Внутреннее тестирование Вики/E-X — различия между версиями
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Lanstiril (обсуждение | вклад) м |
Lanstiril (обсуждение | вклад) м |
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| Строка 15: | Строка 15: | ||
{{Quotation|''Bélénor Nébius, narrator''| | {{Quotation|''Bélénor Nébius, narrator''| | ||
:''"Um... One more death. A rockslide, once again." | :''"Um... One more death. A rockslide, once again." | ||
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Sitting comfortably in his rendor leather chair, elbows resting on his gorgeous solid wood desk, Tiralion Nebius was reading the latest report sent by one of his foremen. As the guild was gaining in productivity year after year, the workers' working conditions had greatly degraded. Of course, it was more profitable to continue this way, even if it meant compensating the families of the victims. But if he wanted to continue recruiting young, spirited Fyros, he had to assure them that death was not necessarily at the end of the tunnel. For Tiralion Nebius, like his father before him, was the head of the mining guild of the Pickheads, one of the largest and wealthiest guilds in the Fyros Empire. | Sitting comfortably in his rendor leather chair, elbows resting on his gorgeous solid wood desk, Tiralion Nebius was reading the latest report sent by one of his foremen. As the guild was gaining in productivity year after year, the workers' working conditions had greatly degraded. Of course, it was more profitable to continue this way, even if it meant compensating the families of the victims. But if he wanted to continue recruiting young, spirited Fyros, he had to assure them that death was not necessarily at the end of the tunnel. For Tiralion Nebius, like his father before him, was the head of the mining guild of the Pickheads, one of the largest and wealthiest guilds in the Fyros Empire. | ||
| Строка 81: | Строка 82: | ||
Belenor woke up with a start. His face was tense and his jaw clenched. His thoughts were completely clouded by the strange dream he had just had, and it took him a few seconds to understand where he was. Looking at his hands, then passing them over his forehead, he checked the color of his skin and the texture of his face. Facing him, flat on the writing table of the previous row and legs wagging, Brandille looked at him with an amused air. | Belenor woke up with a start. His face was tense and his jaw clenched. His thoughts were completely clouded by the strange dream he had just had, and it took him a few seconds to understand where he was. Looking at his hands, then passing them over his forehead, he checked the color of his skin and the texture of his face. Facing him, flat on the writing table of the previous row and legs wagging, Brandille looked at him with an amused air. | ||
| − | :''"Hey my | + | :''"Hey my Belenice ! You beledoze ?" |
Belenor sat up, slightly nauseous. He had fallen asleep during the history lesson. The amphitheater was now empty, so he assumed the class had already ended a while ago. The Fyros sighed. | Belenor sat up, slightly nauseous. He had fallen asleep during the history lesson. The amphitheater was now empty, so he assumed the class had already ended a while ago. The Fyros sighed. | ||
| Строка 102: | Строка 103: | ||
Now standing, Belenor tried to comb his red hair, disheveled by her unexpected nap, and put back her beautiful beige linen tunic. Her vertigo was passing. | Now standing, Belenor tried to comb his red hair, disheveled by her unexpected nap, and put back her beautiful beige linen tunic. Her vertigo was passing. | ||
| − | |||
| − | |||
| − | + | "I had a strange dream, yes. It involved our last History class, my young parents, a Kami visiting me in my infant bed, and the Black Mask!" | |
| − | + | Brandille abruptly jumped up on the table and raised her arms to the sky. For a few moments, her loose purple clothes and multicolored braids seemed to float. | |
| − | + | "Enor! Is today the day you and I have been waiting for? The day that will mark the return of your inspiration?!" | |
| − | + | The Fyros smiled and gathered his belongings scattered on his writing table. The parchment he had been dozing on was moist with saliva. | |
| − | + | "Maybe… If the Kamis want it. And again, I haven't told you the strangest: in my dream, the infant in my bed was the Black Mask." | |
| − | + | "Oh, Enor! Your flow is so clear! Now you are one with your character, that is sure! Praise the Winds! Goodbye hesitation, hello imagination!" | |
| − | + | "I hope you are right. I'm very much eager to get back to our story." | |
| − | + | Brandille did a salto and landed with both feet on a rough step of the amphitheater. The child waved to an absent audience and climbed the stairs in a hurry. | |
| − | + | "Anyway, don't worry, you didn't miss anything at the end of the propaganda… er, History class. Nothing, except the endless praises to the Sharükos!" | |
| − | + | The acrobat placed his hands behind his back, took a superior air and a serious voice. | |
| − | + | "Don't forget that Thesop the Builder reconstructed with his own hands the Empire, which had fallen into decadence under the reign of his brother Pyto!" | |
| − | + | Belenor, who had finished putting his belongings away, took the stairs in turn. Brandille put an arm around his waist and the two children left the amphitheater. | |
| − | + | "And you know what I think of all this tom-tom, right, Enor? Pytoful and Thesopilating." | |
| − | + | The Fyros raised his eyes to the sky. | |
| − | + | "One day, some ill-intentioned person will hear your remarks, and word will get out that you are outraging the Sharükos. Then an imperial patrol will catch you, and you will be sent back to Trykoth. You are well aware of this, aren't you? I know as well as you do what is told about Emperor Thesop. However, I remain discreet and careful." | |
| − | + | "Let them try to catch me! Nobody is faster than Brandille. Not even the rumors that go around… Oh, by the way, I'm almost done weaving my next melody! I can't wait to let you hear my inner wind." | |
| − | + | "Great news, Brandille. And with great pleasure," replied Belenor, smiling. | |
| − | + | For the friendship between the two children, both nine years old, was based above all on their common taste for art and their overflowing creativity. Bélénor drew and wrote fiction. Brandille drew, composed songs, wrote poetry, staged plays, and knew how to juggle and dance. And like two muses, both supported and inspired each other. | |
| − | + | Finally, after a few minutes of walking through the hollowed-out and nicely decorated corridors of the Academy, the two comrades passed through the great archway and found daylight again. Going down the imposing staircase, they reached the streets of Fyre, the incredible capital of the Fyros Empire. The foundations of what would later become the flagship city of the Desert had been laid two centuries earlier, when the previously nomadic Fyros began to settle down. And the location was not chosen at random. The cave city was built in a broken section of the Dragon's Ridge, the gigantic continental shelf that separated the southern part of the Desert, administered by the Fyros Empire, from the hostile and infinite ocean of dunes to the north. The crack in which the Fyros set up their city, covering several dozen square kilometers, was the probable remnant of a prehistoric catastrophe. In this place, the network of crevasses of the plateau offered multiple advantages: protection against predators, a slight but appreciable coolness, and even a little water, produced by condensation in its deepest caves. If the majority of the city's dwellings were dug directly into the high bark walls, some of which could reach a hundred meters, many buildings had been built in a more traditional way, and were bathed with light every day. For despite its semi-underground construction, the city was never short of light, as the daystar never left the zenith, but simply lost of its radiance once night came. Combined with the relative coolness of the streets of Fyre, the sunshine also allowed for the practice of a rudimentary agriculture of drought-resistant vegetables. Finally, a large wall and guard towers had been built further down the plateau, where the crevices overlooked the desert of dunes. But in truth, few were Fyros tribes not subject to the Fyros Empire daring to approach Fyre, and never before had the armies of the Matis Kingdom penetrated so deeply into the desert west. | |
| − | + | "I must take flight, Belenice! I can hear ideas germinating in my little head, I have to go quickly to water them!! If you move forward by tomorrow, will you tell me the rest of our hero's adventures?" | |
| − | + | Belenor smiled again. | |
| − | Brandille | + | "I'll do that. I indeed think that inspiration is coming back to me." |
| − | {{Couillard}} | + | |
| + | Brandille kissed her friend on the cheek, winked at him, and gambolled gracefully toward the residential areas. Belenor stared at his sandals for a moment. As he had already noticed, his muse sometimes seemed to float. In fact, he would have sworn that, once airborne, it took Brandille longer to hit the ground than other Trykers or Fyros. But more than his apparent lightness, it was his constant agitation that fascinated Belenor. For Brandille was never inert, physically or intellectually. Belenor had no memory of an immobile Brandille. No memory of an idle Brandille. Brandille was the very definition of Movement. Of Vitality. And even when her muse slept, she wriggled and hummed. Belenor took advantage of the moment and waited to see her disappear into the crowd. Then he went to the opposite side, to the beautiful districts. | ||
| + | {{Couillard}}▼ TO TRANSLATE ▼ | ||
Plongé dans ses pensées, Bélénor avançait mécaniquement en direction du palais impérial. Après plusieurs mois de batailles contre cette satanée page blanche, il allait peut-être enfin pouvoir reprendre l’écriture de son histoire. Il se sentait heureux et fébrile. Totalement ailleurs, l’enfant ne se rendit pas compte qu’il était suivi lorsqu’il tourna au coin de l’avenue principale pour emprunter la petite ruelle qui lui permettait de rejoindre plus rapidement la demeure familiale. Ce n’est que lorsqu’il leva la tête qu’il comprit qu'il était tombé dans un piège. Au bout de l’allée, deux Fyros marchaient dans sa direction : une jeune fille aux cheveux blond platine et à la musculature marquée, et un gigantesque garçon au crâne rasé, chacun vêtu d’une tenue faite à partir de bandes de cuirs de mauvaise qualité. Cette tenue, très populaire parmi les habitants de la cité, était fabriquée à bas prix à partir de chutes de cuir et offrait une grande durabilité. Bélénor pivota, pensant regagner rapidement l’avenue bondée, mais percuta ce faisant le torse d’un autre garçon, en tout point identique à celui qui se trouvait désormais dans son dos. S’il ne connaissait pas la fille, il reconnut sans mal les deux garçons : les jumeaux Varran et Garius Décos, avec qui il partageait de nombreux cours à l’Académie. Il savait d’ailleurs ce qu’ils avaient à lui reprocher, et imaginait sans peine comment allait se terminer leur “discussion“. Car malheureusement, Bélénor était coutumier de ce genre de situations. Varran posa ses grosses mains poussiéreuses sur les épaulières d’ambre de la belle tunique de Bélénor. | Plongé dans ses pensées, Bélénor avançait mécaniquement en direction du palais impérial. Après plusieurs mois de batailles contre cette satanée page blanche, il allait peut-être enfin pouvoir reprendre l’écriture de son histoire. Il se sentait heureux et fébrile. Totalement ailleurs, l’enfant ne se rendit pas compte qu’il était suivi lorsqu’il tourna au coin de l’avenue principale pour emprunter la petite ruelle qui lui permettait de rejoindre plus rapidement la demeure familiale. Ce n’est que lorsqu’il leva la tête qu’il comprit qu'il était tombé dans un piège. Au bout de l’allée, deux Fyros marchaient dans sa direction : une jeune fille aux cheveux blond platine et à la musculature marquée, et un gigantesque garçon au crâne rasé, chacun vêtu d’une tenue faite à partir de bandes de cuirs de mauvaise qualité. Cette tenue, très populaire parmi les habitants de la cité, était fabriquée à bas prix à partir de chutes de cuir et offrait une grande durabilité. Bélénor pivota, pensant regagner rapidement l’avenue bondée, mais percuta ce faisant le torse d’un autre garçon, en tout point identique à celui qui se trouvait désormais dans son dos. S’il ne connaissait pas la fille, il reconnut sans mal les deux garçons : les jumeaux Varran et Garius Décos, avec qui il partageait de nombreux cours à l’Académie. Il savait d’ailleurs ce qu’ils avaient à lui reprocher, et imaginait sans peine comment allait se terminer leur “discussion“. Car malheureusement, Bélénor était coutumier de ce genre de situations. Varran posa ses grosses mains poussiéreuses sur les épaulières d’ambre de la belle tunique de Bélénor. | ||
