DLCroix
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- Jul 9, 2020
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Hi! There are several things I would like to try with this snippet; especially those related to translation. Regarding that, I do not want to anticipate anything, I pretend that the reader first thinks that something is not right and then understands the reason. It was one of the main discussions we had with my husband, who helped me with the translation. Let's see how it turns out. Because I have six novels whose translation will depend on all these experiences. Thank you very much for any comments!
The aristocracy on Varkadde Island was divided like this, my dear: if you hated people, El Síkkam; instead, if you exploited people but were the kind of neighbor who can be saluted, Bereldir Ville, and if you were already of those who they did atrocities to people, Cliftonside. Even the garrison pilots in the Kemilité often preferred to veer west; although they were shot down even at Carrick Fell. That aristocracy was very bad fleas, my girl.
So at Cliftonside someone that night got out of hand with the barbecue. But it was the mathematics of life: they too had to explode from time to time. The smoke was visible from the air.
“Eighteen dead, Lieutenant. Most of the Royal Guard,” Officer Húguernäub said to Nathan when she reached that mansion, pointing to the white jackets with wide shoulder pads of some dead, and although Nathan always seemed like a happy, fine blonde with model hair, as in the managements (and people also saw that she was crazy), her smile vanished when she saw those white Fakkoulds in the middle of sticky puddles. The scent of blood mixed with Tib’s Gradcer, Mubalit, Ariamba. A strange, intensely feminine garden, sweet, but where terror was unleashed.
Colonial restaurant architecture with insolently long, curved sofas instead of tables and VIPS. Huge plants. Lebrench style flat in sublevels: it was not a dance floor; but for lie with someone sitting on the back of the sofa or enameled frame putting you grapes in your mouth. Or other else. But not the 7mm loads of a Webley.
Like the ones that brought down that who lay with her head sunk in the back of the sofa.
“At least those windows are rubber-glass, a cadet could rebuild the ballistics,” she said, receiving a coffee from a rookie, which allowed her to show adequate negligence. Because the red Army jacket wasn’t any marvel: the Fastfarrel inc. even made tablecloths, little girl, and if it weren’t for her coat, a Rosaild, come on, she might have felt humiliated. Only that was missing, that the dead dress better.
Still, she spotted by there a Vann Trop bra. "A Donatto, a Palakr’m", said. And of course the little bird looking at her. But what did he expect? That she would asked him sugar? That instead of the beret she would wore a hat with feathers? She would have looked like a musketeer, honey, and only the tridents were so ridiculous. Engraved his name anyway, Sam Bulogne.
Will will couldn't throw them all.
“Any relation report?,” she said putting a grape in her mouth and looking at the platters with Bouillon mit Ei, cakes, buguets, kulesa, roast pork, foie gras. Those round doughs that called bread.
The GRs were slender; with skinny legs and boots closed like tubes around the knees, they seemed more majorettes at a military kermesse than girls who knew how to use weapons. That boy, for example, Rittol, had a Stéinitz in his hand. A vedette gun. As if to die arrogantly. But he didn't look like that, but like a creature that had been scorched away by something indescribable.
“Nothing so far,” Húguernäub said, dismissing the guy with a more maternal than haughty gesture. She was a tall, robust, short-haired blonde. The kind of escórcheslie who looked like a miracle, who was born commanding but wore that Calder without noticing it, like a rag. What was she doing there as a cop?
Although Nathan had seen the QRK too: boys running to a Hovercraft barking orders each to other in that language that only served to humiliate while a girl broadcast hysterical, “Carmin Road, Carmin Road! Defend your position! We’ll coming soon!”
People walked away scared, the police would not take long to appear. But some time later what appeared were fighters in the air. Nathan just looked at her glass. People felt fear again when the shaking started. But Nathan knew it all was over.
“They're interrogating the AIs from everyone, but it's a typical riding arena," she added. "There are no recordings or calls.”
“Marvelous battle, gentlemen,” a expert from the turalé said; old man, however, the days of the corpse looter were over. Therefore the joke was not cruel; it alluded to those who were still standing.
“The sacrilegious pogrom,” Nathan said. “They dumped that Spatcock's equestrian and the sculpture crushes to a GR ... Damn, everyone take you by a mare and precisely a horse kills you ...”
“Three died roasted when the aero in they tried to escape exploded,” Húguernäub said, indifferent to the lieutenant's frivolous horror. There is also a Túrrel, a Von Koffere. This little Kabrier was pierced. That one over there was strangled. I think his jacket is a Lónsdeil.
Húguernäub always seemed to be forty. Nathan noticed her strapless nalborgue anyway.
“Do you know why they teach us Fashion and Archeology?,” she said taking a sip of coffee. “Someone is playing puppets with people and through the clothes in which he dresses the dolls we can identify him. Doesn't the name Lónsdeil Yumborsa mean anything to you? That Lebrench in ten years could be the leader of the Váultier-Karash. What is the relationship with the Kabriers? I'd investigate the Le Khérmanns, sir.”
“They weren't yours, were they?”
Nathan shook her head.
“But they would have done the same,” conceded. “They are killers, officer. You cannot ask them ethics. Also, these monsters don't have it. By the way, where is the owner, Dízzel Pegbba?”
“The GRs began firing, such that Pegbba, an major woman, nervous, little given to fuss, you understand, left the salon, and it must have been her high heels or with the darkness she didn't see anything, but very kind, she slipped and, chof, she fell into the pool.”
Húguernäub also had her frivolous side, my dear, but she was referring to the punishment. Such that Nathan broke the first cigarette she took out of the cigarette case when she saw the huge grayish snout of the animal poking out, hopeful, to see if there was something else. She lit another.
“N-n-nothing good to have a s-shark as pet, right?,” she s-s-said.
“They love red,” Húguernäub said sinisterly.
Nathan saw the other cops staring at her. They were inexperienced guys, and the dead the kind of sweet, charming mares they knew in the parties, of which of course they always knew they were in strange games. But that, mind you, was also a sign of nobility and attractiveness, such that even the tridents jokingly said that even they had to be hanged, although at least once a month they had an affair with a good lawyer, in case things went wrong.
Even so, cops looked with sad resentment at the silhouettes of the military standing in the street in the rain, silent wrapped in their capes, aware that not everyone there belonged to the Army, although without a doubt the girl who came in to get a coffee pot, a pale mosterrina from long blue hair and angel look. It was a girl playing with snakes. Somehow worse. Guilty. Sixty years withstanding the people looking at them like pigs until it all blew up in 1302.
While she waited for the coffee pot to boil, she deliberately lowered the hood of her anorak so the cops would have time to look her and then look at each other. Because they didn't find her on the net. But during that time she looked at the corpses, fixed the shooting angles in her mind and reconstructed the shooting. As for Lieutenant Nathan, the mosterrina did not saluted the blonde; only winked at her through a riddled mirror and left as quietly as entered.
There was always open hostility between the two institutions, and the relationship only improved when the military gave in. Furthermore, Húguernäub did not look like a cop who can be impressed by a gold ring; she wanted the asshole that wearing that ring.
For one thing or another, the human being was always the target, my little girl.
Nathan smiled her with her usual charm.
“Can I invite you something to eat, sir?,” she told her.
The massif blonde looked at the bodies. She knew that others were hiding. Plus, she liked that Nathan. There was something intolerable about that red jacket that made very sense, and a monster that hunted other monsters would always like to a veteran cop.
“Well, the Kobnna is still open, sir, and it has rooms on the second floor. Since you're talking about eating,” she said her bluntly.
Nathan smiled even though she knew she would regret it. Every time. When she would to sit.
The aristocracy on Varkadde Island was divided like this, my dear: if you hated people, El Síkkam; instead, if you exploited people but were the kind of neighbor who can be saluted, Bereldir Ville, and if you were already of those who they did atrocities to people, Cliftonside. Even the garrison pilots in the Kemilité often preferred to veer west; although they were shot down even at Carrick Fell. That aristocracy was very bad fleas, my girl.
So at Cliftonside someone that night got out of hand with the barbecue. But it was the mathematics of life: they too had to explode from time to time. The smoke was visible from the air.
“Eighteen dead, Lieutenant. Most of the Royal Guard,” Officer Húguernäub said to Nathan when she reached that mansion, pointing to the white jackets with wide shoulder pads of some dead, and although Nathan always seemed like a happy, fine blonde with model hair, as in the managements (and people also saw that she was crazy), her smile vanished when she saw those white Fakkoulds in the middle of sticky puddles. The scent of blood mixed with Tib’s Gradcer, Mubalit, Ariamba. A strange, intensely feminine garden, sweet, but where terror was unleashed.
Colonial restaurant architecture with insolently long, curved sofas instead of tables and VIPS. Huge plants. Lebrench style flat in sublevels: it was not a dance floor; but for lie with someone sitting on the back of the sofa or enameled frame putting you grapes in your mouth. Or other else. But not the 7mm loads of a Webley.
Like the ones that brought down that who lay with her head sunk in the back of the sofa.
“At least those windows are rubber-glass, a cadet could rebuild the ballistics,” she said, receiving a coffee from a rookie, which allowed her to show adequate negligence. Because the red Army jacket wasn’t any marvel: the Fastfarrel inc. even made tablecloths, little girl, and if it weren’t for her coat, a Rosaild, come on, she might have felt humiliated. Only that was missing, that the dead dress better.
Still, she spotted by there a Vann Trop bra. "A Donatto, a Palakr’m", said. And of course the little bird looking at her. But what did he expect? That she would asked him sugar? That instead of the beret she would wore a hat with feathers? She would have looked like a musketeer, honey, and only the tridents were so ridiculous. Engraved his name anyway, Sam Bulogne.
Will will couldn't throw them all.
“Any relation report?,” she said putting a grape in her mouth and looking at the platters with Bouillon mit Ei, cakes, buguets, kulesa, roast pork, foie gras. Those round doughs that called bread.
The GRs were slender; with skinny legs and boots closed like tubes around the knees, they seemed more majorettes at a military kermesse than girls who knew how to use weapons. That boy, for example, Rittol, had a Stéinitz in his hand. A vedette gun. As if to die arrogantly. But he didn't look like that, but like a creature that had been scorched away by something indescribable.
“Nothing so far,” Húguernäub said, dismissing the guy with a more maternal than haughty gesture. She was a tall, robust, short-haired blonde. The kind of escórcheslie who looked like a miracle, who was born commanding but wore that Calder without noticing it, like a rag. What was she doing there as a cop?
Although Nathan had seen the QRK too: boys running to a Hovercraft barking orders each to other in that language that only served to humiliate while a girl broadcast hysterical, “Carmin Road, Carmin Road! Defend your position! We’ll coming soon!”
People walked away scared, the police would not take long to appear. But some time later what appeared were fighters in the air. Nathan just looked at her glass. People felt fear again when the shaking started. But Nathan knew it all was over.
“They're interrogating the AIs from everyone, but it's a typical riding arena," she added. "There are no recordings or calls.”
“Marvelous battle, gentlemen,” a expert from the turalé said; old man, however, the days of the corpse looter were over. Therefore the joke was not cruel; it alluded to those who were still standing.
“The sacrilegious pogrom,” Nathan said. “They dumped that Spatcock's equestrian and the sculpture crushes to a GR ... Damn, everyone take you by a mare and precisely a horse kills you ...”
“Three died roasted when the aero in they tried to escape exploded,” Húguernäub said, indifferent to the lieutenant's frivolous horror. There is also a Túrrel, a Von Koffere. This little Kabrier was pierced. That one over there was strangled. I think his jacket is a Lónsdeil.
Húguernäub always seemed to be forty. Nathan noticed her strapless nalborgue anyway.
“Do you know why they teach us Fashion and Archeology?,” she said taking a sip of coffee. “Someone is playing puppets with people and through the clothes in which he dresses the dolls we can identify him. Doesn't the name Lónsdeil Yumborsa mean anything to you? That Lebrench in ten years could be the leader of the Váultier-Karash. What is the relationship with the Kabriers? I'd investigate the Le Khérmanns, sir.”
“They weren't yours, were they?”
Nathan shook her head.
“But they would have done the same,” conceded. “They are killers, officer. You cannot ask them ethics. Also, these monsters don't have it. By the way, where is the owner, Dízzel Pegbba?”
“The GRs began firing, such that Pegbba, an major woman, nervous, little given to fuss, you understand, left the salon, and it must have been her high heels or with the darkness she didn't see anything, but very kind, she slipped and, chof, she fell into the pool.”
Húguernäub also had her frivolous side, my dear, but she was referring to the punishment. Such that Nathan broke the first cigarette she took out of the cigarette case when she saw the huge grayish snout of the animal poking out, hopeful, to see if there was something else. She lit another.
“N-n-nothing good to have a s-shark as pet, right?,” she s-s-said.
“They love red,” Húguernäub said sinisterly.
Nathan saw the other cops staring at her. They were inexperienced guys, and the dead the kind of sweet, charming mares they knew in the parties, of which of course they always knew they were in strange games. But that, mind you, was also a sign of nobility and attractiveness, such that even the tridents jokingly said that even they had to be hanged, although at least once a month they had an affair with a good lawyer, in case things went wrong.
Even so, cops looked with sad resentment at the silhouettes of the military standing in the street in the rain, silent wrapped in their capes, aware that not everyone there belonged to the Army, although without a doubt the girl who came in to get a coffee pot, a pale mosterrina from long blue hair and angel look. It was a girl playing with snakes. Somehow worse. Guilty. Sixty years withstanding the people looking at them like pigs until it all blew up in 1302.
While she waited for the coffee pot to boil, she deliberately lowered the hood of her anorak so the cops would have time to look her and then look at each other. Because they didn't find her on the net. But during that time she looked at the corpses, fixed the shooting angles in her mind and reconstructed the shooting. As for Lieutenant Nathan, the mosterrina did not saluted the blonde; only winked at her through a riddled mirror and left as quietly as entered.
There was always open hostility between the two institutions, and the relationship only improved when the military gave in. Furthermore, Húguernäub did not look like a cop who can be impressed by a gold ring; she wanted the asshole that wearing that ring.
For one thing or another, the human being was always the target, my little girl.
Nathan smiled her with her usual charm.
“Can I invite you something to eat, sir?,” she told her.
The massif blonde looked at the bodies. She knew that others were hiding. Plus, she liked that Nathan. There was something intolerable about that red jacket that made very sense, and a monster that hunted other monsters would always like to a veteran cop.
“Well, the Kobnna is still open, sir, and it has rooms on the second floor. Since you're talking about eating,” she said her bluntly.
Nathan smiled even though she knew she would regret it. Every time. When she would to sit.
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