Should I translate?
Posted: 2003-01-16 01:21pm
I recently finished a story about an RPG character of mine. Problem is, it's in Swedish. Translation, right now, comes rather hard; it's doable but will take some time.
What I'd like to know is, should I translate the whole thing?
Just to give you an idea of what to expect, I'm posting the beginning here.
The smoke lay heavy upon the air, and spruce twigs crackled and hissed. It was damp in here, stifling from the acrid smoke. Moisture ran down rocky walls, rivulets that gleamed like sweat in the firelight.
The guardians of the marklord kept to the cave entrance, frightened as they were of what they didn’t understand, the cowardly wretches. Cirilz of Kavarc suppressed his smile. Was it not according to the natural order of things that a real man did what his dogs could not?
The flames reared, winding their tongues along the coarse stone, licked at it hungrily. The handsome young lord remained immobile, did not stretch out, did not by any expression show his discomfort with the heat and the foul air. His silver-fashioned peregrine gleamed against a sable jacket and held the crimson cloak together. In every inch he embodied the nobleman he was. And waited.
On the floor, the old man sat crouched. So still was his appearance that he easily could, in darkness, have passed for a formation of rock. Yet the glow of the fires banished all shadow to a flickering existence at the far corners of this hall, and gave Cirilz a clearer picture of the old man.
Thin he was, squat, for all the world firmly rooted to the cold stone. His legs were crossed. And even though the cold seeped through the lord’s fur-lined boots, the ancient made no sign of noticing it, or even of being alive. His gray beard was a dirty, tangled bush, as was the thick hair that encircled his head. Small of frame was he, with deeply sunken eyes and withered features. His complexion was a nut brown color and very tough. He was dressed solely in a loincloth made from some kind of coarse fabric. Cirilz had initially offered to grant him clothes as a price for what he wanted, but the old man had rejected that suggestion in quite an unambiguous way, and Cirilz would have to content himself with that.
Another of his line and birth would certainly have felt it strange, almost sickened, to be forced to show their respect for such a filthy and disgusting beast, but Cirilz was wiser than that. Since those days when he had first searched his tenebrous lore from yellowing parchment he realized, or rather experienced a glimpse of, the powers that lay behind the world that to other people seemed so mundane. He knew enough to see how meaningless a creature’s outer shell was, compared to the things all true men had in common, that which truly had meaning.
Power. Cirilz wielded it, by his position and his intellect, keener than the most well-honed edge. Yet other paths were there that lead toward power, some difficult to perceive but, if his studies did not exaggerate, perhaps yet more potent. He had heard about the weave of reality and of those that embroidered it in patterns of their own choosing, of dead men rising, of will-breakers and consuming fire. And he had looked for these weavers, these wizards, enchanters, whatever name one would give them. Many he found, after long discourse or shorter persuasion, to be simple charlatans and tricksters.
Yet the rumors flourished, and some pointed toward the east. Eastward, past fields and into untamed country. And these rumors said one thing. They said, In a cave without name there sits a man without eyes, and the paths that he walks lead beyond.
Those words were unchanged, wherever on Cirilz’ lands the tale was told, and they were always spoken with a kind of whispered fear. And when he tracked the rumors to those sheepherder villages that lay scattered across the wild lands near the borders of his domain, there he found something more.
.
What I'd like to know is, should I translate the whole thing?
Just to give you an idea of what to expect, I'm posting the beginning here.
The smoke lay heavy upon the air, and spruce twigs crackled and hissed. It was damp in here, stifling from the acrid smoke. Moisture ran down rocky walls, rivulets that gleamed like sweat in the firelight.
The guardians of the marklord kept to the cave entrance, frightened as they were of what they didn’t understand, the cowardly wretches. Cirilz of Kavarc suppressed his smile. Was it not according to the natural order of things that a real man did what his dogs could not?
The flames reared, winding their tongues along the coarse stone, licked at it hungrily. The handsome young lord remained immobile, did not stretch out, did not by any expression show his discomfort with the heat and the foul air. His silver-fashioned peregrine gleamed against a sable jacket and held the crimson cloak together. In every inch he embodied the nobleman he was. And waited.
On the floor, the old man sat crouched. So still was his appearance that he easily could, in darkness, have passed for a formation of rock. Yet the glow of the fires banished all shadow to a flickering existence at the far corners of this hall, and gave Cirilz a clearer picture of the old man.
Thin he was, squat, for all the world firmly rooted to the cold stone. His legs were crossed. And even though the cold seeped through the lord’s fur-lined boots, the ancient made no sign of noticing it, or even of being alive. His gray beard was a dirty, tangled bush, as was the thick hair that encircled his head. Small of frame was he, with deeply sunken eyes and withered features. His complexion was a nut brown color and very tough. He was dressed solely in a loincloth made from some kind of coarse fabric. Cirilz had initially offered to grant him clothes as a price for what he wanted, but the old man had rejected that suggestion in quite an unambiguous way, and Cirilz would have to content himself with that.
Another of his line and birth would certainly have felt it strange, almost sickened, to be forced to show their respect for such a filthy and disgusting beast, but Cirilz was wiser than that. Since those days when he had first searched his tenebrous lore from yellowing parchment he realized, or rather experienced a glimpse of, the powers that lay behind the world that to other people seemed so mundane. He knew enough to see how meaningless a creature’s outer shell was, compared to the things all true men had in common, that which truly had meaning.
Power. Cirilz wielded it, by his position and his intellect, keener than the most well-honed edge. Yet other paths were there that lead toward power, some difficult to perceive but, if his studies did not exaggerate, perhaps yet more potent. He had heard about the weave of reality and of those that embroidered it in patterns of their own choosing, of dead men rising, of will-breakers and consuming fire. And he had looked for these weavers, these wizards, enchanters, whatever name one would give them. Many he found, after long discourse or shorter persuasion, to be simple charlatans and tricksters.
Yet the rumors flourished, and some pointed toward the east. Eastward, past fields and into untamed country. And these rumors said one thing. They said, In a cave without name there sits a man without eyes, and the paths that he walks lead beyond.
Those words were unchanged, wherever on Cirilz’ lands the tale was told, and they were always spoken with a kind of whispered fear. And when he tracked the rumors to those sheepherder villages that lay scattered across the wild lands near the borders of his domain, there he found something more.
.
(Just kiding...)