer eure geschaetzte aufmerksamkeit
the_lifeless
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