Flairen: переводы

→History taught that the ancient races that had dwelled upon earth before the Ninth World wielded great power. This power came from knowledge. It might not be possible for Calaval, the Aeon Priests, or anyone else on earth of the present to master all that knowledge, but surely there were
secrets there, lost to the past, upon which they could build a future.

→Aeon Priests and their knowledge of numenera could prevent incidents like that. Calaval sought to join their ranks.

→After a short rest, the pair resumed their journey. The people in the last village, Cloudridge, had called this The Plain of Brick. The lack of creativity did not surprise Calaval. A simple folk without a clave, they toiled in fields and herded shereh in the fertile valley to the south. But they'd given him
food in exchange for a few baubles and shins he carried with him, and gave him a place to sleep, so it was difficult to feel anything but kindly toward them. Isolated villages with Aeon Priests often became fearful of strangers and dangerously insular. Once, he had come upon a community that had stumbled upon a buried facility from the prior worlds while digging a well. They had inadvertently released a noxious gas, transforming the entire population into maniacal, superhuman cannibals. Calaval had barely escaped alive.

→Feddik's gaze, as always, made it seem as though he understood.

→Calaval set his heavy pack down next to him, exhausted. He bent down and brushed the dirt and dust away from it, and then from his clothes. Finally, he brushed the red dust from the thuman. “Don't worry, Feddik,” he whispered. “You won't have to go inside. I'll have to do that alone.”

→The thuman sat on its haunches, multi-jointed legs folding beneath it. It looked up at its master
with narrow, black eyes. Red dust covered the furry crest atop its head.

→Calaval climbed the hill, his pet thuman at his side. Crumbling bits of ancient brick turned to gravel with each step. At the top, he saw the amber obelisk the old woman had told him about. It stretched impossibly into the sky. The reddish-yellow light of the old, tired sun caught in its angles high above the plain of ruin. Even after all these eons, the machine at the heart of the obelisk still thrummed with power. Rings orbited the device, spinning with unearthly precision.

→Chapter IX: Wind of Iron
In which we learn the lesson of dedication.

→Let us then resume the recitation of the Sacred Chronicle of High Father Calaval, Amber Pope and Founder of the Citadel of the Conduit and the Order of Truth, as written by his grandniece, Doroa of the Silent Song:

→All glory to the originators of truth and understanding.

→Praise to the senders of signals, who even now whisper into machine ears and give life to the inanimate. Praise to those who traveled to the stars, and the realms beyond the stars.

→Glory to those who re-sculpted the sustaining earth and the life-giving sun.

→Praise to the shapers of flesh, of bone, and of mind.

→All glory to the originators of truth and understanding. Praise to the innovators of steel and synth.

→The Catechism of Lore:

→by Monte Cook

→The Amber Monolith