Jump to content
模组网
icedream

【书籍搬运】Feyfolken II 小妖灵 卷II

Recommended Posts

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

中文翻译:

小妖灵 II

——渥金·贾思

在冯古达克和塔克欣在测验中证明了自己的基本召唤能力之后,大贤者宣布这天的剩余时光随他们自由安排。两个小伙子原本在几乎整个下午的课程中都蠢蠢欲动,此时却都不愿离去。

“您说过,测试结束之后就会把文书和他的附魔羽毛笔的故事后续告诉我们。”塔克欣说。

“您已经告诉了我们文书的情况,他如何独居,他与教会秘书为书写公告发生的争斗,还有他患上了深红瘟疫不能说话。在您掐断故事前,他的小厮刚刚用一个名叫小妖灵的迪德拉灵魂给他主人的羽毛笔附了魔。”冯古尔达克提醒大贤者说。

“真碰巧。”大贤者回应道,“我原打算打个小盹,不过这故事确实牵涉到某些灵魂的本质,也因此与召唤法术相关。好吧我继续讲。

陶巴德开始用这支羽毛笔写神殿公告,写出的那些略微倾斜,几乎有些三维效果的字母他很是喜欢。

到了晚上,陶巴德把奥瑞-艾尔神殿的公告整理到一起。只需小妖灵羽毛笔沾上墨水轻轻滑过,弄出的就都是艺术品,黄金打造的手稿熠熠生辉,上面的内容却都是刚正朴实的大白话。尽管是出自大主教对爱丽西亚教规最无聊部分的干巴巴讲解,布道摘录读起来却像诗一样。两名神殿首要赞助人的讣告严峻又强力,把可叹的凡人之死写成了世界级的大悲剧。陶巴德用这个魔法调色板工作了一整晚,直到他自己精疲力竭。第二天早上六点,距离截止期还差一天,他把公告交给戈尔高斯,让他给教会秘书埃菲尔丝送过去。

如他期望的那样,埃菲尔丝没有回信抱怨,甚至对他提前交稿也没有半个字评论。这算不得什么。陶巴德知道这将会是有史以来神殿贴出的最好公告。到了周日下午一点,戈尔高斯把一堆信件带回了家。

“今天的公告太美了!说出来很丢脸,我在前厅读它的时候感动到泪流满面。”大主教写道,“我从没见过比这份更美丽、更能体现奥瑞-艾尔荣耀的公告。与之相比就连第一要塞的大圣堂都黯然失色!我的朋友,我简直要拜倒在自加莱尔以来最伟大的艺术家脚下了!”

大主教,像大多数穿制服的一样,肯定有所夸张。不过能获得如此赞誉,陶巴德自然还是欣喜不已。信件一封接一封。全体神殿长老,还有三十三名年龄各异的教区居民,全都在打听究竟是谁写的公告,还有如何与他联系写信祝贺。他们能找到的信息源只有一个:埃菲尔丝。想象暴龙女士被他的崇拜者层层围住,这情景让陶巴德偷笑不已。

直到第二天陶巴德依旧心情不错,然后就到了预约的门诊时间。他的医者,特雷米歇尔,一个漂亮的赤色守卫姑娘,是个新来的草药学家。她一直试图同他说话,哪怕他最开始已经给她写了字条,上面写的是“我名叫陶巴德·胡兹克,我预约了十一点特雷米歇尔医生的门诊。请原谅我不能说话,我的喉咙已经坏掉了。”

“还没开始下雨吗?”她高高兴兴地问,“预言师说今天可能有雨。”

陶巴德皱起眉毛,生气地摇了摇头。怎么所有人都会以为哑巴喜欢听别人说话?难道丢了胳膊的士兵会喜欢别人朝他扔球吗?尽管毫无疑问这残忍举动并非故意,但陶巴德依旧怀疑某些人只是喜欢向他人显摆自己四体俱全。

身体检查本身就是例行恐怖。特雷米歇尔将全部的常规酷刑都做了一遍,与此同时嘴里叽叽喳喳说个没完。

“你每隔一段时间就应该试着开口说话。这是唯一能知道你是否有所好转的方法。如果觉得在大庭广众之下不好意思,你可以自己单独练。”特雷米歇尔说,哪怕知道病人一定不理这套,“洗澡的时候唱唱歌。说不定你会发现自己的声音没有你想的那么糟。”

陶巴德结束了身体检查,医者保证化验结果几周之内就能拿到。回家的路上,陶巴德开始思考下周的公告内容。要不要在“上周日功德箱”的公告外面加个双线边框?把单栏的布道变成双栏效果应该不错。一想起非要等到埃菲尔丝把内容送来他才可以开始工作,这就让他几乎受不了了。

她也确实送来了,加在字条之后。[译者:请黑体加粗]“上周的公告好了那么一点点。下次该写‘幸运’的时候不要用‘吉祥’。你查查字典,这两个词不是同义词。”

作为回应,陶巴德差点谨遵医嘱,朝戈尔高斯怒吼出来。喝杯便宜酒定定神,他给对方写了份合适的回信送出去,然后倒头就睡。

第二天一早,舒舒服服泡了个澡后,陶巴德开始写公告。他给“特殊通告”部分加上淡阴影的念头带来了神奇的文字效果。埃菲尔丝总是很讨厌他加在边框上的其他装饰,但在小妖灵羽毛笔的笔下,这些装饰看起来奇怪地强势而富有贵族气息。

他正想着这件事,戈尔高斯就给他送来了埃菲尔丝的回信。陶巴德拆开信,上面只简简单单写了一句:[译者:请黑体加粗]“真对不起。”

陶巴德继续工作。他不再去想埃菲尔丝的字条,知道到最后完整版肯定会变成 [译者:请黑体加粗] “真对不起,我知道没人告诉过你左右留白要等宽”或者 [译者:请黑体加粗] “真对不起,除了你这个古怪老头我们找不到其他人去写公告”。她对不起什么并不重要。布道的文栏逐渐变长,就像绕满玫瑰的石柱,柱顶冠冕则是异常大气的装饰性标题。讣告与新生喜报用一个圆形边框围在一起,仿佛是对生命循环的神伤声明。写好的公告既温暖人心又引领潮流,毫无疑问是份杰作。当天下午他把公告给埃菲尔丝送了过去。他知道她肯定会对这份公告恨之入骨,这让他喜笑颜开。

让陶巴德惊讶的是,周六他收到了神殿的来信。还没阅读内容,他就发觉这不是埃菲尔丝写来的。那不是埃菲尔丝好斗又粗放的字体,也不像埃菲尔丝全文大写字母(译者:这里视中文对埃菲尔丝字条的选择字体而定?如果是如我先前所选,这里应是“也不像埃菲尔丝全文大号粗体”),就像是来自地狱的尖啸。

“陶巴德,我想您大概已经知道,埃菲尔丝不再继续为神殿工作了。她昨天突然辞职了。我名叫梵德茜尔,鸿运当头才能成为您的新任神殿联系人(请允许我承认,我是把这份工作求到手的)。我完全被您的天才征服了。在我阅读上周的公告之前,我正处于信仰危机之中。本周的公告简直是神迹!赘词不表,我只想说,能同您一起工作我倍感荣幸。——梵德茜尔。”

周日贴出公告后得到的回应甚至令陶巴德也吃惊不小。大主教将听众人数与功德箱奉献的剧增归功于公告,陶巴德的薪水一下子翻了四倍。戈尔高斯从他的读者俱乐部带回了一百二十封信。

接下来的一周,陶巴德坐在字台前,喝着托瓦立美酒,盯着空白纸卷出神。公告,他的孩子,他的第二任妻子,突然让他感到无聊了。大主教的三流布道简直就是诅咒,神殿赞助人的生与死又关他什么事情……废话连篇,他边想边写。

他知道自己想写的就是“废-话-连-篇”。可纸卷上写出来的却是“粉颈之上的珍珠项链”。

他又在纸上画了一串波折线。这次该死的小妖灵羽毛笔写出来的却是“荣耀归于奥瑞-艾尔”。

陶巴德立刻扔掉羽毛笔,溅出的墨水在纸卷上化成诗篇。他把纸卷上的内容都刮掉,刮不掉的也弄得模糊,可随后那些消失了的字句又重新以另外的样式浮现出来,比先前的版本更为华丽。每块油污,每个墨点,都在让文件如万花筒般旋转一番后化身为极富美感的不对称样貌。他根本没办法毁掉这份公告。公告被小妖灵彻底掌控了。他只是个读者,却绝非是作者。”

“停到这里,”大贤者问,“以你们在召唤学派学习所得的知识来看,小妖灵是什么?”

“可故事之后如何呢?”冯古达克失声叫道。

“先告诉我小妖灵是什么,而后我再继续讲。”

“您说过,它是个迪德拉。”塔克欣说,“而且看来这个家伙与艺术表达有关。小妖灵是不是阿祖拉的仆役?”

“也有可能是书记想象出的这一切。”冯古达克反驳道,“也许小妖灵是希奥格拉丝的仆役,书记因此疯掉了。或者羽毛笔写出的东西让所有看了它的人,就像奥瑞-艾尔神殿的全体成员,都发了疯。”

“赫玛耐斯·莫拉是知识的迪德拉……赫希恩是荒野的迪德拉,复仇的迪德拉是勃耶西亚。”塔克欣细细思索,旋即笑了出来。“小妖灵是克拉维萨斯·维里的仆役吧?”

“很好。”大贤者赞许道,“你是怎么知道的?”

“这是他的行事风格。”塔克欣回答说,“理由是文书现在不想要羽毛笔的力量了,可这力量并没有消失。然后怎么样了?”

“接下来是这样的。”大贤者继续讲下去。

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Feyfolken II
by Waughin Jarth
The Great Sage tells Volume 2 of a story of Artaeum, Psijics, and Robotic Enchanters


After the test had been given and Vonguldak and Taksim had demonstrated their knowledge of elementary conjuration, the Great Sage told them that they were free to enjoy the day. The two lads, who most afternoons fidgeted through their lessons, refused to leave their seats.
“You told us that after the test, you'd tell us more of your tale about the scribe and his enchanted quill,” said Taksim.
“You've already told us about the scribe, how he lived alone, and his battles with the Temple secretary over the Bulletin he scripted for posting, and how he suffered from the Crimson Plagueand couldn't speak. When you left off, his messenger boy had just had his master's quill enchanted with the spirit of a daedra named Feyfolken,” added Vonguldak to aid the Great Sage's memory.
“As it happens,” said the Great Sage. “I was thinking about a nap. However, the story does touch on some issues of the natures of spirits and thus is related to conjuration, so I'll continue.
Thaurbad began using the quill to write the Temple Bulletin, and there was something about the slightly lopsided, almost three-dimensional quality of the letters that Thaurbad liked a lot.
Into the night, Thaurbad put together the Temple of Auri-El's Bulletin. For the moment he washed over the page with the Feyfolken quill, it became a work of art, an illuminated manuscript crafted of gold, but with good, simple and strong vernacular. The sermon excerpts read like poetry, despite being based on the archpriest's workmanlike exhortation of the most banal of the Alessian doctrines. The obituaries of two of the Temple's chief benefactors were stark and powerful, pitifully mundane deaths transitioned into world-class tragedies. Thaurbad worked the magical palette until he nearly fainted from exhaustion. At six o'clock in the morning, a day before deadline, he handed the Bulletin to Gorgos for him to carry to Alfiers, the Temple secretary.
As expected, Alfiers never wrote back to compliment him or even comment on how early he had sent the bulletin. It didn't matter. Thaurbad knew it was the best Bulletin the Temple had ever posted. At one o'clock on Sundas, Gorgos brought him many messages.
“The Bulletin today was so beautiful, when I read it in the vestibule, I'm ashamed to tell you I wept copiously,” wrote the archpriest. “I don't think I've seen anything that captures Auri-El's glory so beautifully before. The cathedrals of Firsthold pale in comparison. My friend, I prostrate myself before the greatest artist since Gallael.”
The archpriest was, like most men of the cloth, given to hyperbole. Still, Thaurbad was happy with the compliment. More messages followed. All of the Temple Elders and thirty-three of the parishioners young and old had all taken the time to find out who wrote the bulletin and how to get a message to congratulate him. And there was only one person they could go through for that information: Alfiers. Imaging the dragon lady besieged by his admirers filled Thaurbad with positive glee.
He was still in a good mood the next day when he took the ferry to his appointment with his healer, Telemichiel. The herbalist was new, a pretty Redguard woman who tried to talk to him, even after he gave her the note reading “My name is Thaurbad Hulzik and I have an appointment with Telemichiel for eleven o'clock. Please forgive me for not talking, but I have no voicebox anymore.”
“Has it started raining yet?” she asked cheerfully. “The diviner said it might.”
Thaurbad frowned and shook his head angrily. Why was it that everyone thought that mute people liked to be talked to? Did soldiers who lost their arms like to be thrown balls? It was undoubtedly not a purposefully cruel behavior, but Thaurbad still suspected that some people just liked to prove that they weren't crippled too.
The examination itself was routine horror. Telemichiel performed the regular invasive torture, all the while chatting and chatting and chatting.
“You ought to try talking once in a while. That's the only way to see if you're getting better. If you don't feel comfortable doing it in public, you could try practicing it by yourself,” said Telemichiel, knowing her patient would ignore her advice. “Try singing in the bath. You'll probably find you don't sound as bad as you think.”
Thaurbad left the examination with the promise of test results in a couple of weeks. On the ferry ride back home, Thaurbad began thinking of next week's temple bulletin. What about a double-border around the “Last Sundas's Offering Plate” announcement? Putting the sermon in two columns instead of one might have interesting effects. It was almost unbearable to think that he couldn't get started on it until Alfiers sent him information.
When she did, it was with the note, “LAST BULLETIN A LITTLE BETTER. NEXT TIME, DON'T USE THE WORD 'FORTUITOUS' IN PLACE OF 'FORTUNATE.' THE WORDS ARE NOT, IF YOU LOOK THEM UP, SYNONYMOUS.”
In response, Thaurbad almost followed Telemichiel's advice by screaming obscenities at Gorgos. Instead, he drank a bottle of cheap wine, composed and sent a suitable reply, and fell asleep on the floor.
The next morning, after a long bath, Thaurbad began work on the Bulletin. His idea for putting a light shading effect on the “Special Announcements” section had an amazing textural effect. Alfiers always hated the extra decorations he added to the borders, but using the Feyfolken quill, they looked strangely powerful and majestic.
Gorgos came to him with a message from Alfiers at that very moment as if in response to the thought. Thaurbad opened it up. It simply said, “I'M SORRY.”
Thaurbad kept working. Alfiers's note he put from his mind, sure that she would soon follow it up with the complete message “I'M SORRY THAT NO ONE EVER TAUGHT YOU TO KEEP RIGHT-HAND AND LEFT-HAND MARGINS THE SAME LENGTH” or “I'M SORRY WE CAN'T GET SOMEONE OTHER THAN A WEIRD, OLD MAN AS SCRIBE OF OUR BULLETIN.” It didn't matter what she was sorry about. The columns from the sermon notes rose like the massive pillars of roses, crowned with unashamedly ornate headers. The obituaries and birth announcements were framed together with a spherical border, as a heartbreaking declaration of the circle of life. The Bulletin was simultaneously both warm and avant-garde. It was a masterpiece. When he sent it off to Alfiers late that afternoon, he knew she'd hate it, and was glad.
Thaurbad was surprised to get a message from the Temple on Loredas. Before he read the content, he could tell from the style that it wasn't from Alfiers. The handwriting wasn't Alfiers's usual belligerent slashing style, and it wasn't all in Alfiers's usual capital letters, which read like a scream from Oblivion.
“Thaurbad, I thought you should know Alfiers isn't at the Temple anymore. She quit her position yesterday, very suddenly. My name is Vanderthil, and I was lucky enough (let me admit it now, I begged pitifully) to be your new Temple contact. I'm overwhelmed by your genius. I was having a crisis of faith until I read last week's Bulletin. This week's Bulletin is a miracle. Enough. I just wanted to say I'm honored to be working with you. -- Vanderthil.”
The response on Sundas after the service even astonished Thaurbad. The archpriest attributed the massive increase in attendance and collection plate offerings entirely to the Bulletin. Thaurbad's salary was quadrupled. Gorgos brought over a hundred and twenty messages from his adoring public.
The following week, Thaurbad sat in front of his writing plank, a glass of fine Torvali mead at his side, staring at the blank scroll. He had no ideas. The Bulletin, his child, his second-wife, bored him. The third-rate sermons of the archbishop were absolute anathema, and the deaths and births of the Temple patrons struck him as entirely pointless. Blah blah, he thought as he scribbled on the page.
He knew he wrote the letters B-L-A-H B-L-A-H. The words that appeared on the scroll were, “A necklace of pearl on a white neck.”
He scrawled a jagged line across the page. It appeared in through that damned beautiful Feyfolken quill: “Glory to Auri-El.”
Thaurbad slammed the quill and poetry spilled forth in a stream of ink. He scratched over the page, blotting over everything, and the vanquished words sprung back up in different form, even more exquisite than before. Every daub and splatter caused the document to whirl like a kaleidoscope before falling together in gorgeous asymmetry. There was nothing he could do to ruin the Bulletin. Feyfolken had taken over. He was a reader, not an author.
Now,” asked the Great Sage. “What was Feyfolken from your knowledge of the School of Conjuration?”
“What happened next?” cried Vonguldak.
“First, tell me what Feyfolken was, and then I'll continue the story.”
“You said it was a daedra,” said Taksim. “And it seems to have something to do with artistic expression. Was Feyfolken a servitor of Azura?”
“But the scribe may have been imagining all this,” said Vonguldak. “Perhaps Feyfolken is a servitor of Sheogorath, and he's gone mad. Or the quill's writing makes everyone who views it, like all the congregation at the Temple of Auri-El, go mad.”
Hermaeus Mora is the daedra of knowledge ... and Hircine is the daedra of the wild ... and the daedra of revenge is Boethiah,” pondered Taksim. And then he smiled, “Feyfolken is a servitor ofClavicus Vile, isn't it?”
“Very good,” said the Great Sage. “How did you know?”
“It's his style,” said Taksim. “Assuming that he doesn't want the power of the quill now that he has it. What happens next?”
“I'll tell you,” said the Great Sage, and continued the tale.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now

×
×
  • Create New...