Netruk44/uesp-wiki-content huggingface dataset:
Lore:The Argonian Maid—An Oral Tradition

Recently I attended a stage production called " ." Bawdy, delightful, and filled with innuendo, I am surprised it was never presented in this form before.

According to my research, "The Lusty   Maid" has its origins in a long line of tales told by traveling bards, each with a slightly different title and premise, but the same end result: a female innocent succumbs to the charms of a dominant, married male character.

In the south, the tale was occasionally presented as "The Lusty  i," and "Two Moons for  ." I've also heard " 's Lusty Orifice," "The Sandy Spear of  ," and "The Maiden's Tight  " in taverns across the north and northwest.

In a stage play, each of the character archetypes is brought to life before the audience. Unless the acting is superb, the subject matter can come off flat and uninspired. Also, a play takes away from the verbal dexterity exhibited by a bard such as the legendary  ,  . The feline bard described the various ploys used by the man to bring the maiden to her knees in a way that made one's pulse race and breath quicken, wondering what would come next.

Indeed, much of the "Argonian Maid" borrows heavily from Tale-Singer's songs (uncredited, but naturally I recognized them immediately), in which the maiden helps the male with a spear, a loaf of bread, and a spilt flask of coconut milk.

Fortunately, the players in the current production of "The Lusty Argonian Maid" are excellent, bringing this age-old tale to new heights. The reference to the   would bring laughter to the most sullen. And the wheel of cheese … well, I've never seen this variant before, but it was truly inspired!

I foresee this play will outlive its humble beginnings as a fireside amusement to become a choice bit of frivolous entertainment for generations to come.
Lore:Enigma of the Runestones

The origin of the mystic   found scattered across   is obscure and uncertain. Even their nature and material composition is a matter of hot debate among the sages of the  . The Venerable  , Sapiarch of Mythohistory, holds that certain difficult passages in  's Journal indicate that runestones were already here when the Foresailor arrived from Old  . However,  , Sapiarch of Enchantment, contends that they date from the early  , and are the unintended consequence of an   wizard's experiment gone awry.

Whatever the truth of their origin, after generations of study by the finest magical minds in the  , their various properties have nearly all been identified, and their uses in the enchantment of arms, armor, and ornaments are well understood. For general classification they fall into three categories, which we latter-day mages have dubbed Potency, Aspect, and Essence.

For enchantment purposes these three types of runestones can be understood as mystically complementary, for only by combining one of each category can the enchanter create a "glyph," our term for the magical substance we use to endow an item with sorcerous power.

However, though we know how to use runestones to create magical items, the enigma remains: what are they? We have named their three standard categories Potency, Aspect, and Essence—but what does that mean? Even the great  , who gave them these names, even he, when asked what they meant, merely shrugged and replied, "Those are the names that feel right to me."

Even the fact that there are three kinds of runestones generates debate, as it seems to contradict the  -  Theorem, which posits that duality is the foundation of the  .   asserted that it was impossible that there were only three types of runestones, and spent the last two hundred years of his life searching for a fourth, convinced that proper classification called for such entities to appear in dual pairs. He never found this "quartonic runestone," which he dubbed Celerity, but he insisted until the end that his theory was sound.

Was Camilonwe right? Do Celerity runestones exist, but in some state of reality that makes them imperceptible to normal mortals? That is a question that is, so far, unanswerable.
Lore:The Hist's Fire

Many ask us how we find our mates, as though  s cannot experience joy the way the   do.

Though this seems absurd, I myself met my husband in an unusual way. I believe the   spoke to both of us, to ensure we would both be where we could not help but meet and fall in love. This despite my innermost belief I'd never marry.

The first stir caught me by surprise. I put away items in the shop, organizing what I could amongst the clutter, when suddenly I heard my own voice in my mind say, "Wait for him."

"For …?" I asked aloud, startled out of my reverie.

Silence.

My quiet sensibility replaced by confusion, I turned abruptly, knocking over the lamp, which flung an arc of burning oil across the room.

Oil landed everywhere, from the piles of fabric, to the litter of papers, and the straw scattered over the floor. In a single moment, a modest light source turned the crowded room into a fire pit.

Coral tongues licked across the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and I realized I'd been standing still, slack-jawed, as smoke and heat and flame swirled around.

The hut had never seemed so large as it did then. Dark with smoke, bright with fire, its air filled with a dull, creaking roar. I squinted against the elements, my hand across my mouth, and staggered toward the ever-receding door.

"Anyone in there? Anyone?"

"Me!"

I reached the door as it burst open, causing the flames to surge upwards and out with an almost celebratory leap. A dark hand grabbed mine, pulling me out and away.

"Are you hurt?"

Coughing, I shook my head. "I'm all right. But the store …."

We both turned to look. The fire, so unruly within the confines of the hut, had met its match with the wet thatch roof.

"Thank you for helping me," I said, turning to face my rescuer at last.

Our eyes locked in recognition. The Hist had chosen us for each other, and neither of us would need to wait any longer.
Lore:The Argonian Mating Ritual

I shall endeavor to shed light on these most mysterious creatures, the  s, paying particular attention to their mating rituals.

Many speak in whispers of the  , a faceless entity with whom all Argonians claim bonds. According to legend, the Hist lives at the heart of   in a tree that routinely walks the lands, patrolling its borders.

Some say the wandering Hist is a metaphor for the Argonian condition. Doomed to toil amongst the fetid swamps, they desire a way out of their misery. Somehow the Argonians continue to survive, their numbers neither rising nor falling regardless of adversity.

The lizard-folk view mating as a simple call to procreation by their leader, the Hist. To participate in this annual event, Argonians travel to the town of   and engage in several trials. The trial winners are allowed to mate, while losers must return the following year.

Though I was unable to observe this year's trials, I hope to attend next year in order to learn more about these strange and sub-  reptilians.
Lore:Wet Wilds of Black Marsh

During the  , the vast swamplands encompassing   were claimed as Imperial territory. Naturally, the obtuse   (and other admirers of this seeping pustule on the buttocks of  ) favor the name Argonia, an ancient battleground where their forebears were put to death. Perhaps because of this, it was deemed appropriate to give the primordial tribes of lizard-folk the name "Argonian" in our common tongue. What cannot be argued is the pitiful state of this province; it positively oozes with the devastated and fetid: the scars of battles past and plunderers present permanently disfigure these already-inhospitable borderlands. Wade inward, though, and the dark heart of Black Marsh will elude you; its elements combine to infect explorers with poxes both real and imagined.

The inhabitants of this province enjoy an anonymity not seen elsewhere. The early  i explorer and poet   described "manlike reptiles, fleet of foot and running the length of this great mire," and gave the impression of an abandoned place, unlivable to settlers. However, primitive   such as the  , primal Mer like the  , and relatives of the   like the vulpine   all fought for their own pieces of this noisome refuge.
Lore:The Lusty Argonian Maid, A Song

NOTE: A male/female duet, beginning with the male and alternating stanzas.


Crantius Colto is my name

My lusty   maid

I've something here for you to clean

Come burnish now my blade!


I'm Lifts-Her-Tail the maid, it's true

A lusty Argonian maid

But your task is just too much, good sir,

I've never seen such a long blade!


Tut-tut, my dear, that's not what I hear,

My lusty Argonian maid

And Lady Colto's gone to  

No need for you to be afraid


Nay, I am needed elsewhere, sir,

Though your blade's so long and so hard

I'm needed to tend the instrument large

Of a
Lore:The All-Beneficent King Fahara'jad

Wherein is related, O Happy Audience, the tale of His Majesty's thrice-blessed life, including an account of His Majesty's rise to the Throne of  , which tale is exemplary, and mention of some of His Majesty's excellences and virtues, which are numberless.

Know, O Beloved Reader, that the lineage of our Auspicious King is both noble and royal, descending patrilinearly from  , from  , yea, even from High King   himself. Likewise matrilinearly his forebears are   of  , including the meritorious   of most august memory. Indeed, of the Grandee Zizzeen it was said by the Poet   that he was of such rectitude that, when he in error entered the Ladies' Bath-House, he forthwith put out both his eyes, lest he commit an indecency.

(As to High King Ar-Azal, the Curious Delver has but to seek out the tome " .")

Now when the All-Beneficent King   was but a Prince in Antiphyllos, on a day of days he did hunt birds in the   with his Ivory Bow, and by happenstance he saw a great   alight in a fig tree. And Prince Fahara'jad vowed, "By  's bright blade, I shall slay me this Crow!" And he did nock an   to the   and let fly, and lo, the Crow was taken in the eye and did die of the instant.

Then dropped from the sky a hideous  , with a cursing of curses, and the she-daemon menaced the Young Prince with unclean talons, crying, "You have slain the child of my bosom, and must die the death therefore! In sooth, I shall pluck out your eyes and partake of them like grapes!" And screaming a great scream, she clawed at the Prince's orbs of vision.

Then did a beam of golden light shine down from the heavens, and striding upon it as if upon a bright blade came down the Ever-Glorious Onsi, crying, "Hold, Creature of Evil." And he smote off the Hagraven's claws, which fell upon the ground like hail, and the she-daemon fell likewise and commenced to grovel unto the god and beg for mercy. And Onsi spake, saying, "Pleas shall avail you not, shrill virago, for you have threatened the Fateful Prince, whom it is my special care to foster and protect. For this noble stripling is the Fahara'jad whom prophecy foretells shall lead our people in the Years of Peril, and so you must needs die." And he struck off her head.

And the Prince, sore amazed, did cover both his eyes, and when he dared to look again, both god and she-daemon were gone. Thus the Prince did misdoubt his own eyes, and hurried to the Holy Temple where he related all that had occurred to the Priest of Onsi. And the Priest deemed his seeing a True Seeing. And this was the first of the Prophecies of Monarchy.
Lore:What is Volendrung?

is one of the most notorious mythological artifacts in history. It has cultural ties to the   as well as the  , though scholars fail to agree on just about every detail that has ever been written about it—including whether or not different accounts are referencing the same object.

Academics recognize one such artifact, called Volendrung, as a Dwemer relic forged by Clan  . It was carried into battle as a family symbol as much as it was the chieftain's weapon, and was made famous when the Rourkens refused to join the   of   and Dwemer. The other Dwemer forsook them for the slight, and the Rourkens refused to stay with their people if it meant an alliance with the Chimer—their sworn enemies.

So the Rourken chieftain hurled Volendrung into the sky, declaring that their people would find a home wherever it landed. Volendrung thus served as a guiding light for Clan Rourken in exile as the Hammer roared, beastlike, across the sky. It shone like a second sun during the day, mirrored the moons at night, and led the Rourken to the other side of the continent. There, they supposedly founded the fabled city of  —which has yet to be discovered in the  , if it ever truly existed.

But how did the unidentified Rourken chieftain manage such a tremendous throw? Dwemer armies were known for their engines of war, and their mechanical infantry. If the Dwemer had the capability to project a weapon cross-continent by hand, why did they never utilize such long-range assaults in warfare? Even a modern Arch-Mage would have difficulty concocting a spell to launch an object over such a distance. Unless Volendrung was actually a flying engine, powered by lost Dwemer mechanics, the whole story reeks of a   tale.

Some skeptics, including this one, believe the Dwemer Volendrung's flight is simply poetic imagery representing the wandering exile of Clan Rourken.

A second hammer called Volendrung, this time a Daedric artifact belonging to the    , exists in records nearly as old as the Dwemer version. Malacath's relic echoes the Dwemer name, and for this reason, many assume that it is the same legendary weapon. But why would the God of Curses associate himself with an object forged by enemies? To make a mockery of Dwemer work? To take something the Dwemer treasured and use it as an instrument against them? A rather subversive and indirect action—unbecoming of Malacath's historically straightforward mentality.

 's " " speculates on the Hammer's magical features: the text cites several   papers, claiming the Hammer empowers its wielder, and drains the strength of struck foes—very much in line with a Malacathan design. There is little doubt that the relic described could be tied to the God of Curses. What is in doubt is whether it was named by mortals or by Malacath himself—and whether the Rourken Clan wielded the same Hammer in centuries past.

What is Volendrung?   may never know.
Lore:With Regards to the Ebony Blade

The following is an intercepted   memorandum in full, noted here for conjecture on the   artifact  :

Before I begin, let me preface by stating: the     and her worshippers value arcanum above all else—you will learn this, in time. To  , knowledge is power, but Mephala concerns herself with only the choicest morsels: knowledge secluded, undisclosed.

The various Daedric artifacts associated with Mephala share this disposition, chief among them, the Ebony Blade, of which little is known. The records of the Tong themselves disagree on the properties locked within the Blade's metal. But I'll share what I know about it, and in return, you will complete your first assignment for the guild. I hope you'll find the Flowers of Gold a suitable base of operations. Your room is a favorite of mine. Warm and dry.

First: the Blade initially passed into the Morag Tong's notice (this decade, at least) when our brother   obtained it, taking it from  , another brother. Rivis had the Blade kept in a safehouse for years, hidden from his fellow Morag Tong. How did Orndras find Rivis out? He'll take that secret to his grave, but his handlers whispered that the Web Spinner herself had told him. Even the Tong is unsure how the Blade is connected to Mephala, whether it is an extension of her physical form, or if her essence is bound to it, but it's important to her. And that makes it important to us.

Second: Rivis was an ambitious mage, one of the Tong's most powerful. And he was not about to allow Orndras to leave his safehouse with the Ebony Blade in tow. There was a duel between them, and when Orndras drew first blood with the Blade—and failed to kill—he was surprised Rivis did not engulf him in a fiery spell. It's possible the Blade can   a mage, stymie the flow of  , or simply   it.

Third: Rivis was keen with an edge, and better skilled than Orndras. But Orndras wielded the Ebony Blade, and the wounds he suffered stitched themselves together as the battle continued—as Orndras dealt his less-precise cuts. Perhaps a restorative property of the Blade.

Fourth: Rivis' last words were, "The Vampire will be the end of us all." Orndras believed he was referring to the Blade, that Rivis had hidden it out of legitimate fear. I believe that even the most venerable of the Morag Tong will say anything when backed into a corner. I have.

Fifth: Orndras retrieved the Blade, made a detailed report to his handlers—and then attempted to slaughter them. He murdered all but one. His actions had no discernible rhyme or reason or motive, and he was last seen on the third floor of the Flowers of Gold.

Return the Ebony Blade to us, whether Orndras comes with it or not. Look for a   with a scar under his left eye.
Lore:Chronicles of the Five Companions 2

Once again, I,   of  , commit words to paper on behalf of  . In truth, he didn't ask me to write this entry, but I feel the need to keep a record of these events, whatever their outcome may be. 

The Prophet's visions and nightmares are getting worse. He continues to witness horrifying visions of a future in which   rules our world. These don't seem to have a profound effect on him when he is awake, but at night, in those precious few hours where he manages to drift off, the visions become increasingly disturbing. He refuses to describe them to me in great detail, but he awakens violently, in a cold sweat, and it's obvious that they are wearing away at his sanity.

Our ally,  , has already proven extremely capable. The escape from   was only the beginning. The   risked everything to rescue me from  . I owe our new friend my life, my soul, and perhaps my very sanity.

We're now chasing every available lead in our attempts to find   and the  . If we can regain the amulet, the Prophet believes that we might be able to challenge Molag Bal and save our world. As usual, he used a bunch of flowery words and obscure phrases I didn't understand, but his general meaning was clear.

Sometimes I wish I'd never left Skyrim and gone to  . I fought for a great man that I believed in, met another that I came to cherish dearly, and had my share of blood and glory, but was it all worth it? Cyrodiil will always be the place where I first laid eyes on that traitorous     and his sniveling toady  . I don't know which is worse, Mannimarco's charm and eloquence as he prepared to backstab us, or Tharn's endless insults and irritating condescension. At least with Tharn we always knew where we stood.

The Prophet said that Tharn's part in this isn't finished. I can't imagine any good coming of that. After all, that sniveling son of a goat went right back to licking Mannimarco's boot after the  . He'd do anything to save his own hide and preserve his family's status in the  ! 

I must bring this entry to a close. I hear the Prophet stirring.
Lore:Chronicles of the Five Companions 3

Well, there it is.  's back with us, and I don't like it one bit.

  and I managed to get into  's castle with a little help from our soul shriven friend Sir  . Cadwell's like a  —a little "light in the upper marsh," if you get my meaning—but he can be damned useful at times. And he shows up in the damnedest places! 

While we risked our necks fighting through   and  , Tharn projected his smirking image to different parts of the castle, goading us on. We eventually got to the tower where he was being held, but Mannimarco was ready for us, and raised all manner of   to challenge us. In the end we defeated them and escaped with Tharn, but here's the topper: Tharn lied to us! He has no idea where   is being held, or where the   is hidden!  

Of course, he claims he can help us find both, but when he admitted his lie, I lost my temper and laid him out on the floor with a single punch. Gods, it felt good! That was a long time coming. 

That's when Tharn spilled the beans. He told   that we'd been lying, and revealed  's true identity. Lord   immediately admitted everything, of course. I hope it wasn't too soon. It's vital that we maintain  's trust, and now I can see doubt behind the  's eyes.

Tharn is such a lying skeever! All he cares about is his   and his family's status. Lord Varen believes Tharn's here for a reason, but I don't trust him and I never will. I plan to keep a close eye on him.
Lore:Chronicles of the Five Companions 6

I am called  , son of   of  . I have been asked to add my words to these chronicles, and though I am no scribe, I will do my best.

The teachings of  , of  , of  , and of   tell us that while a warrior may hone his craft to perfection, or sharpen his sword to where it may cleave stone and steel as though it were air, the true worth of a swordsman is denoted by the quality of the enemies he draws to him. I find myself idly wondering if the great   would reconsider this philosophy if they could see us now, and witness our enemy, the   of   known as  .

At first, I thought to write that my training did not prepare me for this, but after hours of meditation and the counsel of my once-emperor, I have come to realize that this is exactly why   and I trained and studied for so many years. The   of old   were said to be more than mortal, possessed of focus and skill far beyond what other men might achieve in a dozen lifetimes. While I cannot claim to have reached such greatness, perhaps my final test was not to wage wars alongside emperors, but to bring righteous steel to bear against the foes of all life.

I harbor some doubts about whether I am ready for the coming struggle. I did not break under the tortures of the betrayer, but I did not emerge from the   unscathed. Torn flesh knits under the ministrations of my lord's healing magic, and my savage dreams are soothed by  's warm voice in my ear as I startle awake in the dead of night, but still I am not whole. 

Tharn and I speak at length over games of skill and strategy while I recover, and I have spoken plainly about my worries. His contempt at my perceived weaknesses serves as a much-needed counterpoint to Snow Lily's tender words. I endure and accept it, for a warrior without humility is as flawed as a sword blade forged too rigidly. His words harden my resolve and keep my wit sharp.

It is difficult to set aside the many deaths at the Abbey of Blades, and though we did what we could in the wake of the attack, it will be many years before   is ready to train more students in the way of the blade and the mind. When all of this is ended—should we survive, of course—I would very much like to return there and help rebuild.

Perhaps I will ask Snow Lily to come with me.