18. April 2013
World of Ninragon
Für diejenigen die sich fragen, wie "Ninragon" auf Englisch klingt – oder sich liest –, hier ein kleines Beispiel:
Auszug aus "Ninragon" (engl.):
He knew the pale folk. His comrades called them elves, but that was not her real name. He had met them, and he had slain them.
A fortress loomed dark, high above a screen of treetops. Itsstone was smooth, its walls bare and flat, without ledges, projections or other embellishments. They tapered upwards, like the capped stalk of a giant acutely angled pyramid that had once steep and fiercely pierced the heavens. This fortress was their enemy and it sang to them with a voice that sent madness into their dreams at night.
They ran through an immense, endless forest beneath that fortress, and again fireballs rushed across the sky – this time half-hidden by the foliage of immense trees.
He was in a troop of soldiers who ran through this forest, while all around them the fireballs were crashing down, blasting trunks and turning foliage into blazing conflagration. He was one of them, and he was here to send elves to hell with his sword.
He saw a big, sleek creature that writhed like a reed in a tempest, its skin fallow and lustrous, as if varnished with the fat of a toad, with grotesquely long arms, fingers spread like spider legs, between them the blazing blue fire of a dying world was flashing out. Its mouth bristled with dagger-like teeth in concentric circles running deep into the throat, framed by a gnarled pale ring of lips that pumped like a sphincter, snapping up the barbed maelstrom of teeth.
He saw a city – glistening white between its hills, a river running through – before the bank of far mountain ranges, a jagged stone crown rammed into its center, their points calling out to the gods or sending commands into the far distance, holding half a world in check and spell.
A sulfur glow crept up over the ridge of far mountains, and darkness rolled like a flood over the plain, soon overtook him and obscured his vision. It brought him back into the pulse of its powerful tide whose rhythm depended on an older moon. That moon was breathing like an open wound in the farthest heavens just before the edge of the Real Abyss, far behind the orbit of the bleached Bones of Blame that gave light to the nights of man. He could now see this pale light above him, full and round and undiminished, for a riptide had now captured him, dragged him on and unexpectedly washed him up, where its luster shone through the gentle swaying of the underside of a swell, broken into milky, splintery scrapings of moon.
His arm – he did not see it, he only felt, and that was a good thing after a long time of not feeling – it reached out and picked up the strokes automatically. His second one joined the rhythm that eventually drove him up, where he now felt the whole enormous scope and power of a heaving ocean-heavy darkness beneath him, which held him and finally carried him. So he rose up and felt the broken facets of moonlight tangle around him like a puddle of pale drifting duckweed.
Another stroke, still further up. Almost there, almost up.