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I might never have gone to the Alik'r Desert had I not met Weltan in a little tavern in Sentinel. Weltan is a Redguard poet whose verse I had read, but only in translation. He chooses to write in the old language of the Redguards, not in Tamrielic. I once asked him why.
I might never have gone to the Alik'r Desert had I not met Weltan in a little tavern in Sentinel. Weltan is a Redguard poet whose verse I had read, but only in translation. He chooses to write in the old language of the Redguards, not in Tamrielic. I once asked him why.


"The Tamrielic word for the divinely rich child of rot, silky, pressed sour milk is ... cheese," said Weltan, a huge smile spreading like a tide over his lampblack face. ''„The Old Redguard word for it is mluo. Tell me, if you were a poet fluent in both languages, which word would you use?”''
"The Tamrielic word for the divinely rich child of rot, silky, pressed sour milk is ... cheese," said Weltan, a huge smile spreading like a tide over his lampblack face. ''„The Old Redguard word for it is mluo. Tell me, if you were a poet fluent in both languages, which word would you use?”''


I am a child of the cities, and I would tell him tales of the noise and corruption, wild nights and energy, culture and decadence. He listened with awed appreciation of the city of my birth: white-marbled Imperial City where all the citizenry are convinced of their importance because of the proximity of the Emperor and the lustration of the streets. They say that a beggar on the boulevards of the Imperial City is a man living in a palace. Over spiced ale, I regaled Weltan with descriptions of the swarming marketplace of Riverhold; of dark, brooding Mournhold; of the mold-encrusted villas of Lilmoth; the wonderful, dangerous alleys of Helstrom; the stately avenues of grand old Solitude. For all this, he marvelled, inquired, and commented.  
I am a child of the cities, and I would tell him tales of the noise and corruption, wild nights and energy, culture and decadence. He listened with awed appreciation of the city of my birth: white-marbled Imperial City where all the citizenry are convinced of their importance because of the proximity of the Emperor and the lustration of the streets. They say that a beggar on the boulevards of the Imperial City is a man living in a palace. Over spiced ale, I regaled Weltan with descriptions of the swarming marketplace of Riverhold; of dark, brooding Mournhold; of the mold-encrusted villas of Lilmoth; the wonderful, dangerous alleys of Helstrom; the stately avenues of grand old Solitude. For all this, he marvelled, inquired, and commented.  


''„I feel as if I know your home, the Alik'r Desert, from your poems even though I've never been there.”'' I told him.  
''„I feel as if I know your home, the Alik'r Desert, from your poems even though I've never been there.”'' I told him.  


''„Oh, but you don't. No poem can express the Alik'r. It may prepare you for a visit far better than the best guide book can. But if you want to know Tamriel and be a true citizen of the planet, you must go and feel the desert yourself.”''
''„Oh, but you don't. No poem can express the Alik'r. It may prepare you for a visit far better than the best guide book can. But if you want to know Tamriel and be a true citizen of the planet, you must go and feel the desert yourself.”''


It took me a little over a year to break off engagements, save money (my greatest challenge), and leave the urban life for the Alik'r Desert. I brought several books of Weltan's poems as my travel guide.  
It took me a little over a year to break off engagements, save money (my greatest challenge), and leave the urban life for the Alik'r Desert. I brought several books of Weltan's poems as my travel guide.  


:''„A sacred flame rises above the fire,'' <br>
:''„A sacred flame rises above the fire,'' <br>
Zeile 80: Zeile 74:
:''Bursting walls and deathless rock,'' <br>
:''Bursting walls and deathless rock,'' <br>
:''Fiery sand that heals and destroys.”''
:''Fiery sand that heals and destroys.”''


These first six lines from my friend's "On the Immortality of Dust" prepared me for my first image of the Alik'r Desert, though they hardly do it justice. My poor pen cannot duplicate the severity, grandeur, ephemera and permanence of the Alik'r.  
These first six lines from my friend's "On the Immortality of Dust" prepared me for my first image of the Alik'r Desert, though they hardly do it justice. My poor pen cannot duplicate the severity, grandeur, ephemera and permanence of the Alik'r.  


All the principalities and boundaries the nations have placed on the land dissolve under the moving sand in the desert. I could never tell if I was in Antiphyllos or Bergama, and few of the inhabitants could tell me. For them, and so it came to me, we were simply in the Alik'r. No. We are part of the Alik'r. That is closer to the philosophy of the desert people.  
All the principalities and boundaries the nations have placed on the land dissolve under the moving sand in the desert. I could never tell if I was in Antiphyllos or Bergama, and few of the inhabitants could tell me. For them, and so it came to me, we were simply in the Alik'r. No. We are part of the Alik'r. That is closer to the philosophy of the desert people.  


I saw the sacred flame of which Weltan wrote on my first morning in the desert: a vast, red mist that seemed to come from the deep mystery of Tamriel. Long before the noon sun, the mist had disappeared. Then I saw the cities of Weltan. The ruins of the Alik'r rise from the sand by one blast of the unbounded wind and are covered by the next. Nothing in the desert lasts, but nothing dies forever.
I saw the sacred flame of which Weltan wrote on my first morning in the desert: a vast, red mist that seemed to come from the deep mystery of Tamriel. Long before the noon sun, the mist had disappeared. Then I saw the cities of Weltan. The ruins of the Alik'r rise from the sand by one blast of the unbounded wind and are covered by the next. Nothing in the desert lasts, but nothing dies forever.


At daylight, I hid myself in tents, and thought about the central character of the Redguards that would cause them to adopt this savage, eternal land. They are warriors by nature. As a group, there are none better. Nothing for them has worth unless they have struggled for it. No one fought them for the desert, but the Alik'r is a great foe. The battle goes on. It is a war without rancor, a holy war in the sense the phrase should always imply.
At daylight, I hid myself in tents, and thought about the central character of the Redguards that would cause them to adopt this savage, eternal land. They are warriors by nature. As a group, there are none better. Nothing for them has worth unless they have struggled for it. No one fought them for the desert, but the Alik'r is a great foe. The battle goes on. It is a war without rancor, a holy war in the sense the phrase should always imply.


By night, I could contemplate the land itself in its relative serenity. But the serenity was superficial. The stones themselves burned with a heat and a light that comes not from the sun, nor the moons Jone and Jode. The power of the stones comes from the beat of the heart of Tamriel itself.
By night, I could contemplate the land itself in its relative serenity. But the serenity was superficial. The stones themselves burned with a heat and a light that comes not from the sun, nor the moons Jone and Jode. The power of the stones comes from the beat of the heart of Tamriel itself.


Two years I spent in the Alik'r.  
Two years I spent in the Alik'r.  


As write this, I am back in Sentinel. We are at war with the kingdom of Daggerfall for the possession of a grass-covered rock that belongs to the water of the Iliac Bay. All my fellow poets, writers, and artists are despondent for the greed and pride that brought these people into battle. It is a low point, a tragedy. In the words of Old Redguard, an ajcea, a spiral down.  
As write this, I am back in Sentinel. We are at war with the kingdom of Daggerfall for the possession of a grass-covered rock that belongs to the water of the Iliac Bay. All my fellow poets, writers, and artists are despondent for the greed and pride that brought these people into battle. It is a low point, a tragedy. In the words of Old Redguard, an ajcea, a spiral down.  


Yet, I cannot be sorrowful. In the years I spent in the glories of the Alik'r, I have seen the eternal stones that live on while men go dead. I have found my inner eye in the tractless, formless, changeless and changeable land. Inspiration and hope, like the stones of the desert, are eternal though men be not.
Yet, I cannot be sorrowful. In the years I spent in the glories of the Alik'r, I have seen the eternal stones that live on while men go dead. I have found my inner eye in the tractless, formless, changeless and changeable land. Inspiration and hope, like the stones of the desert, are eternal though men be not.
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{{Anmerkungen klein|TA}}
{{Anmerkungen klein|TA}}

Version vom 11. Oktober 2020, 22:14 Uhr

Auflagen des Buches

Diese Seite enthält den Text von Die Alik'r aus The Elder Scrolls II: Daggerfall (Originaltitel: The Alik'r).

Inhalt

Die Alik'r[1]
von Enric Milres

Ich wäre wohl nie in die Alik'r-Wüste aufgebrochen, hätte ich nicht in einer kleinen Taverne in Schildwacht Weltan getroffen. Weltan ist ein rothwardonischer Dichter, dessen Verse ich, wenn auch nur in Übersetzung, gelesen hatte. Er zieht es vor, in der alten Sprache der Rothwardonen statt in Tamrielisch zu schreiben. Einmal fragte ich ihn nach dem Grund.

„Das tamrielische Wort für das traumhaft köstliche Kind gärender, seidiger, gepresster saurer Milch ist ... Käse“, sagte Weltan, und ein breites Lächeln zog sich über sein rußschwarzes Gesicht. „Das altrothwardonische Wort dafür ist 'mluo'. Sagt mir nun welches Wort Ihr benutzen würdet, wenn Ihr ein in beide Sprachen gewandter Dichter wärt?“

Ich bin ein Kind der Städte und erzählte ihm Geschichten von Lärm und Verderbnis, von wilden Nächten, Tatkraft, Kultur und Dekadenz. Mit ehrfurchtsvoller Anerkennung vernahm er von meiner Geburtsstadt, der Kaiserstadt aus weißem Marmor, wo die ganze Bürgerschaft schon wegen der Nähe des Kaisers und der Lustration der Straßen von ihrer Wichtigkeit überzeugt ist. Sie sagen, dass ein Bettler in den Boulevards der Kaiserstadt ein Mann ist, der in einem Palast lebt. Über gewürztem Ale ergötzte ich Weltan mit Beschreibungen des Gewimmels auf dem Markt von Stromfeste; dem dunklen, vor sich hinbrütenden Gramfeste; den schimmelverkrusteten Villen Kleinmottiens; den wunderbaren, gefährlichen Gassen von Helstrom und den imposanten Prachtstraßen des großen alten Einsamkeit. All dies bestaunte er, fragte nach und kommentierte.

„Ich habe das Gefühl, als ob ich Eure Heimat, die Alik'r-Wüste, schon durch Eure Gedichte kennen würde, obwohl ich nie dort gewesen bin“, sagte ich ihm schließlich.

„Oh, das tut Ihr nicht. Kein Gedicht kann die Alik'r wirklich zum Ausdruck bringen. Es kann Euch weit besser auf einen Besuch vorbereiten als der beste Reiseführer, aber wenn Ihr Tamriel kennenlernen und ein wirklicher Bewohner dieses Planeten sein möchtet, müsst Ihr hinausgehen und die Wüste selbst spüren.“

Es kostete mich etwas über ein Jahr, Verpflichtungen abzusagen, Geld zu sparen (meine größte Herausforderung) und das städtische Leben zugunsten der Alik'r-Wüste hinter mir zu lassen. Als Reiseführer kaufte ich mehrere Bände mit Weltans Gedichten.

Über das Feuer steigt eine heilige Flamme,
Der Geister großer Männer und Frauen ohne Namen,
Längst tote Städte steigen und fallen in der Flamme,
Das Dioskurenlied der Offenbarung,
Berstende Mauern und todloser Stein,
Glühender Sand, der heilt und verzehrt.

Diese ersten sechs Zeilen aus dem Gedicht meines Freundes 'Von des Staubes Unsterblichkeit' bereiteten mich auf meinen ersten Eindruck der Alik'r-Wüste vor, aber sie werden ihr kaum gerecht. Meine armselige Feder kann die Strenge, Erhabenheit, Vergänglichkeit und Beständigkeit der Alik'r nicht wiedergeben.

All die Fürstentümer und Grenzen, welche die Reiche über das Land gelegt haben, lösen sich unter der Bewegung des Wüstensandes auf. Ich vermochte nie zu sagen, ob ich gerade in Antiphyllos oder Bergama war, und auch nur wenige Einheimische konnten es mir berichten. Für sie, und so ging es auf mich über, waren wir einfach in der Alik'r. Nein. Wir sind ein Teil der Alik'r. Das kommt der Philosophie des Wüstenvolkes näher.

Ich sah die heilige Flamme, von der Weltan schrieb, an meinem ersten Morgen in der Wüste: Ein gewaltiger, roter Nebel, der aussah, als käme er aus dem tiefsten Geheimnis von Tamriel. Lange vor der Mittagssonne war der Nebel aufgelöst. Dann sah ich Weltans Städte. Die Ruinen der Alik'r erhoben sich nach einer starken Böe des ungebändigten Windes aus dem Sand und wurden von der nächsten wieder verdeckt. Nichts ist in der Wüste von Dauer, aber nichts vergeht für immer.

Tagsüber verbarg ich mich im Zelt und dachte über das Wesen der Rothwardonen nach, das es ihnen ermöglichte, dieses ungezähmte, ewige Land anzunehmen. Sie sind von Natur aus Krieger. Als Gruppe sind sie um nichts besser. Nichts hat für sie einen Wert, wenn sie nicht darum gekämpft haben. Niemand streitet mit ihnen um die Wüste, doch die Alik'r selbst ist ein mächtiger Gegner. Und die Schlacht geht weiter. Es ist ein Krieg ohne Hass, ein heiliger Krieg in dem Sinn, den dieser Begriff immer meinen sollte.

Bei Nacht konnte ich eingehender über das Land an sich in seiner relativen Ruhe nachsinnen. Aber die Ruhe war nur äußerlich. Die Steine brannten ihrerseits mit Hitze und Licht, die nicht von der Sonne und auch nicht den Monden Jone und Jode kamen. Die Kraft der Steine kam aus dem Herzschlag Tamriels selbst.

Zwei Jahre verbrachte ich in der Alik'r.

Diese Worte schreibend bin ich zurück in Schildwacht. Wir befinden uns mit dem Königreich Dolchsturz im Krieg um den Besitz eines grasbedeckten Felsens, der dem Wasser der Iliac-Bucht gehört. Alle meine Dichterkollegen, Schriftsteller und Künstler sind ganz niedergeschlagen angesichts der Gier und des Hochmuts, der diese Menschen in die Schlacht führte. Es ist ein Tiefpunkt, eine Tragödie. In altrothwardonischen Worten eine 'ajcea', eine Abwärtsspirale.

Und doch kann ich nicht mehr betrübt sein. In den Jahren, die ich in der Großartigkeit der Alik'r verbrachte, habe ich die ewigen Steine gesehen, die bestehen bleiben, während die Menschen vergehen. Ich habe mein inneres Auge in diesem weglosen, formlosen, abwechslungslosen und doch wechselhaften Land gefunden. Eingebung und Hoffnung sind ewig wie die Steine der Wüste, auch wenn die Menschen es nicht sind.

I might never have gone to the Alik'r Desert had I not met Weltan in a little tavern in Sentinel. Weltan is a Redguard poet whose verse I had read, but only in translation. He chooses to write in the old language of the Redguards, not in Tamrielic. I once asked him why.

"The Tamrielic word for the divinely rich child of rot, silky, pressed sour milk is ... cheese," said Weltan, a huge smile spreading like a tide over his lampblack face. „The Old Redguard word for it is mluo. Tell me, if you were a poet fluent in both languages, which word would you use?”

I am a child of the cities, and I would tell him tales of the noise and corruption, wild nights and energy, culture and decadence. He listened with awed appreciation of the city of my birth: white-marbled Imperial City where all the citizenry are convinced of their importance because of the proximity of the Emperor and the lustration of the streets. They say that a beggar on the boulevards of the Imperial City is a man living in a palace. Over spiced ale, I regaled Weltan with descriptions of the swarming marketplace of Riverhold; of dark, brooding Mournhold; of the mold-encrusted villas of Lilmoth; the wonderful, dangerous alleys of Helstrom; the stately avenues of grand old Solitude. For all this, he marvelled, inquired, and commented.

„I feel as if I know your home, the Alik'r Desert, from your poems even though I've never been there.” I told him.

„Oh, but you don't. No poem can express the Alik'r. It may prepare you for a visit far better than the best guide book can. But if you want to know Tamriel and be a true citizen of the planet, you must go and feel the desert yourself.”

It took me a little over a year to break off engagements, save money (my greatest challenge), and leave the urban life for the Alik'r Desert. I brought several books of Weltan's poems as my travel guide.

„A sacred flame rises above the fire,
The ghosts of great men and women without names,
Cities long dead rise and fall in the flame,
The Dioscori Song of Revelation,
Bursting walls and deathless rock,
Fiery sand that heals and destroys.”

These first six lines from my friend's "On the Immortality of Dust" prepared me for my first image of the Alik'r Desert, though they hardly do it justice. My poor pen cannot duplicate the severity, grandeur, ephemera and permanence of the Alik'r.

All the principalities and boundaries the nations have placed on the land dissolve under the moving sand in the desert. I could never tell if I was in Antiphyllos or Bergama, and few of the inhabitants could tell me. For them, and so it came to me, we were simply in the Alik'r. No. We are part of the Alik'r. That is closer to the philosophy of the desert people.

I saw the sacred flame of which Weltan wrote on my first morning in the desert: a vast, red mist that seemed to come from the deep mystery of Tamriel. Long before the noon sun, the mist had disappeared. Then I saw the cities of Weltan. The ruins of the Alik'r rise from the sand by one blast of the unbounded wind and are covered by the next. Nothing in the desert lasts, but nothing dies forever.

At daylight, I hid myself in tents, and thought about the central character of the Redguards that would cause them to adopt this savage, eternal land. They are warriors by nature. As a group, there are none better. Nothing for them has worth unless they have struggled for it. No one fought them for the desert, but the Alik'r is a great foe. The battle goes on. It is a war without rancor, a holy war in the sense the phrase should always imply.

By night, I could contemplate the land itself in its relative serenity. But the serenity was superficial. The stones themselves burned with a heat and a light that comes not from the sun, nor the moons Jone and Jode. The power of the stones comes from the beat of the heart of Tamriel itself.

Two years I spent in the Alik'r.

As write this, I am back in Sentinel. We are at war with the kingdom of Daggerfall for the possession of a grass-covered rock that belongs to the water of the Iliac Bay. All my fellow poets, writers, and artists are despondent for the greed and pride that brought these people into battle. It is a low point, a tragedy. In the words of Old Redguard, an ajcea, a spiral down.

Yet, I cannot be sorrowful. In the years I spent in the glories of the Alik'r, I have seen the eternal stones that live on while men go dead. I have found my inner eye in the tractless, formless, changeless and changeable land. Inspiration and hope, like the stones of the desert, are eternal though men be not.

Anmerkungen (Tamriel-Almanach)

  1. ↑ Die deutsche Übersetzung wurde von Cato d. Ä. erstellt, von Numenorean und Deepfighter für das Projekt Daggerfall Deutsch überarbeitet und unter Namensnennung-Keine Bearbeitung 3.0 veröffentlicht.
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