Ereb Altor: English

Här diskuterar vi arbetet, framgångar, bakslag, kakrecept och planering.
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anders
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Ereb Altor: English

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I have been playing in Ereb Altor since its inception. I have also lived in America more or less since 1996, and have therefore translated a lot of material into English to use with groups here and online. I’ve also been part of the Ereb Altor Project (this forum) since 2007.

Below I will share some of my translations that you are free to use. If you use my material online or publish anything, kindly include “Translation by Anders Blom.”

The list will likely grow with time, and the PDFs will be updated and refined with time (there will be a version number in the bottom corner of each one). I have more than what is published here, at various stages of completeness. Please let me know if you have a request for something in particular to be translated and posted here.

The documents are “rules ambiguous” - meaning I don’t make these specific for DoD Expert, DoD-91 or Dragonbane. I myself have used various other rulesets in Ereb Altor, including Genesys, Fate, and Dungeon World.

DISCLAIMER: While the vast majority of what is written is from published books and modules or from discussions on this forum, I have sometimes had to fill the gaps myself - so some of the additions may be mine. I make no distinctions in the material about what is “official” and what isn’t.

Also, please note that I am not sharing these because I am looking for opinions on the translation. I am simply sharing this for those who would like to play In Ereb Altor with English-speaking groups, and rather not go through the arduous work of translating everything yourself!

- - -

ENGLISH SETTING: Ereb Altor: Setting

Nations:
Barbia
Erebos
Kardia
Ransard
Trachoria

Miscellaneous:
Vox Ranzina
Currency and Coinage
Arcivalian Calendar
West Nargurian Calendar

Kins:
Catfolk
Mallards
Dwarves
Elves

Religions:
Æsìr
The Way of Light
The Hand of Light
The Order of the Sun
Caddo
Den Lysande Vägen

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Mikael
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Re: Ereb Altor: English

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A Good Deed indeed! :D
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Re: Ereb Altor: English

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A very good deed indeed :)
Jolly good Master Anders
...Men vem skall föra våra runor, så väl, med den äran?
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anders
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Re: Ereb Altor: English

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The Pilgrim’s Arrival

“First time on Caddo?” the elderly monk asked. Sir Trystain didn’t say anything but answered with a nod. Sweat was running down his brow into his eyes, but he just blinked it away. It was impossible to wipe it off with his gauntlets, he had tried. According to pious tradition, he was supposed to keep his helmet on until he had stepped ashore on the Sacred Isle, but he had given up on that custom before they even saw the port. The sun’s rays, venerated by the Way of Light as the very touch of Etin, felt like punishing lashes of a cruel flail. Inside his plate armor, the inner tunic was utterly soaked, and the Knight Solar could feel a burning sting every time the metal found an exposed part of his flesh underneath. He squinted up at the sun with a sour expression.  

The gangplank fell onto the cobbled wharf with a loud thud, which made Trystain start. The elderly monastics were the first to disembark, and they did so in revelry. As soon as they made it to the wharf, they fell down, touched the ground, then their forehead, and finally stretched their hands toward the sun. “Praised be Etin for guiding us in his Light!” 

The wharf was bristling with life, and it was difficult for Trystain to take it all in. Above him seagulls screeched in excitement, mistaking the pilgrims’ caravel, “the Maiden’s Dove,” for a fishing vessel. The air was filled with the normal smells of a harbor: seaweed, salt water, tar, and dung. But there were also foreign scents of spices from all across the Copper Sea. Some of them Trystain was able to recognize: cumin, saffron, and southern chilies. But there were unknown smells in the air as well, sweet, fruit-like, reminding him of incense from the temple back home in Pendon.

He had envisioned this moment for well over a decade. The moment when he would finally set foot on the Holy Isle, on Caddo, and enter the sacred city of Arno. But in his imagination, he had never been seasick for a week straight, and it was never this blazing hot. He winced as another pilgrim pushed him to move forward, and a piece of his plate harness touched his lower back. With a grimace, he proceeded down the gangplank. 

The wharf below was full of people, dressed in simple clothes of outlandish colors. Everything was so colorful, the clothes, the fruits, the ships… Everything but the houses, which were all whitewashed. He had finally arrived on the Holy Isle, the home of the great prophet Odo!

But when he reached the stones of the wharf and strode ashore, what he stepped in was anything but holy. He made another face and tried to get the filth off his steel boot. A group of young women, barely women, giggled at him about twenty feet away. One of them called out to him in the strange local tongue of the indigenous Dalks. Trystain only knew a few words, but could guess their meaning by their mocking laughter. He blushed, not only of embarrassment but also of anger and disappointment. The smells were overwhelming, the Dalkian voices drowned him, the crowds suffocated him, the colors stung his eyes, and the heat… the damned heat! He raised his eyes to the sky again and whispered something a Knight Solar should never even think: “Curse the sun!”

The road to the Pilgrims’ Inn was narrow and crowded by hawkers trying to sell their religious paraphernalia: dried starfish, brass sun pendants, and carved statues of saints made of walnut wood. The monks in front of Trystain had made this pilgrimage before and knew the way. He could just barely hear them recite the Prayer of Light, as they climbed the narrow cobblestone roads toward the temple district. “Étin, víllea áko, bigúnea Odúni…” Trystain had very different words in his own mouth, and he would later feel bad about it. 

The Pilgrims’ Inn was the only building Trystain had seen with a sign written in continental runes,  and the familiarity made him sigh in relief. Though no one had shown open animosity, he knew that he was not only seen as a foreigner here, but as a heretic. The thought was a difficult one to get used to. Everyone on the mainland knew that it was the Dalks who were the heretics! Trystain was not sure about all the doctrinal differences, but he knew that the view of magic was one of the big points of dissension. Magic was strictly forbidden on Caddo.

The inside of the inn was a relief, and Trystain felt that he could breathe for the first time since his arrival in Arno. It was surprisingly cool inside, despite the fact that the great hall was filled with pilgrims from all over the continent. He could hear Echts, Berendians, Magilreans, and not a few fellow Zorakians. There were monks, priests, and laypeople. Trystain even saw a few knights, but they were not in armor. Their clothes and weaponry gave them away. Trystain was reminded of his flushed face and sweaty appearance and looked forward to doffing his plate mail in his room. He felt like a roasting piglet at one of uncle Edwyn’s hunting parties.

The innkeeper, however, was not a foreigner, but a pot-bellied middle-aged Dalkian with a significant mustache.“Erlo, hégiõ,” he greeted Trystain, who actually understood the phrase. Greetings, traveler. Trystain returned the smile, albeit stiffly and a bit insincere. 
“I would like something cool to drink, if you please master innkeeper. And a key to my room. We just arrived on the Maiden’s Dove,” he managed, and was surprised by his own politeness. The innkeeper poured a clear liquid into a goblet and gave it to Trystain. The drink had alcohol in it, but was not strong. It tasted like pears and was surprisingly refreshing.
“The room will cost you twelve silver suns for your stay,” the innkeeper informed him with a thick accent, producing a key from a small box behind the counter. The price was as expected, and Trystain was grateful not to have to haggle. He took another deep drink from the goblet and reached for his coin purse, and almost choked. Where his purse had been was only the leather straps, clearly cut by a keen knife… His heart started beating rapidly again. The armor closed in on him. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. It was not the innkeeper’s fault, but right now he was the one standing in the path of Trystain’s exhausted patience and unbridled wrath. No longer under his breath, Trystain roared: “Curse the sun! Curse this island! Curse it to the Abyss!”

The great hall of the inn grew silent, as everyone’s attention was turned to the red-faced young knight by the counter.
Caddo
Den Lysande Vägen

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Re: Ereb Altor: English

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Härligt!...or Wonderful rather!
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Re: Ereb Altor: English

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Rooftops in the Rain

The entire city lit up, as the sky opened and lighting struck somewhere out at sea. Kithana counted… “Three. Four. Five…” Boom. She steadied herself. The tiles under her bare feet were slippery and wet. Not the ideal night to sneak around on the rooftops, she had to admit to herself. Yet, the heavy rain meant that fewer eyes were out in the streets, and that even the merchant guards would keep their heads down. She had an advantage, and that’s how she liked it.

Below the roof she could hear the muffled argument between two men, one older and one younger. She couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t really care. She was here on a mission, and the mission always came first. That’s how she got results. That’s how she had earned a reputation for herself. “Quick-footed Kith,” some called her, though she preferred “Kith the Myth.” She smiled to herself, and pulled out a spyglass from her small backpack. The spyglass was a pricey rarity, and Kithana did not like to flaunt it around. Neither did she want to answer questions about where she had gotten it. It was a… complicated story.

Wiping the water from her round face she peered toward the harbor district. There was the building. It was tall, looked like five stories, and made out of stone. Even a pyromancer from Kandra would have had a hard time blowing a hole through those walls! But Kithana had no intention of announcing her presence, especially not that flamboyantly. She had to be clever, to think about it from every angle. After all, this was the first time she would try to actually break in to a prison.

Being one of the small folk, Kithana was used to being ignored and was rarely afforded a second glance. She had made that work to her advantage many times. There were tremendous benefits to being only half the size of “humans.” She could easily fit into passages and openings that large folk wouldn’t even think of as possible entrances or exits. She always leaned into that… The unexpected. The inconspicuous. The inconceivable.

She knew this city well. It had become her home over the last three years. “Nohstril.” She snorted. That was the actual name of the Erebosian capital, which was therefore the object of many jokes on the mainland. It meant “by the river mouth” in the language of the island natives, she had been told. Locals were very quick to educate any snickering visitors.

She took another long look at the prison building. Five stories. Cellars, by the looks of it. And it was a fairly recent building, which means that it was likely connected to the sewers. That was good, and gave Kithana a possible entrance, or exit. Had she not been a halfling she could have tried to fool the guards, and pretend to be a laundry maid, or a kitchen hand. But she looked too different. She would stick out, look unfamiliar, and they would never buy it. Besides, she had never been a good conversationalist - or liar.

She carefully slid down the tiled roof onto a balcony below. Almost all buildings in Nohstril had the same brown terra cotta tiles. They were transported here from Gringul, from the clay marshes on Beyural, Erebos’ southwestern-most island - which incidentally also was the island where Kithana was born. Her parents had both died in a boating accident when she was very young, and she had been raised by her uncle, who ran a pearl fishing venture on the coast. Fortunately, Kithana was a very good swimmer and a proficient diver, and became a valuable asset to the business. One day, however, the whole operation was bought by one of the ruling merchant houses in Nohstril, and Kithana had no choice but to move. In Nohstril she worked for House Feastjoy for two years, and then was unceremoniously dismissed. The new manager of the pearl fishing company did not want “little people” to dive for him, since he was convinced that their lung capacity was inferior to that of humans. Kithana was never given a chance to prove him wrong.

She did not resent her fate, however. Sure, it was not what she would have chosen, but who ever gets to chose? The hardship of life in Nohstril had eventually introduced her to the Guild, and to her mentor. She would not be “Kith the Myth” had it not been for her misfortunes.

She peered at the prison building again. She had only hours to break in, find her target, and get him out alive. Alive, because he was scheduled to hang in the morning. Fortunately, she had been able to overhear some of the off-duty prison guards at the tavern, and to learn that those slated for execution were kept in the dungeons, underground. She was not thrilled about the prospect of traversing the sewers, but that seemed to be the fastest and safest way in. She slid down a water spout, onto the cobbled street below and landed silently on her bare feet.

It wasn’t that halflings had to be barefooted, but it was their custom. Kithana felt better, more stable, when she could feel the ground - or the roof tiles - under her feet. Besides, it was almost impossible to find shoemakers who made shoes for her kin. She had once bought a pair of boots, which were supposedly made for her. They gave her such blisters that she ached for days.

Silent as a cat, quick as the lightning above, Kithana tracked the sewer to its exit into the harbor. She would have to enter there, and make her way back toward the prison underground. With little effort, she climbed down the side of the pier and found the locked gate leading into the sewers. Water and filth was flushed out of the sewer into the harbor basin through an iron-barred gate. The rain had certainly contributed to the flooding of sewage.

Kithana was inspecting the lock on the sewer gate when her eyes widened. She swore under her breath. There was no padlock. Instead, the lock was built into the gate. It was of a peculiar design, angular and geometrical, decorated with sharp lines and serpentine patterns. Kithana knew what this meant; she had seen it before. “Dwarf-craft,” she spat. This would be a bit more complicated than she had anticipated, and time was running out.
Caddo
Den Lysande Vägen

Discord: clerical_error#3473
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Prologue

Mare Êneum, Jorpagnean Empire
1,000 years ago

High admiral Frankuz da Basilon ran up on deck, his face red with anger. He almost tripped on the last step, which made him even angrier. He crossed the deck like a raging bull, and the shipmates on the upper deck parted to give him a wide berth.
“What in the bloody name of Mardukhuz is going on?” he roared as he approached Captain Astephan, who cowered at the unstoppable admiral’s approach. On the deck in front of the shivering captain lay the bloodied and lifeless body of a galley slave. Frankuz immediately recognized him as the head of rowers, the one responsible for the 170 oarsmen aboard Anksalis’ Pride. Astephan smelled of alcohol and showed signs of a brawl, and the admiral was not slow to add two and two together. Through gritted teeth, and with the slow cadence of someone about to run out of patience, the admiral seethed, “What happened?”
Astephan took a shallow breath and looked around. There was no point in lying, or dressing it up. The whole deck had witnessed the incident.
“He dared to insult me… and complain about the conditions of the oarsmen,” he stuttered.
“And?” Frankuz’s voice had dropped a whole octave, reminding the captain of a growling hound ready to bite.
“And… I disagreed. We argued, and then he struck me.” The crew moved uncomfortably, exchanging glances, and Frankuz knew that there was more to the story.
“Do you understand the situation that you have placed us in? That man,” he pointed to the tanned body on the now blood-stained deck, "was our way to appease and manage the men below. Who will do that now?”
Astephan opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Frankuz didn’t say anything for a long time either. He kept the captain locked in his gaze. All that was heard was the rhythm of the waves and the creaking of the galley. The crew was still, awaiting the judgment with bated breath.

“Port! Smoke to the south!” The voice from the crow’s nest punctured the tense moment on deck. The admiral looked up to the mast and then turned his gaze port side. He squinted. There, far to the south, he could see something dark on the horizon. It could be smoke, but it could also be a storm, although storms of that kind rarely moved in from the southern continent. Smoke would be a sign of battle and burning ships, probably corsairs. That would not be a problem. There were twenty-two galleys in their fleet, each one with at least 60 armed soldiers. Frankuz was proud to be leading them back toward the imperial capital, Grivela. They had finished a year’s successful campaign beyond the province of Krunia Magna, in the freshwater ocean of Golwynda. They were bringing spoils with them, spoils that would please His Imperial Highness, Palerik I. The last raids against the Margylean coastal cities had been particularly successful. That victory had secured a strong bond with the Furgian royal house, something the Emperor had long desired. Perhaps this would not be Frankuz’s last campaign eastward. Their victory could well have secured an eastern expansion of the Jorpagnean Empire.
No, corsairs did not bother him. Let them come. A large storm this far south, however, would be more worrisome. Frankuz looked up toward the imperial flags on the main mast. They indicated a northeastern wind, which meant that corsairs would have to row against the wind, and a storm would move away from them.
Frankuz turned his attention away from the captain with a final angry glare, and called out to the pilot, “Steer starboard and pick up speed. Let us gain some distance.”
The ship signaled the rest of the fleet to follow the order, and the crew sprang into action. Captain Astephan quickly slunk away, probably to lick his wounds in his cabin (or more likely numb them with liquor). A few minutes later the whole fleet was heading northwest, and the oars made the hull of Anksalis’ Pride groan. The admiral was finally beginning to calm down when the call from the outlook gave him a start. “The smoke is closing in!”
That’s impossible. Smoke cannot move against the wind! Frankuz went to port and peered over the railing. It was unmistakable. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. A chill ran down the admiral’s spine. None of this was natural.
“Tell the men to arm themselves and be ready for combat,” he told his commandant, as he went to his cabin to get his own sword and shield. It took him longer than he’d liked to put his harness on. He was not as fit as he once had been, and he usually had a young hand help him don the armor.
Screams from the outside made him give up on his braces, and he ran upstairs toward the galley deck. Strange thudding sounds from on top made him uneasy. Hail? Not possible. He swung open the doors to the deck, and his eyes widened in undiluted horror.
The first thing that struck him was how dark it was. A few minutes earlier the sky had been almost free of clouds. Now, Frankuz couldn’t even see the sunlight. It wasn’t because of clouds, however. The galley, and the sky above, were completely covered with large monstrous insects. They were everywhere, crawling over his shipmates, scurrying over the deck, and covering the sails. They were… feasting on his crew, tearing the flesh from their bodies. Most of the creatures were the size of his forearm, some as large as a child. As with one accord, a dozen of them turned their attention to him and swarmed him. Frankuz did not even have a chance to draw his sword. The last thought he had was that someone had to warn Grivela. If this nightmare swarm reached the mainland, nothing would be left standing.

- - -

Anksalis’ Pride was sinking into the dark depths of the blood-red sea. All the treasures from the eastern campaign joined the sundered limbs of dead soldiers and slaves alike. An iron coffer sank quicker than most, due to its weight. Inside the chest, a dream, a patient thought… “I can wait. My time is not yet here. I shall abide. My brothers and sisters, we shall be united once more when the time is full.”
Caddo
Den Lysande Vägen

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birkebeineren
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Re: Ereb Altor: English

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Good writing, a good story, and lots of references to EA-material. At the end (or bottom?) a little mystery. I like it! :D
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