跳转到内容
模组网
icedream

【书籍搬运】Feyfolken III 小妖灵 卷III

被推荐的帖子

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

中文翻译:

小妖灵 III

——渥金·贾思

“陶巴德终于见识到了羽毛笔的力量。”大贤者继续讲道,“羽毛笔用克拉维萨斯·维里的仆役迪德拉小妖灵的灵魂附了魔,给作为奥瑞-艾尔神殿每周公告文书的陶巴德带来了大量财富和巨大的声誉。但陶巴德明白羽毛笔才是作者,而他本人却只是这一魔法的见证。他又沮丧又嫉妒,怒吼一声之后直接把羽毛笔折成两半。

他扭头把杯子里的蜜酒一饮而尽。等他再转过身,羽毛笔没有任何动静了。

但除了这支附了魔的羽毛笔,陶巴德再也没有其他笔了。于是他只好用手指蘸着墨水给戈尔高斯写了一张潦草字条。戈尔高斯从神殿带着对他最新一期公告高声赞美的又一轮信件回来了,然后就拿到了陶巴德的字条和那支羽毛笔。字条上写着:“把羽毛笔送回法师工会,卖掉它,给我买支没附魔的新笔。”

戈尔高斯并不明白字条上为何要写上如此命令,但他还是照做了。几小时之后他回来了。

“他们一枚金币也不还给我们。”戈尔高斯抱怨道,“他们说这笔没有被附魔。我都跟他们说了,我告诉他们‘你胡扯什么啊,你就在这里用小妖灵灵魂宝石给这笔附的魔’,可他们回敬说,‘现在这笔里面可没有灵魂。说不定你干了什么,灵魂跑掉了’。”

戈尔高斯抬头看了看自己的主人。陶巴德当然还是说不了话,可他看上去比平时更加无言以对了。

“结果我就把那支笔扔掉了,按您说的买了支新笔。”

陶巴德仔细检查了新笔。他的旧羽毛笔是鸽子灰色,新笔却是洁白如雪,手感也很好。他放心地叹了口气,遣散了小厮。他还有一份公告要写,这次可是没有任何魔法帮助,全凭他个人的才干了。

他花了两天,赶上了原定的日程表。新公告看上去平凡无奇,但这完全是他自己的东西。陶巴德浏览页面,发现了几个小错的时候突然奇怪地心安起来。他的公告上次出错仿佛是上辈子的事情了。事实上,陶巴德对此的反应是高兴异常,说不定文件里还有其他没找到的错误呢。

他刚把边框上的最后一条手绘曲线画好,戈尔高斯就带着几封来自神殿的信件回来了。他把这些信件大致看了看,其中一封引起了他的注意。这封信封蜡上的字母读作“小妖灵”。着实吓了一大跳,他立刻把信拆开了。

“我觉得吧,你还是自我了断比较好。”信上用华丽的字体写道。

他一下子把信扔到了地板上,可这时公告上的文字突然自行变化起来。小妖灵的字迹从信上喷涌而出,一下子覆满了整张公告,把他寒酸的作品变得无比美丽。陶巴德对自己嘶哑的声音再也管不了这么多了。他尖叫了很长时间,然后吞下苦酒,沉痛不已。

周五一大早,戈尔高斯就给陶巴德带来了教会秘书梵德茜尔的信件。直到上午过了大半,文书才鼓足勇气去看信里都写了什么。“早安,我只是来询问公告的情况如何。通常您在周四晚上就能交稿了。我很好奇,您是有特殊安排吗?——梵德茜尔。”

陶巴德回信说:“梵德茜尔,我很抱歉。我生病了。本周日不会有公告了。”然后他就把回信交给戈尔高斯,自己去洗澡。等他一小时后清洗完毕,戈尔高斯笑着从神殿回来了。

“梵德茜尔和大主教都乐疯了。”他说,“他们说这是您最好的作品。”

陶巴德茫然地盯着戈尔高斯,随后就发现公告不见了。手指颤抖着,他沾着墨水写道:“我给你的字条上都写了些什么?”

“您不记得了?”戈尔高斯忍笑反问。他知道自己的主人最近经常酩酊大醉。“确切的字句我记不得了,但内容是类似‘梵德茜尔,公告在此。很抱歉交稿晚了。我最近患上了严重的神经衰弱。——陶巴德’既然您这么说了,我想您是要我把公告也给他们带过去,所以我就带过去了。然后就像我说的,他们爱死那份公告了。我猜这个周日您能收到三倍的来信。”

陶巴德点了点头,干笑着送走了小厮。戈尔高斯回了神殿,而他的主人则回到字台前,拉出一卷空白羊皮纸。

他用羽毛笔写道:“小妖灵,你究竟想要干什么?”

字句变成了:“永别了。我憎恨自己的生命。我割腕。”

陶巴德换了种说法:“我疯了不成?”

字句变成了:“永别了。我中了毒,我憎恨自己的生命。”

“你为何要如此对待我?”

“我,陶巴德·胡兹克,忘恩负义不能苟活于人世。故此我悬梁自尽。”

陶巴德抽出空白纸卷,手指蘸上墨水,重写了整张公告。他原先写的那份,在小妖灵对其改变之前,还仅仅是简单有缺陷,可新写的这份完全就是潦草。小写的字母i头上无点,g长成了y的样子,句子破成碎片,卷成一团仿佛毒蛇一般。第一页的墨水渗到了第二页。当他把这些书页从本子上扯下时,第三页差点被从中撕成两块。公告的这副尊容能引起注意,至少陶巴德希望如此。他又写了张字条,简简单单:“别用我开始送过去的垃圾。用现在这份。”

戈尔高斯带着新信回来后,陶巴德把信封交给他。新的信件内容还都是老一套,除了他的医者特雷米歇尔发来的那封。“陶巴德,我们需要你尽快赶来。我们收到了来自黑沼泽的报告,提到有一种叫做深红瘟疫的绝症,同你的症状很类似。我们要对你进行重新检查。现在一切都尚无定论,但我们也想看看我们还能找出什么办法。”

这天剩下的时光,连同十五大杯最烈性的蜜酒,都被陶巴德当成了恢复精神的药方。第二天上午的大半工夫都用在消解那副猛药的副作用上。他用羽毛笔给梵德茜尔写了封信:“你觉得新公告如何?”小妖灵的改良版变成了“我要去自焚,因为我灵感尽失。”

陶巴德用手指把字条重写了了一遍。戈尔高斯过来后,他字条交给了他。他收到的信件中有一条是梵德茜尔的手书。

上面写着:“陶巴德,您不但是天赋灵感,还极富幽默感。您想看看我们用那些涂鸦替换掉真正公告时的反应么?大主教笑到肚子痛。我十分期待您下周的作品!您的崇拜者,梵德茜尔。”

一周后的葬礼上,列席的朋友与崇拜者数量大概远远超过陶巴德想象力的极限。棺材盖子当然是阖上的,但哀悼者还是冲到近前,只为抚摸一下棺木的平滑表面,他们把这橡树树皮看成是艺术家本人的血肉了。大主教超常发挥,发表了一篇精彩悼词。陶巴德的昔日死敌,梵德茜尔的前任埃菲尔丝,也从云憩城赶了过来,不但放声哀哭,还对所有愿意听她讲话的人宣扬陶巴德的建议如何改变了她的人生方向。当她听说陶巴德在遗嘱中把他的羽毛笔遗赠给她,她不禁感动到泪流满面。梵德茜尔一直没有从这打击中恢复过来,直到她遇见了一个英俊又欢快的年轻单身汉。

“我简直不敢相信他就这么逝世了!我还从未同他面对面交谈过。”她说,“我见到了遗体,但就算他没有烧成那样,我也不敢肯定那是不是他。”

“我很希望我能告诉你那是认错人了,可惜医学证据太多了。”特雷米歇尔安慰道,“其中一些证据是我提供的。他在生前是我的患者。”

“啊。”梵德茜尔说,“他生前患病了还是怎样?”

“他多年前就染上了深红瘟疫,这病毁掉了他的喉咙,但近期症状有所缓解。其实,就在他自杀之前,我刚刚给他写了封信,告诉他病情进展。”

“你就是那名医者?”梵德茜尔惊呼道,“陶巴德的小厮戈尔高斯把他主人补充的最新的公告设计给我送去的时候,提到他刚从你那里拿到通知。那份设计太奇妙了。我本不应那样告诉他的,但我确实觉得他有些被外观模式框定住了。可是他走向荣誉火盆前的最后作品表明了他确实天才非凡。无论是从象征意义上还是从实际意义上。”

梵德茜尔把最后一期公告展示给医者看,特雷米歇尔对其表示赞同。那种狂乱近乎不可识别的风格完全表达出了大神奥瑞-艾尔的力量与高贵。”

“现在我完全糊涂了。”冯古达克表示道。

“关于哪部分?”大贤者反问,“我觉得这故事十分直白。”

“小妖灵把所有的公告都变得非常漂亮,除了最后一份,那份陶巴德亲手写的。”塔克欣深思道,“但陶巴德怎么会误读梵德茜尔和医者送来的消息呢?小妖灵把那些字句也改掉了吗?”

“也许吧。”大贤者只是微笑。

“又或者,小妖灵改变了陶巴德阅读这些字句的角度?”冯古达克试问,“小妖灵到头来还是让他发疯了?”

“很有可能。”大贤者回答道。

“但是这就意味小狭妖灵是希奥格拉丝的仆役。”冯古达克说,“然而您先前说他是克拉维萨斯·维里的仆役。那他到底是谁的?是恶作剧的使者还是疯狂的使者?”

“小妖灵肯定能改变人的意志。”塔克欣回应道,“如果要让诅咒永存,克拉维萨斯·维里的仆役自然会做出这种事情。”

“这正是文书和他被诅咒羽毛笔故事的一个合适结局。”大贤者笑道,“到底如何随你们各自想法而定。”

分享此帖子


帖子链接
分享到其他网站

Feyfolken III
by Waughin Jarth
The Great Sage tells Volume 3 of a story of Artaeum, Psijics, and Robotic Enchanters


"Thaurbad had at last seen the power of the quill," said the Great Sage, continuing his tale. "Enchanted with the daedra Feyfolken, servitor ofClavicus Vile, it had brought him great wealth and fame as the scribe of the weekly Bulletin of the Temple of Auri-El. But he realized that it was the artist, and he merely the witness to its magic. He was furious and jealous. With a cry, he snapped the quill in half.
He turned to finish his glass of mead. When he turned around, the quill was intact.
He had no other quills but the one he had enchanted, so he dipped his finger in the inkwell and wrote a note to Gorgos in big sloppy letters. When Gorgos returned with a new batch of congratulatory messages from the Temple, praising his latest Bulletin, he handed the note and the quill to the messenger boy. The note read: "Take the quill back to the Mages Guild and sell it. Buy me another quill with no enchantments."
Gorgos didn't know what to make of the note, but he did as he was told. He returned a few hours later.
"They wouldn't give us any gold back for it," said Gorgos. "They said it wasn't enchanted. I told 'em, I said 'What are you talking about, you enchanted it right here with that Feyfolken soul gem,' and they said, 'Well, there ain't a soul in it now. Maybe you did something and it got loose.'"
Gorgos paused to look at his master. Thaurbad couldn't speak, of course, but he seemed even more than usually speechless.
"Anyway, I threw the quill away and got you this new one, like you said."
Thaurbad studied the new quill. It was white-feathered while his old quill had been dove gray. It felt good in his hand. He sighed with relief and waved his messenger lad away. He had a Bulletin to write, and this time, without any magic except for his own talent.
Within two days time, he was nearly back on schedule. It looked plain but it was entirely his. Thaurbad felt a strange reassurance when he ran his eyes over the page and noticed some slight errors. It had been a long time since the Bulletin contained any errors. In fact, Thaurbad reflected happily, there were probably other mistakes still in the document that he was not seeing.
He was finishing a final whirl of plain calligraphy on the borders when Gorgos arrived with some messages from the Temple. He looked through them all quickly, until one caught his eye. The wax seal on the letter read "Feyfolken." With complete bafflement, he broke it open.
"I think you should kill yourself," it read in perfectly gorgeous script.
He dropped the letter to the floor, seeing sudden movement on the Bulletin. Feyfolken script leapt from the letter and coursed over the scroll in a flood, translating his shabby document into a work of sublime beauty. Thaurbad no longer cared about the weird croaking quality of his voice. He screamed for a very long time. And then drank. Heavily.
Gorgos brought Thaurbad a message from Vanderthil, the secretary of the Temple, early Fredas morning, but it took the scribe until mid-morning to work up the courage to look at it. "Good Morning, I am just checking in on the Bulletin. You usually have it in on Turdas night. I'm curious. You planning something special? -- Vanderthil."
Thaurbad responded, "Vanderthil, I'm sorry. I've been sick. There won't be a Bulletin thisSunday [sic]" and handed the note to Gorgos before retiring to his bath. When he came back an hour later, Gorgos was just returning from the Temple, smiling.
"Vanderthil and the archpriest went crazy," he said. "They said it was your best work ever."
Thaurbad looked at Gorgos, uncomprehending. Then he noticed that the Bulletin was gone. Shaking, he dipped his finger in the inkwell and scrawled the words "What did the note I sent with you say?"
"You don't remember?" asked Gorgos, holding back a smile. He knew the master had been drinking a lot lately. "I don't remember the exact words, but it was something like, 'Vanderthil, here it is. Sorry it's late. I've been having severe mental problems lately. - Thaurbad.' Since you said, 'here it is,' I figured you wanted me to bring the Bulletin along, so I did. And like I said, they loved it. I bet you get three times as much letters this Sundas."
Thaurbad nodded his head, smiled, and waved the messenger lad away. Gorgos returned back to the Temple, while his master turned to his writing plank, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.
He wrote with the quill: "What do you want, Feyfolken?"
The words became: "Goodbye. I hate my life. I have cut my wrists."
Thaurbad tried another tact: "Have I gone insane?"
The words became: "Goodbye. I have poison. I hate my life."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I Thaurbad Hulzik cannot live with myself and my ingratitude. That's why I've put this noose around my neck."
Thaurbad picked up a fresh parchment, dipped his finger in the inkwell, and proceeded to rewrite the entire Bulletin. While his original draft, before Feyfolken had altered it, had been simple and flawed, the new copy was a scrawl. Lower-case I's were undotted, G's looked like Y's, sentences ran into margins and curled up and all over like serpents. Ink from the first page leaked onto the second page. When he yanked the pages from the notebook, a long tear nearly divided the third page in half. Something about the final result was evocative. Thaurbad at least hoped so. He wrote another note reading, simply, "Use this Bulletin instead of the piece of trash I sent you."
When Gorgos returned with new messages, Thaurbad handed the envelope to him. The new letters were all the same, except for one from his healer, Telemichiel. "Thaurbad, we need you to come in as soon as possible. We've received the reports from Black Marsh about a strain of the Crimson Plague that sounds very much like your disease, and we need to re-examine you. Nothing is definite yet, but we're going to want to see what our options are."
It took Thaurbad the rest of the day and fifteen drams of the stoutest mead to recover. The larger part of the next morning was spent recovering from this means of recovery. He started to write a message to Vanderthil: "What did you think of the new Bulletin?" with the quill. Feyfolken's improved version was "I'm going to ignite myself on fire, because I'm a dying no-talent."
Thaurbad rewrote the note using his finger-and-ink message. When Gorgos appeared, he handed him the note. There was one message in Vanderthil's handwriting.
It read, "Thaurbad, not only are you divinely inspired, but you have a great sense of humor. Imagine us using those scribbles you sent instead of the real Bulletin. You made the archbishop laugh heartily. I cannot wait to see what you have next week. Yours fondly, Vanderthil."
The funeral service a week later brought out far more friends and admirers than Thaurbad Hulzik would've believed possible. The coffin, of course, had to be closed, but that didn't stop the mourners from filing into lines to touch its smooth oak surface, imagining it as the flesh of the artist himself. The archbishop managed to rise to the occasion and deliver a better than usual eulogy. Thaurbad's old nemesis, the secretary before Vanderthil, Alfiers came in from Cloudrest, wailing and telling all who would listen that Thaurbad's suggestions had changed the direction of her life. When she heard Thaurbad had left her his quill in his final testament, she broke down in tears. Vanderthil was even more inconsolable, until she found a handsome and delightfully single young man.
"I can hardly believe he's gone and I never even saw him face-to-face or spoke to him," she said. "I saw the body, but even if he hadn't been all burned up, I wouldn't have been able to tell if it was him or not."
"I wish I could tell you there'd been a mistake, but there was plenty of medical evidence," said Telemichiel. "I supplied some of it myself. He was a patient of mine, you see."
"Oh," said Vanderthil. "Was he sick or something?"
"He had the Crimson Plague years ago, that's what took away his voice box, but it appeared to have gone into complete remission. Actually, I had just sent him a note telling him words to that effect the day before he killed himself."
"You're that healer?" exclaimed Vanderthil. "Thaurbad's messenger boy Gorgos told me that he had just picked up that message when I sent mine, complementing him on the new, primative [sic] design for the Bulletin. It was amazing work. I never would've told him this, but I had begun to suspect he was stuck in an outmoded style. It turned out he had one last work of genius, before going out in a blaze of glory. Figuratively. And literally."
Vanderthil showed the healer Thaurbad's last Bulletin, and Telemichiel agreed that its frantic, nearly illegible style spoke volumes about the power and majesty of the god Auri-El."
"Now I'm thoroughly confused," said Vonguldak.
"About which part?" asked the Great Sage. "I think the tale is very straight-forward."
"Feyfolken made all the Bulletins beautiful, except for the last one, the one Thaubad did for himself," said Taksim thoughtfully. "But why did he misread the notes from Vanderthil and the healer? Did Feyfolken change those words?"
"Perhaps," smiled the Great Sage.
"Or did Feyfolken changed Thaurbad's perceptions of those words?" asked Vonguldak. "Did Feyfolken make him mad after all?"
"Very likely," said the Great Sage.
"But that would mean that Feyfolken was a servitor of Sheogorath," said Vonguldak. "And you said he was a servitor of Clavicus Vile. Which was he, an agent of mischief or an agent of insanity?"
"The will was surely altered by Feyfolken," said Taksim, "And that's the sort of thing a servitor of Clavicus Vile would do to perpetuate the curse."
"As an appropriate ending to the tale of the scribe and his cursed quill," smiled the Great Sage. "I will let you read into it as you will."

分享此帖子


帖子链接
分享到其他网站

创建账户或者登录再讨论

您需要成为会员才能留下讨论

创建账户

在本社区注册新账户。很简单的!

注册为新账户

登录

已有账户?这边登录

马上登录


×