Внутреннее тестирование Вики/E-III — различия между версиями
Материал из ЭнциклопАтис
Lanstiril (обсуждение | вклад) м |
Lanstiril (обсуждение | вклад) м |
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| (не показано 7 промежуточных версий этого же участника) | |||
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{{Внутреннее тестирование Вики| | {{Внутреннее тестирование Вики| | ||
| − | {{NavChap|[[Chapter II - Brotherhood]]|[[ | + | {{NavChap|[[Chapter II - Brotherhood]]|[[The Sacred War#Table of contents|Table of contents]]|[[Chapter IV - Sylvan Exile]]}} |
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|DE=<!--Kapitel III - Sterben um wiedergeboren --> | |DE=<!--Kapitel III - Sterben um wiedergeboren --> | ||
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:''"Father is right, I must do it alone. Have faith in me, everyone, I will know to do our name honor." | :''"Father is right, I must do it alone. Have faith in me, everyone, I will know to do our name honor." | ||
| − | Pü said these few words while gritting his teeth, squinting to control himself. He left the hut without looking at his family and picked up the sacred basin on the ground, which was emptied and filled with water every evening in anticipation of the great moment. Undressing completely, he knelt down and poured the contents of the well over his head, as the tradition asked. Under normal circumstances, '''the bite of the icy water''' would probably have seemed painful to him. But as the burn of the shoot bruised his face, the sensation of the icy liquid was almost life-saving. Naked as a newborn and washed of his impurities, he was now ready to be reborn during the ritual. But he still had to survive until then. Still kneeling, the young Zorai opened the small chest put next to the now empty basin. It contained two tools that were essential to the sprouting ceremony: a ceremonial dagger and a whistler-stick. | + | Pü said these few words while gritting his teeth, squinting to control himself. He left the hut without looking at his family and picked up the sacred basin on the ground, which was emptied and filled with water every evening in anticipation of the great moment. Undressing completely, he knelt down and poured the contents of the well over his head, as the tradition asked. Under normal circumstances, '''the bite of the icy water''' would probably have seemed painful to him. But as the burn of the shoot bruised his face, the sensation of the icy liquid was almost life-saving. Naked as a newborn and washed of his impurities, he was now ready to be reborn during the ritual. But he still had to survive until then. Still kneeling, the young Zorai opened the small chest put next to the now empty basin. It contained two tools that were essential to the sprouting ceremony: a ceremonial dagger and a whistler-stick. Pü put the whistler-stick in his mouth and struggled to his feet. Finally, with the dagger in his hand, he headed for the deeper place in the village: the Ceremonial Square. |
With each of the child's exhalations, the whistle emitted a melodious and strangely evanescent chant that everyone within the stump knew. Whistler-sticks were sacred objects, carved from the femurs of tribe's ancestors. Their singing allowed the villagers to know that one of their own was coming of age, but also to communicate with the Kamis, who seemed to be able to hear them everywhere. More practically, the whistle also prevented the nascent mask from covering the Zorai's mouth, or even seeping into it, at the risk of killing him. Helping himself to the walls and barriers to progress, Pü advanced laboriously, his affliction preventing him from controlling his steps perfectly, between the moving slats of the suspended bridges and the tortuous alleys. Fortunately, he knew every corner of the village, and knew instinctively how to avoid the roots that sometimes intertwined under his feet. He could have moved around there with his eyes closed, guided by the slopes, the characteristic smell of each hut, the nightly cries of the izams installed in the vegetal niches of the bark ceiling, and the bewitching echo coming from the abyss wells that sank beneath the bark. If he usually cherished the night walks, the crossing seemed to him today infinitely long, punctuated by impulses of pain that started from his skull and split his whole being. One of them was particularly heartbreaking. His legs gave out on him as he took a hollowed-out staircase that led to a middle landing in the village. He hurtled down a steep slope, tearing up some roots in the process, and crashed to the ground. As he fell, the dagger and whistler-stick slipped from his grasp and fluttered a few feet away from him. Slumped on the cold carpet of lichens, he thought his head would explode, and put a fist in his mouth freed from the whistle to stifle his howls. Luckily, he was still alone, and no one was in situation to discover the pitiful state he was in. | With each of the child's exhalations, the whistle emitted a melodious and strangely evanescent chant that everyone within the stump knew. Whistler-sticks were sacred objects, carved from the femurs of tribe's ancestors. Their singing allowed the villagers to know that one of their own was coming of age, but also to communicate with the Kamis, who seemed to be able to hear them everywhere. More practically, the whistle also prevented the nascent mask from covering the Zorai's mouth, or even seeping into it, at the risk of killing him. Helping himself to the walls and barriers to progress, Pü advanced laboriously, his affliction preventing him from controlling his steps perfectly, between the moving slats of the suspended bridges and the tortuous alleys. Fortunately, he knew every corner of the village, and knew instinctively how to avoid the roots that sometimes intertwined under his feet. He could have moved around there with his eyes closed, guided by the slopes, the characteristic smell of each hut, the nightly cries of the izams installed in the vegetal niches of the bark ceiling, and the bewitching echo coming from the abyss wells that sank beneath the bark. If he usually cherished the night walks, the crossing seemed to him today infinitely long, punctuated by impulses of pain that started from his skull and split his whole being. One of them was particularly heartbreaking. His legs gave out on him as he took a hollowed-out staircase that led to a middle landing in the village. He hurtled down a steep slope, tearing up some roots in the process, and crashed to the ground. As he fell, the dagger and whistler-stick slipped from his grasp and fluttered a few feet away from him. Slumped on the cold carpet of lichens, he thought his head would explode, and put a fist in his mouth freed from the whistle to stifle his howls. Luckily, he was still alone, and no one was in situation to discover the pitiful state he was in. | ||
| Строка 40: | Строка 40: | ||
Driven mad by the pain, Pü was feeling his jaw joints distend, some of his teeth loosen, and the skin on his cheeks crack as he was managing to force his entire fist into his mouth. With his free hand, he pulled out a clump of blue hair, bleeding. His eyes rolled backwards as he convulsed on the floor. He could feel the bone material tearing at his flesh and growing against his forehead. How could he bear such pain? It was inconceivable, there was no chance of him surviving that. Letting baleful thoughts darken his reason, he was about to give up. It was then that he appeared in front of him, between two spasms: out of nothingness, a Black Kami was now leaning over his body. The protective spirit of Atys, whom Pü assumed had answered the call of the whistle, was in every way similar to the one that had appeared to him four years earlier, in his mother's workshop. Over the past few years, his mother's religious teaching had paid off. Pü had become a devout practitioner, who was feeling a deep and sincere love for Ma-Duk and the Kamis, and absolute gratitude with regard to them. A few months ago, his mother had revealed to him that she and his father had found it very difficult to conceive him, and that everything had changed after Looï had gone to meet the Kamis. A few days later, she got pregnant. So Pü was, more than anyone else, grateful to the Kamis. The child looked at the creature's arm, pointing in the direction of Ceremonial Square, and then at its eyes. Its big white eyes. His big white eyes that, empty four years before, were now filled with shame. '''What miserable image was he giving to Ma-Duk?''' He was besmirching the name of his ancestors. The normally calm young Zorai felt a fierce anger towards himself. He furiously tore his fist from his throat, knocking out a few teeth and expelling nausea in the process. Crawling piteously, he managed to retrieve his dagger and whistle stick, and when he stood up, the Kami was gone. Had he dreamed it, or was it a warning from the Great Originator? Ma-Duk's gaze was on him now, he could feel it. He spat out bile and blood, bit into the whistle, and resumed his descent. | Driven mad by the pain, Pü was feeling his jaw joints distend, some of his teeth loosen, and the skin on his cheeks crack as he was managing to force his entire fist into his mouth. With his free hand, he pulled out a clump of blue hair, bleeding. His eyes rolled backwards as he convulsed on the floor. He could feel the bone material tearing at his flesh and growing against his forehead. How could he bear such pain? It was inconceivable, there was no chance of him surviving that. Letting baleful thoughts darken his reason, he was about to give up. It was then that he appeared in front of him, between two spasms: out of nothingness, a Black Kami was now leaning over his body. The protective spirit of Atys, whom Pü assumed had answered the call of the whistle, was in every way similar to the one that had appeared to him four years earlier, in his mother's workshop. Over the past few years, his mother's religious teaching had paid off. Pü had become a devout practitioner, who was feeling a deep and sincere love for Ma-Duk and the Kamis, and absolute gratitude with regard to them. A few months ago, his mother had revealed to him that she and his father had found it very difficult to conceive him, and that everything had changed after Looï had gone to meet the Kamis. A few days later, she got pregnant. So Pü was, more than anyone else, grateful to the Kamis. The child looked at the creature's arm, pointing in the direction of Ceremonial Square, and then at its eyes. Its big white eyes. His big white eyes that, empty four years before, were now filled with shame. '''What miserable image was he giving to Ma-Duk?''' He was besmirching the name of his ancestors. The normally calm young Zorai felt a fierce anger towards himself. He furiously tore his fist from his throat, knocking out a few teeth and expelling nausea in the process. Crawling piteously, he managed to retrieve his dagger and whistle stick, and when he stood up, the Kami was gone. Had he dreamed it, or was it a warning from the Great Originator? Ma-Duk's gaze was on him now, he could feel it. He spat out bile and blood, bit into the whistle, and resumed his descent. | ||
| − | Pü | + | Pü had almost reached his destination when he saw the first glimmers of light between the huts, now well above him. Finally, he climbed down a ladder, with difficulty, reaching the deepest part of the village. Here the light was scarcer, and the cold of the deep caves was rising to the surface. The Ceremonial Square was a large circular pit about twenty-five meters in diameter, five meters deep, and the bottom was covered with bark chips. Apart from the gigantic totem pole that occupied the center, it was completely empty. The structure was an impressive wooden pylon completely covered with Zoraïs masks tattooed with various pictograms. These tattoos represented the merit of the Zorai. The more a mask was tattooed, the more deserving the Zorai was. The ultimate tattoo consited of a total covering of all the others, the origin of the so revered Black Mask. Moreover, only those tribesmen who had respected the precepts of the Black Cult of Ma-Duk all their lives could hope to appear on the totem pole at their death. '''Surviving alone the growth of the mask was one of these precepts'''. With trembling legs, Pü knelt halfway between the ladder and the totem pole and stabbed his dagger into the ground. His vision blurred by pain, he lingered on each of the faces, invoking the names of his heroes, and seeking in their deadened gaze a way to lessen his torment. He had already repeated his prayer a great many times when the first member of the tribe joined him in the square, as the sharp growth was beginning to pass his eyebrows. Blinded by the cephalgias and the drops of acidic sweat that beaded in his eyes, the young Zorai did not succeed in making out the newcomer. He had to wait for him to speak. |
:''"Don't be the cause of another dishonor, son. If I train you every day since you could hold a dagger, I have not only taught you to fight." | :''"Don't be the cause of another dishonor, son. If I train you every day since you could hold a dagger, I have not only taught you to fight." | ||
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Shaken by these new sensations, her words, and especially the excruciating thought of abandoning her for so long, Pü loosened his grip and ran without a word to one of the ladders of the main square. He met the eyes of several villagers, including his brother. Curiously, he did not succed in deciphering it. It seemed strangely empty. Pü climbed in haste the different levels of the city without ever turning around: if he crossed his mother's face again, he might not be able to leave. Finally, he crossed the large and disturbing breach that served as the entrance to the village and passed the edge of the jungle. Forgetting for the first time his physical pain, he hurried without stopping, illuminated through the tops of the tall trees by the light of Jena's cursed star. He didn't even know where he was going, devastated as he was by this last moment with his mother. Reaching the edge of his limits, he collapsed on the wet leafy ground and started to scream in pain. His father knew. This special moment of tenderness was a bad idea, he has been right. The pain, that wasn't his mask, it was his heart. | Shaken by these new sensations, her words, and especially the excruciating thought of abandoning her for so long, Pü loosened his grip and ran without a word to one of the ladders of the main square. He met the eyes of several villagers, including his brother. Curiously, he did not succed in deciphering it. It seemed strangely empty. Pü climbed in haste the different levels of the city without ever turning around: if he crossed his mother's face again, he might not be able to leave. Finally, he crossed the large and disturbing breach that served as the entrance to the village and passed the edge of the jungle. Forgetting for the first time his physical pain, he hurried without stopping, illuminated through the tops of the tall trees by the light of Jena's cursed star. He didn't even know where he was going, devastated as he was by this last moment with his mother. Reaching the edge of his limits, he collapsed on the wet leafy ground and started to scream in pain. His father knew. This special moment of tenderness was a bad idea, he has been right. The pain, that wasn't his mask, it was his heart. | ||
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