Netruk44/uesp-wiki-content huggingface dataset:
Lore:Sacred Rites of the Stonechewers

For several seasons I have been observing the   tribe, recording their daily activities and becoming familiar with their customs and routines. Over time I have deliberately crept closer and closer to the limits of their tribal camp, occasionally showing myself briefly so the subjects would become used to my proximity. At one point a warrior out to relieve himself behind a tree stumbled upon my observation post, and when he grunted and drew his crude-but-serviceable short sword I thought my work had come to an untimely end. Luckily the tribal shaman was nearby, and he intervened on my behalf, speaking harshly to the warrior and knocking aside his sword. The shaman pointed at me and slowly rotated his hand near his head, which I assume is a   gesture denoting acknowledgement of superior intellect. Who would have suspected these so-called primitives had such regard for scholarship?

After that there were no more incidents of hostility, and the Goblins tolerated my presence, so long as I kept a respectful distance from their females and offspring. Occasionally a warrior would bark at me, but I simply replied by making the hand-rotating "intelligence" gesture next to my head, and the warrior would shrug and go back to his business.

As so little is known about the religious practices of the Goblin race, I decided to make the shaman of the tribe my particular study. The symbol of his office was a bone rod, probably a femur, with a small skull affixed to the end&mdash;possibly an infant's. This skull was ornamented with an assortment of feathers, spines, and animal claws, and filled with something like nut-hulls, for it rattled loudly when shaken. The shaman would shake this holy symbol forcefully when summoning his congregation to sacred rituals, or when the females were not bringing him food or drink rapidly enough.

At particularly important rituals the shaman would touch the symbol to his heart, then his head, then point it to the sky and call out, "Muluk!" At first I found this confusing, given the similarity of "muluk" to the Goblin words "muulk," which they use when chastising their  s or children, or "mluku," the term for fecal matter. But gradually I learned to differentiate, and one day I realized that by crying "Muluk!" the shaman must be invoking the god of the Goblins.

And then it struck me: "Muluk" is not really much different from " ." Could the god of the Goblins and the god of the  s be one and the same?

This is the kind of discovery that could win me tenure at the  ! I must get independent confirmation of this revelation. But how?
Lore:True Heirs of the Empire

Rejoice, peoples of northwest  ! Though the rest of   is afflicted by war, madness, and   horror, the glory and honor of the   lives on in the  . We remain true to the primacy of trade, the principles of freedom, and worship of the  .

In the face of a world of enemies, the trade powers of the   have formed a powerful alliance.  ,  , and   stand as one, united under the rule of the High King in  .   and   craftsmanship make the alliance an economic powerhouse, and the military strength of the Orcs and  s make us a force to be reckoned with. Our kings join our people in longing for the return of a Tamrielic Empire, along with the economic prosperity that goes with it. There is only one way to make sure the right   rules once more from the  : we must attend to it ourselves.

The current so-called " " is a sham, a twisted mockery of  's glorious Second Empire. The charlatans who sit on the   openly mock the Divines and court the Lords of  , the Enemies of Man. Even the once-promising Emperor   fell victim to Daedric corruption, his reforms swept away by the puppet-masters of the Daedric Cabal.

The Daggerfall Covenant is the only true heir to the principles of the Second Empire. In the name of the Divines, we must conquer   and restore the glory of Reman's legacy. The cancerous Daedra worship that has corrupted Cyrodiil and threatens all Nirn shall be cleansed from Tamriel. We shall found the Tamriel Covenant, that all kingdoms may have a seat at the Grand Council under a new Imperial Dynasty. 

Forward, soldiers of the Covenant! Freedom for all peoples in the name of the Divines! For a new Empire and a new era of law and justice!
Lore:The Code of Mauloch

"By the Code of  !" I don't need you to guess how many times I've heard that oath made in some dingy tavern. Again and again, some fellow sellsword with too much fire in him has screamed those words at the top of his lungs. I'd be lying if I said the   strongholds don't take those words as law. There are few places where experience would tell you that "tradition" and the "old ways" make for a better fighter, but with Orcs, it seems like staying true to your ancestors is the path to victory.

Let me start a few steps back. The Orc strongholds have existed as long as the Orc race has, at least according to them. Orc strongholds are more than armored camps. They're fortresses. Every man, woman, and child inside the walls is trained from birth to defend them. All their weapons and armor are smithed right there in the stronghold. All the food is hunted down by Orc warriors and brought back to be eaten by the Orcs who live there.

Orcs follow no laws save their own, an unwritten set of rules called " ," named after one of their gods, who is sometimes called Malacath. Most of it's pretty simple: don't steal, don't kill, and don't attack people without reason (although there seems to be a big list of exceptions). Orcs in a stronghold don't have jails for their criminals. They have Blood Price. You either pay enough in goods for your crimes, or you bleed enough that the victim is satisfied. And I don't need to tell you that Orcs have a lot of blood.

The Code also sets up who runs the stronghold. The toughest male is usually the chief. He makes decisions and decides when the Code of Mauloch has been satisfied. All the women are either the chief's wives or his daughters, with the exception of the wise woman, who handles all spiritual matters and healing needs. Matters of grave dispute are handled with short but violent fights. Those who don't get along with the chief are usually forced out of the stronghold to live among the rest of us. An Orc grows up being told to fight for everything. If something is not worth fighting for, it is beneath the Code.

The Orcs in a stronghold don't like strangers, used to living on their own like they do. We know about their homes because so many Orcs leave their strongholds to become sellswords or soldiers, and a few pints of mead always gets them talking about home. I hear that sometimes, when an Orc makes a non-Orc a "blood kin," that person is allowed to live in the stronghold as one of the clan. Of course, I've never seen proof of that actually happening.

For all their strange rules and traditions, the Code of Mauloch does breed a culture of determined warriors. They're focused in ways that the average sellsword isn't. They don't hesitate to draw weapons and settle matters openly. I think that's the real difference between the stronghold Orcs and the city Orcs. The law allows you to settle fights through the constable's men, but the Code of Mauloch demands you settle your problems yourself. That's a fine way of thinking when you're leading a mercenary's life.
Lore:A Warning to the Aldmeri Dominion

The overlords of the   are hereby put on notice: renounce your ambitions of aggression and return to your islands and jungles, or the wrath of the   shall fall upon you like a hammer of the  .

We are well aware that the Aldmeri plan nothing less than a return to the Elven domination of the other races, particularly Men and  s. They wish to overturn the legacies of the   and  s and wipe them from history. This we shall not allow. Never again will free Men and Orcs submit to the tyranny of Elven oppression!

The arrogant High Elves of   are clearly the driving force behind the Dominion. We of the Covenant have shown, through our acceptance of the  , that we can live with the Elves in peace, but Queen   insists on war. Her invasion of the continent of   is nothing but naked aggression. The Dominion has no territorial rights in  . If the Altmer do not return to Summerset, their invading armies will be destroyed.

The   and the   have traded with our   kingdoms for ages, but they've made a mistake in allying themselves with the perfidious   of Summerset. Though we of the Covenant wish them no ill will, if they maintain their alliance with the Dominion, they will suffer the same fate at our hands as the High Elves. They must reconsider, or they must face our wrath.
Lore:The Werewolf's Hide

Some will tell you that   greatest strength is our hunger, or our numbers, or our rage, or our claws, or our fangs. These are fools. The gift of   is not simply about weapons, but about defense. 

To hunt in the great   of our master, we must be impervious to pain, masters of our own bodies. 

Many a werewolf hunter will seek your hide for this reason. They will try to wear it, or else burn it. Either way, it is your greatest prize and you should take care not to let it fall to filth and disrepair.

A wolf's coat is the marker of his status. It bears his scars and protects his body against harm. Treat it as a nobleman treats his finery, for you are a servant of Hircine.

Too often have I encountered feral wolves with mangy coats. You are not wild  s! You are not senseless   with no choice but to wander the woods as animals! You are kings among hunters!

When you are beset by enemies, when the mob comes for you, and you transform into your true self to face sword and sickle, pitchfork and pike, you will thank me. Your coat will gleam and terrify, and no blow will harm you.
Lore:The Knightly Orders of High Rock

The   passion for feudal hierarchy pervades every aspect of   society, from the lowliest peasant farmer to the High King in  . Nowhere is this more apparent than in the curious phenomenon of the Breton knightly orders.

Here in  , we  s sensibly award equal citizenship to every man or woman who knows which end of the sword to grasp. Oh, we have our governing class, of course, as civilization must be ordered and maintained, but below this aristocracy there are few distinctions.

Not so in High Rock, where everyone is aware of their degree of nobility, which is invariably traced back to those Breton families who led the region's liberation from the overlordship of the   Elves. High Rock cultural history is founded on tales of the noble and chivalrous "Breton Knights" who flung off the yoke of their   masters. After these knights drove the Direnni back to  , they founded the knightly orders to carry on the tradition of nobles-in-arms, and to ensure that High Rock would have able and ready defenders in times of trouble.

So the stories go, at least. Today, every petty kingdom and duchy in High Rock has its own knightly order, with traditions that supposedly date back to the glory days of the  . The   in  , the   in  , the   in  &mdash;the list goes on and on.

And what, nowadays, do these knightly orders do to justify their gleaming greatswords and shining mail? If we look beyond the banners and pageantry, we find that the chivalric orders fulfill two main purposes in High Rock society.

First, they provide an acceptably "noble" calling for the excess sons and daughters of the aristocracy. Over time, as trade has made High Rock prosperous, the profession of merchant has become an accepted alternative to feudal lordship for the children of the nobility, but frankly, not every baron's son has a head for numbers and negotiation. For these spare heirs, there's always a membership available in the local knightly order.

Second, the bestowal of a knighthood on a lower-class man or woman is a convenient way to reward outstanding contributions to society (or to the elevating lord), and confers a measure of that nobility so prized in Breton society. Where the commoner is rewarded for achievements other than in conflict&mdash;and this is the case in the majority of knighthoods&mdash;the membership in the local knightly order is only nominal, and the new sir or dame is not expected to take up sword and shield. However, if their achievements were in the all-important realm of trade, the new "merchant knight" is expected to contribute heavily and regularly to the order's financial maintenance.

So if you're visiting Wayrest or Evermore on a mission of diplomacy or trade, don't be surprised if the head of a shipping company is introduced as Sir Doric, or the owner of a string of hostels is called Dame Lizabette. You're simply meeting one of the fabled Breton Knights of High Rock.
Lore:On the Nature of Coldharbour

This is Lecture Eight: On the Nature of Coldharbour. It looks to me like there are more of you here than there should be, so please check your ledger&mdash;if it says  , you're in the wrong room.

  is the   realm ruled by  , the   of brutality, slavery,  , and other assorted abominations. It is not, therefore, a pleasant place. Descriptions of the plane vary widely, as usual in any study of Oblivion, but all accounts agree that Coldharbour is a dismal, cold, and largely lifeless realm pervaded by a miasma of fear, where lost souls are tormented for eternity.

This emphasizes the point made in my previous lectures, that a plane of Oblivion, being made of the very stuff of chaos, takes on form and character that reflects the nature of its ruler. Coldharbour, therefore, has been molded to embody the purposes of mighty Molag Bal.

And what are those purposes? As it happens, I can speak to this subject with some authority, for I recently acquired the library and papers of the late   of the  . The Cardinal devoted his life to ridding   of   cultists of all persuasions. He was particularly rigorous in his persecution of the worshipers of Molag Bal, and in his time acquired a number of their repulsive tracts and treatises.

Study of these sources reveals that Molag Bal desires, above all things, the enslavement of mortals' souls. Various loathsome means are employed to this end, the ultimate goal being the diversion of a soul from its journey to the afterlife to imprisonment and slavery on the plane of Coldharbour. Upon arrival in Molag Bal's realm, the soul attracts to itself some of the loose creatia of Oblivion, forming a corporeal body with the semblance of the shape it wore in life. These sad slaves, called the  , then toil in torment for the glory and amusement of their master, Molag the Slave-Lord.

I share these secrets of the cult, heretofore unrevealed, so that you may …. What is that confounded commotion out in the hall? How am I supposed to lecture over those bloodcurdling screams? I can't work under these conditions.
Lore:The Fury of King Ranser

In the year  , after the formation of the second   dynasty, young King   began a search for his bride. His first choice was  , daughter of King   of  , but before the marriage contracts were wrought, Emeric instead married  ,   princess of  . This stunned courtiers across the land, and prompted bards to sing songs of Maraya's bewitching beauty. However, strategists saw the move as strengthening the trade between   and  . After Emeric's wedding in  , High Rock readied itself for a golden age of  . Three moons later, it was bracing for a bloody civil war.

  was known as the backwater of High Rock. Ranser was one of these surly hillmen, a child of the north, known for his bitter temper and brutal rule. Emeric's slight was too much for him to bear. With an army of Northern  's surliest mercenaries and a host of his own people, he descended from the mountains to cut a bloody swath to the  . Emeric was caught unprepared. It was only the spirited defense of his   that saved Wayrest from being razed. Ranser had hoped for a swift victory. Instead, he was forced into a protracted siege.

The long siege dragged on into spring, when the  —a mutual defense pact, sworn by all the   kingdoms at the conclusion of the   Invasion—finally paid dividends, drawing  ,  , and   into the fray. Some counseled letting Wayrest fall, but trade with the richest city in the region was too important to allow that. Attacked from the city and the surrounding countryside, Ranser's army stood firm; his mercenaries were well paid and prepared for bloodshed. But the crimson sails and battalions of elite Redguard warriors from across the bay turned the tide. Ranser's forces were routed, and Shornhelm was already ablaze when Ranser returned. This was the work of  s under the blood-rule of  .

Caught between the Breton hammer and the Orcish anvil, Ranser's troops were utterly annihilated in the Battle of  . Ranser hadn't counted on Emeric's canniness; the King of Wayrest had sent emissaries into the   with a pledge to return   to the Orcs if they attacked their hated enemy in Shornhelm. Rivenspire was despoiled, and some Orcs remembered how the Bretons of Shornhelm had led the assault that toppled Orsinium some 135 years before. These debts were paid to Shornhelm in full.   built the Daggerfall Covenant as it is today:  , Rivenspire, and Wrothgar are all indelibly marked by these events.
Lore:Songs of the Return, Volume 5

It came to pass that our great lord  , the Harbinger of us all, sat before an encampment fire. The crews of the  , the  , and the   bade him eat, and boast, and drink. For the boon members of the   were abroad in the land. Stories were told, hearts won and lost, and always the smell of roasting meat hung in the air. The greatest of us all beckoned every warrior to his side, and spoke the tale of  's forging.

Every   the Harbinger slew died at Wuuthrad's bite. All through the long campaign, the only weapon that would fit in the Harbinger's hand was the mighty Wuuthrad. As he told it, the most legendary of axes was forged in the darkest of nights.

It was the  . Ysgramor sat staring out across the waters. He rode upon the last ship in his fleet, fleeing   for the shores of  . From that vantage point, he watched as  &mdash;the first city&mdash;burned. A swollen sky poured rain upon the flames and upon the sea. And the greatest of us all wept bitter tears.

So great was the grief of the Harbinger that, instead of salty sorrow, Ysgramor wept tears of purest  . His eldest,  , collected the tears in a stein and held his father in a warm embrace. He poured mead down the Harbinger's great throat, wrapped furs around the Harbinger's great shoulders, and slung the Harbinger into a great hammock below decks.

Then he set to work. For Yngol, eldest son to the Harbinger of us all, was the greatest smith our people have ever known. There, on the sea, Yngol set to work with his tools. He used lightning to heat the Night's Tears, the ocean's swell to cool them, and always his hammer-blows rang in concert with the rising wind.

When Ysgramor awoke the next morning, Yngol presented him with a mighty axe, hewn from the sorrow that had laid him low just the night before. And the Harbinger of us all embraced his son. He cried out in joy, sadness, and rage. And there on the deck of the last ship from Saarthal, Ysgramor named his axe Wuuthrad, which means "Storm's Tears" in the language of Atmora.

It was then, in telling the tale, that Ysgramor paused. The Harbinger of us all called out to lost Yngol, who had been with the crew of the   in the  . For his son, his eldest and greatest joy, was with him always. He who had bound the storm's tears, he said, rode with him always in the days of the noble and honored Five Hundred.
Lore:Songs of the Return, Volume 27

At last   was brought to bay.  , Harbinger of us all, boldly led the remaining   into the final battle. Many a brave Companion had already fallen to the  s. Stalwart   and Sly  , long may their spirits be honored, fell assaulting the wily half-giant. Many others now trod the blessed pathways to  . With all his kin slain, only Sinmur still defied the greatest among us.

The axe  , dripping with the gore of a hundred dead giants, gleamed in the darkness of Sinmur's barrow. Ysgramor strode forward, halting his followers with a gesture. With another he dared Sinmur to face him in mortal combat. The giant-kin proved willing, roaring his defiance and leaping to battle. His massive, iron-bound club swung forward to crush. Our Lord Ysgramor stepped aside and the club shattered the stone a pace from his side. Wuuthrad sang a blood song as it chopped into the club, breaking it asunder as if made from straw.

Sinmur howled his rage and hurled the stub of his once-fearsome weapon at Our Lord Ysgramor's head. He grappled Ysgramor, seeking to squeeze life away. A roar of laughter was the answer the monster received. Ysgramor's forehead and knee delivered two mighty blows. Sinmur screeched and fell to his knees before our lord.

A song of death and delight keened from Wuuthrad as Ysgramor buried it deep in the giant-kin's skull. A splatter of gore and a death rattle came from Sinmur as Ysgramor gave a victory yell. The Companions cheered mightily as Wuuthrad waved overhead. The depredations of the giant and his vile kin were at last ended. And the legend of Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, grew mightily that day.
Lore:Songs of the Return, Volume 49

With the  ' decree that each ship's crew should go forth of its own accord, making its own legend, the crew of the   rejoiced. They yearned to bring the fear of   to new lands of the   that had not yet been put to the sword. They took to heart their Lord  's words to "Give no quarter. Show no kindness."

A pyre upon the shore was raised for the Fallowfire. The ashes of their beloved vessel fell upon the waters and drifted toward  , cutting all ties with their homeland. Led by Captain  , the crew of the Fallowfire turned their backs to the sea and strode inland.

South they traveled, seeking lands untrammeled by others of Ysgramor's crews. South and south they went, sowing the blood vengeance demanded by Ysgramor. No Mer escaped their axes once seen, no settlement remained unburnt in their path. Truly the Fallowfires brought their lord's wrath to bear upon the treacherous Elves. As they journeyed, so the terror of them grew among the Mer.

Gurilda led her crew to the foothills of a lofty range of mountains. These they named   and long they sought a pass through them. When finally a way was found, the crew crossed over and into a new land. " " they called this region, for it was riven by deep canyons and swift-flowing rivers. In the name of Fallowfire, their lost  , and  , they scoured the land, burning Mer villages and putting all they encountered to the axe.

Finally, the Mer offered battle. The cowardly Elves gathered in great numbers high atop a rocky hill, daring Gurilda's Companions to attack. And so they did. Challenges were offered, brave deeds were done, and heroes made. Battle raged through the day and as the sun touched the peaks of the western mountains, the Mer broke and fled. Gurilda lay dying, pierced by a multitude of weapons, but lived until sunset. Her spirit ascended to   knowing her crew was victorious.

That day, the dominion of Elves over the Rift was ended. The Companions claimed the land in the name of Ysgramor, Harbinger of us all, and made it free to all  s. To honor their dead, the Companions labored long, delving into the hillside to craft a tomb. Gurilda was buried there, with all her weapons and armor. There too were placed the remains of   and  , laid alongside Gurilda as they had fallen in battle, defending their captain. Others of the honored dead were entombed as well. A mighty cairn of stone was erected around the tomb entrance, to forever mark the grave.

 , long Gurilda's first mate but now captain, gazed long upon the hills rising about them and the valleys at their feet. This was a land he could love, where his people could prosper and grow. He decreed the crew's wandering at an end and caused a great hall to be built on the battle site. Thus was   created, in homage to the ship that carried them to these shores. From this time, the days of the Companions of the Rift are counted. Never may their glory fade!