Внутреннее тестирование Вики/E-XIII — различия между версиями

Версия 20:18, 21 апреля 2022

Шаблон:Внутреннее тестирование Вики

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 <noinclude>{{Trad
 |DE=<!--Kapitel XIII - Die Wüste der hundert Gefahren-->
-|EN=Chapter XIII - The Desert of a Hundred Perils|ENs=2
+|EN=Chapter XIII - The Desert of a Hundred Perils|ENs=4
 |ES=<!--Capítulo XIII - El desierto de los cien peligros-->
 |FR=Chapitre XIII - Le désert aux cent périls|FRs=0
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 Suddenly his chest rose. And time froze. Out of breath and with dilated pupils, Belenor stared at the strange root that clutched his left ankle. A root with five fingers. Understanding who the hand belonged to, the Fyros instantly grasped the magnitude of the threat: they had to leave the root bridge at all costs and reach the desert plateau. Belenor barely had time to shout "Riders!" when a hatchet sprang up from the sawdust and sliced off his foot. At the same time, several of his comrades fell to the ground. And like Kamis, thirty or so beings sprang up from the root, as if they had been one with the bark until then. Reacting as quickly as he could, Garius plunged his huge hand into the sawdust and grabbed the throat of the homin in ambush in his hideout. Without further ado, he appealed to his superhomin strength and sent him tumbling five metres away. The savage bounced violently off the bark, tried in vain to secure a grip, then fell screaming into the abyss. Never had Belenor been so reassured by Garius' presence as he was at this moment. Disregarding any pain, the Fyros grabbed his severed foot and positioned it on its stump. The operation would take a few minutes, but he knew that he would be able to reattach his foot with the powers of the Sap. Naturally, Garius stayed with his friend. Drawing his gigantic axe, he verbally threatened the Dune Riders who tried to approach him. With a quick glance, Belenor took stock of the skirmish: while Melkiar, Varran and a few soldiers had rushed at the Dune Riders, and had already managed to kill several of them, Xynala was trying to keep them away from the wounded ones, now in Brandille's hands. As for Tisse Apoan, she was scanning the horizon with her rifle. Soon the number of Dune Riders dwindled, and five of their number found themselves trapped between Garius on one side and the rest of the soldiers on the other. Unfortunately, the ambush seemed to be only part of the enemy's plan.
-▼ TO TRANSLATE ▼
-« Homins ! À l’ouest ! » hurla Tisse, qui surveillait les alentours depuis la zone sécurisée par Xynala.
-Et en effet, à quelques dizaines de mètres de la mêlée, à l’endroit où le pont racinaire permettait de rejoindre la plaine désertique menant à Fort Kronk, un peloton d’homins était en train de se former. Si Bélénor espéra qu’ils soient des renforts venus de Fort Kronk, il déchanta instantanément en reconnaissant le drapeau de la tribu ennemie. Désormais, les Sauvages survivants n’étaient plus les seuls à être encerclés. Malgré cet état de fait, Melkiar garda son sang-froid et encouragea ses camarades.
+:''"Homins! To the west!"'' shouted Tisse, who was watching the surroundings from the area secured by Xynala.
-« Soldats, ne faiblissez pas ! Nous sommes mieux équipés et entraînés qu’eux. Aussi nombreux soient-ils, tant que vous suivrez ce que nous avons appris, rien ne nous arrivera ! »
+And indeed, a few dozen meters from the melee, where the root bridge allowed to join the desert plain leading to Fort Kronk, a platoon of homins was forming. If Belenor hoped they were reinforcements from Fort Kronk, he was instantly disillusioned when he recognised the flag of the enemy tribe. The surviving Dune Riders were no longer the only ones to be surrounded. Despite this, Melkiar kept his composure and encouraged his comrades.
-Bélénor, dont le pied gauche avait finalement repris vie, se plaça derrière Garius. Aussi périlleuse que fût la situation, il savait que Melkiar voyait juste. Il leur suffisait de rester concentrés et d’appliquer tout ce qu’ils avaient vu durant les mises en situation passées. Après tout, ce n’était pas la première fois qu’ils affrontaient des Sauvages. Et si ces homins étaient définitivement les meilleurs quand il s’agissait de tendre des pièges ou de survivre dans des environnements extrêmes, ils restaient bien moins impressionnants en combat rangé. Le Fyros soupira et posa ses mains gantées sur l’immense dos de Garius. Qu’il soit l’auteur d’une histoire de guerre de religion ne signifiait pas qu’il cautionnait ou appréciait les luttes armées. D’ailleurs, il restait très critique vis-à-vis de l'Armée impériale. S’il s’était inscrit en tant que réserviste, c’était simplement pour voyager avec ses amis, découvrir le pays, vivre des moments uniques et ressentir de nouvelles émotions. Pour ennuyer ses parents, aussi. Car avant cette expédition, tout son quotidien se résumait à Fyre. Et pas n’importe quelle Fyre. La Fyre riche, confortable et culturelle, accessible aux seuls bourgeois dont il était. Alors que ces cinq dernières années, ses amis avaient progressivement commencé à s’émanciper de la capitale, lui s’était enlisé dans une routine mondaine. Une vie qu’il chérissait, pour son confort et sa richesse culturelle, et qu’il méprisait tout autant, tant elle lui rappelait ce qu’il détestait chez ses parents… Des parents auxquels il avait l’impression de ressembler, bien malgré lui. Car à vingt-et-un ans, Bélénor n’aimait pas l’homin qu’il était devenu. C’est sous l’impulsion de Brandille, mais surtout de Garius, qu’il avait finalement décidé de sortir de sa zone de confort et d’accompagner Melkiar jusqu’au bout du monde. Pourtant, aujourd’hui, et malgré tout ce qu’il avait appris durant son voyage, il regrettait d’être parti. Jamais. Jamais il ne s’était habitué à la mort. Jamais il ne s’était attendu à en rêver la nuit. Définitivement, sa place était derrière un bureau, la plume à la main, et non pas sur un champ de bataille.
+:''"Soldiers, do not weaken! We are better equipped and trained than they are. No matter how many of them there are, as long as you follow what we have learned, nothing will happen to us!"
-Croisant par dessous l’aisselle de Garius le regard désorienté d’un Sauvage au teint maladif, Bélénor se rappela des émotions qu’ils l’avaient traversé les quelques fois où il avait lui-même frôlé la mort, les semaines passées. Et alors qu’il s’imaginait réussir à demander leur reddition, le peloton de Sauvages, juché au bord de la crevasse, se mit à entrechoquer ses armes en rythme. Au même moment, l’un d’entre eux se mit à pousser des cris rauques, toujours en cadence. Ses cris furent bientôt repris par tous ses compagnons. C’était la première fois que Bélénor assistait à cette pratique tribale. Interloqué, il échangea un regard avec Melkiar, qui semblait partager sa confusion. Et puis soudainement, le rythme s’accéléra, et les Sauvages positionnés au centre de la racine se collèrent les uns aux autres pour former un groupe compact, comme s’ils cherchaient à protéger quelque chose. Croisant à nouveau le regard du Sauvage souffreteux, Bélénor déglutit. Une profonde détermination y était désormais inscrite. Et sans qu’il ne sache pourquoi, une vision d’horreur le traversa. Commandé par son instinct, le Fyros hurla de tout son être :
-« Fuyez, ils vont se faire sauter ! »
+Belenor, whose left foot had finally come back to life, took up position behind Garius. As perilous as the situation was, he knew Melkiar was right. All they had to do was stay focused and apply everything they'd seen in past scenarios. After all, this wasn't the first time they faced Dune Riders. And while these homins were definitely the best at setting traps and surviving in extreme environments, they were far less impressive in pitched combat. The Fyros sighed and placed his gloved hands on Garius' huge back. The fact that he had written a story about a religious war did not mean that he endorsed or appreciated armed fights. In fact, he remained very critical of the Imperial Army. If he had signed up as a reservist, it was simply to travel with his friends, to discover the country, to live unique moments and to feel new emotions. To annoy his parents, too. Because before this expedition, his whole life was about Fyre. And not just any Fyre. The rich, comfortable and cultural Fyre, accessible only to the bourgeoisie, of which he was one.While his friends had gradually begun to emancipate themselves from the capital over the past five years, he had become bogged down in a sociable routine. A life that he cherished for its comfort and cultural richness, and that he despised just as much, so much it reminded him of what he hated about his parents... Parents whom he had the impression of resembling, despite himself. Because at twenty-one, Belenor did not like the homin he had become. It was under the impulse of Brandille, but especially Garius, that he had finally decided to leave his comfort zone and accompany Melkiar to the end of the world. However, today, and despite all that he had learned during his journey, he regretted having left. Never. Never had he gotten used to death. Never had he expected to dream about it at night. Definitely, his place was behind a desk, pen in hand, not on a battlefield.
-Bélénor, qui s’apprêtait à s’élancer en arrière, eut tout juste le temps de lancer un ultime regard à Melkiar. Pour la première, et peut-être pour la dernière fois de sa vie, il lut de la terreur dans les yeux de son ami. L’explosion fut terrible. Sans qu’il ne puisse rien faire, l’onde de choc le projeta contre la paroi de la crevasse, qu’il percuta de plein fouet. Inconscient, il chuta alors dans les profondeurs d’Atys, dans une pluie de feu, de bois brisé et de morceaux de chair calcinée.}}
+Crossing under Garius's armpit the disorientated gaze of a sickly-skinned Dune Rider, Belenor remembered the emotions that had run through him the few times he himself had come close to death in the past weeks. And just as he imagined he would succeed in demanding their surrender, the squad of Riders perched on the edge of the crevasse began to bang together their weapons in rhythm. At the same time, one of them began to utter hoarse shouts, still in cadence. His cries were soon echoed by all his companions. This was the first time Belenor had witnessed this tribal practice. Taken aback, he exchanged a glance with Melkiar, who seemed to share his confusion. Then suddenly the pace quickened, and the Dune Riders in the centre of the root stuck together to form a compact group, as if they were trying to protect something. Belenor swallowed as he met the eyes of the sickly Rider again. A deep determination was now inscribed in them. And without his knowing why, a vision of horror passed through him. Commanded by his instinct, the Fyros screamed with all his being:
+"Flee, they'll blow themselves up!"
+Belenor, who was preparing to rush back, had just enough time to give Melkiar a last look. For the first, and perhaps the last time in his life, he saw terror in his friend's eyes. The explosion was terrible. Without him being able to do anything, the shock wave threw him against the wall of the crevasse, which he hit head-on. Unconscious, he fell into the depths of Atys, in a shower of fire, broken wood and pieces of charred flesh.}}
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Версия 20:18, 21 апреля 2022