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【书籍搬运】Fall of the Snow Prince 雪王子的陨落

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原文地址:http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Fall_of_the_Snow_Prince

作者:洛克海默

翻译:花溪流萤

当他骑乘胯下煞白骐骥杀入战场之时,犹如神兵天降,我们甚至连他从何处杀出都一无所知。尽管我们可以确信他是精灵,但是他是如此卓尔不群,绝非之前所见那些寻常精灵可比。他的盔甲及长矛周遭充盈着未知魔法光脉,绽射出来绚丽光华,这些非凡装扮更令这位不知名的骑手神威凛凛,一望便知绝非等闲之辈。

然而最使我们担忧甚至感到恐惧的是—当他出现之际,精灵战线爆发出的山呼战吼。吼声毫无惧意,毫不泄气,尽是桀骜恣肆狂喜,如同垂死之人再次看到重生之光一般。随着索尔斯丹姆的战争节节失利,精灵已经是在灭亡边缘苦苦挣扎,毛思琳之战正是双方这场夺岛大战的最后一役。在伊斯格拉莫领导之下,天际精灵已被驱逐一空,岛上精灵余孽同样难逃覆亡命运。战士们挥舞着最为卓越的诺德铁匠所打造出的宝剑利斧,已在敌方防线之上撕开一条巨大缺口,毛思琳大地业已被精灵鲜血染的猩红。那么,为何敌人还会欣喜若狂,一位单枪匹马骑士莫非真能力挽狂澜,竟可以给这支毫无胜算败军注入如此大的希望?

我们之中大多数人认为,这阵吼声寓意非常明显,只不过是精灵慌不择路之下,迸发出的绝望哀求以及嘶喊。然而我们队伍当中那些能够读出其中真意的学者及历史学家,却是个个颤栗不安。

“雪王子现!大难临头!”

喧哗之后,一切重归沉寂,精灵战士默然肃立,夹道两旁,雪王子疾驰于队伍中间,宛如一条劈开迦丁(Fjalding )湖冰凉雪水的战舰,随后这位佚名骑手胯下白马速度逐渐放慢,等到跃马阵前之时,马匹速度已经变得亦步亦趋,直如幽魅一般诡异。

诺德战士个个久经沙场,很少会在战场之上大惊小怪。但是很难想像,生死搏杀战场之上自己竟会因为敬畏以及不安而在一个瞬间变得万籁无声,这就是雪王子的慑人影响力。精灵欢呼之声平息之后,我方仍然如同沉睡般的静谧。之后战事重启,战斗双方不论是诺德人还是精灵心中都已知晓—这场毛思琳山坡的战斗没有胜者,唯一可以确定的是双方均会伤亡惨重。在那天中,伟大的雪王子,这位不凡精灵,的确成了我军天灾,杀人无算。

他像一团能够摧城拔寨的暴风雪,并以迅雷不及掩耳之势扫荡我方阵地。事实上在他周围确有冰雪在缠绕翻腾,如同听其召唤为之助威一般。长矛所到之处无不披靡,任何阻挡之人无不成为枪下亡魂,我们当中多位英雄死在他的手下,铁手乌弗吉,斯特罗姆· 怀特,橡杖弗雷达,狂暴希姆达,全都埋骨毛思琳山脉中。

战事首次出现变数,雪王子战意激励下的精灵,集合起来孤注一掷般的向着我军疯狂反击,然而,突然之间,毛思琳战役出现了大逆转最终戏剧性的收场。

芬娜,约芙瑞尔之女,一位依偎在母亲身边的女孩,目睹雪王子杀死自己唯一的亲人之后,拾起约芙瑞尔之剑,猛地将其掷向杀人凶手。下一瞬间,精灵手中闪闪发亮长矛鸣奏出的死亡之舞戛然而止,战场再次静了下来,所有人都将惊讶的目光投向雪王子的身上。但是其中最为吃惊的还属雪王子本人。他端坐骏马之上,眼睁睁的看着约芙瑞尔佩剑穿胸而过。然后,他便溘然倒地,战死疆场。雪王子就这样亡于一个孩子之手。

随着救世主的轰然倒下,精灵战士再无斗志,纷纷四散溃逃,残部也很快倒在诺德战士的利斧下。只留下了累累死尸。战场废墟之上,雪王子那熠熠盔甲战矛仍能让人忆起他的生前勇武。即使他已战死,我们仍然对他心存敬畏。

依照我们传统习惯,战场死尸都要焚烧处理。这种举措十分必要,毕竟死尸横陈令人恐惧,并会传播疾病。我们决定,要将索尔斯丹姆战场之上敌我双方尸体统统都处理掉。但是,雪王子他不应这样草草火化。这位备受精灵亲族爱戴的伟大精灵理应被尊重。即便他已死去,即便他曾经与我们为敌。

我们使用上好丝绸包裹住雪王子躯体,将其葬于一处新掘墓室当中。熠熠生辉的甲胄长矛被置于代表荣誉的基座上,随葬品的规模同样也是享受皇族待遇。我方主要领袖们均同意厚葬这位精灵,他的躯体将在这座墓中永生,但并没添加斯塔赫利姆(Stalhrim,一种珍贵防腐材料)加以保护,因为这是诺德死者才能享受到的待遇。

这就是毛思琳之战及伟大的雪王子的陨落始末。祝他灵魂得以安息,愿我们在有生之年莫要再遇他的族人。

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Fall of the Snow Prince
by Lokheim
An account of the Battle of the Moesring as transcribed by Lokheim, chronicler to the chieftain Ingjaldr White-Eye


From whence he came we did not know, but into the battle he rode, on a brilliant steed of pallid white. Elf we called him, for Elf he was, yet unlike any other of his kind we had ever seen before that day. His spear and armor bore the radiant and terrible glow of unknown magicka, and so adorned this unknown rider seemed more wight than warrior.
What troubled, nay, frightened us most at that moment was the call that rose from the Elven ranks. It was not fear, not wonder, but an unabashed and unbridled joy, the kind of felicity felt by a damned man who has been granted a second chance at life. For at that time the Elves were as damned and near death as ever they had been during the great skirmishes of Solstheim. The Battle of the Moesring was to be the final stand between Nord and Elf on our fair island. Led by Ysgramor, we had driven the Elven scourge from Skyrim, and were intent on cleansing Solstheim of their kind as well. Our warriors, armed with the finest axes and swords Nord craftsmen could forge, cut great swaths through the enemy ranks. The slopes of the Moesring ran red with Elf blood. Why, then, would our foe rejoice? Could one rider bring such hope to an army so hopeless?
To most of our kind, the meaning of the call was clear, but the words were but a litany of Elven chants and cries. There were some among us, however, the scholars and chroniclers, who knew well the words and shuddered at their significance.
"The Snow Prince is come! Doom is at hand!"
There was then a great calm that overcame the Elves that still stood. Through their mass the Snow Prince did ride, and as a longboat slices the icy waters of the Fjalding he parted the ranks of his kin. The magnificent white horse slowed to a gallop, then a trot, and the unknown Elf rider moved to the front of the line at a slow, almost ghostlike pace.
A Nord warrior sees much in a life of bloodshed and battle, and is rarely surprised by anything armed combat may bring. But few among us that day could have imagined the awe and uncertainty of a raging battlefield that all at once went motionless and silent. Such is the effect the Snow Prince had on us all. For when the joyous cries of the Elves had ended, there remained a quiet known only in the solitude of slumber. It was then our combined host, Elf and Nord alike, were joined in a terrible understanding -- victory or defeat mattered little that day on the slopes of the Moesring Mountains. The one truth we all shared was that death would come to many that day, victor and vanquished alike. The glorious Snow Prince, an Elf unlike any other, did come that day to bring death to our kind. And death he so brought.
Like a sudden, violent snow squall that rends travelers blind and threatens to tear loose the very foundations of the sturdiest hall, the Snow Prince did sweep into our numbers. Indeed the ice and snow did begin to swirl and churn about the Elf, as if called upon to serve his bidding. The spinning of that gleaming spear whistled a dirge to all those who would stand in the way of the Snow Prince, and our mightiest fell before him that day. Ulfgi Anvil-Hand, Strom the White, Freida Oaken-Wand, Heimdall the Frenzied. All lay dead at the foot of the Moesring Mountains.
For the first time that day it seemed the tide of battle had actually turned. The Elves, spurred on by the deeds of the Snow Prince, rallied together for one last charge against our ranks. It was then, in a single instant, that the Battle of the Moesring came to a sudden and unexpected end.
Finna, daughter of Jofrior, a lass of only twelve years and squire to her mother, watched as the Snow Prince cut down her only parent. In her rage and sorrow, Finna picked up Jofrior's sword and threw it savagely at her mother's killer. When the Elf's gleaming spear stopped its deadly dance, the battlefield fell silent, and all eyes turned to the Snow Prince. No one that day was more surprised than the Elf himself at the sight that greeted them all. For upon his great steed the Snow Prince still sat, the sword of Jofrior buried deeply in his breast. And then, he fell, from his horse, from the battle, from life. The Snow Prince lay dead, slain by a child.
With their savior defeated, the spirit of the remaining Elven warriors soon shattered. Many fled, and those that remained on the battlefield were soon cut down by our broad Nord axes. When the day was done, all that remained was the carnage of the battlefield. And from that battlefield came a dim reminder of valor and skill, for the brilliant armor and spear of the Snow Prince stillshined [sic]. Even in death, this mighty and unknown Elf filled us with awe.
It is common practice to burn the corpses of our fallen foes. This is as much a necessity as it is custom, for death brings with it disease and dread. Our chieftains wished to cleanse Solstheim of the Elven horde, in death as well as life. It was decided, however, that such was not to be the fate of the Snow Prince. One so mighty in war yet so loved by his kin deserved better. Even in death, even if an enemy of our people.
And so we brought the body of the Snow Prince, wrapped in fine silks, to a freshly dug barrow. The gleaming armor and spear were presented on a pedestal of honor, and the tomb was arrayed with treasures worthy of royalty. All of the mighty chieftains agreed with this course, that the Elf should be so honored. His body would be preserved in the barrow for as long as the earth chose, but would not be offered the protection of our Stalhrim, which was reserved for Nord dead alone.
So ends this account of the Battle of the Moesring, and the fall of the magnificent Elven Snow Prince. May our gods honor him in death, and may we never meet his kind again in life.

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