Netruk44/uesp-wiki-content huggingface dataset:
Lore:Ruined Watchmaster's Journal

(Many of the entries are smudged and illegible.)

24th Sun's Dawn,  

It has been months since the last communique and   grow restless. Some have been crowing to abandon  . I have already ordered the scourging of two soldiers for seditious talk. I fear that soon corporal punishment may not be enough.

2nd Rain's Hand,  

I was forced to hang three junior officers for an attempted mutiny. The response has been mixed. There is renewed obedience in some sectors, but Captain   was popular. I fear that the next plot may be more difficult to disrupt. I have promoted Gisbourne to Quartermaster and instructed him to keep all arms under lock and key until this rebellious element is snuffed out. All this unpleasantness could be dispelled by a single dispatch from  .   help me. No matter the cost, I will hold to my duty.

12th First Seed,  

Gisbourne and I have concocted a plot to save the Hold and the Pale Watch. I do not know why I now commit it to paper. Perhaps a guilty conscience? If this plan bears fruit, the guilt will be worth it.

Gisbourne and his second created a sophisticated forgery. The document purportedly comes from King  's heir, and orders us to maintain our presence here indefinitely. I believe it may just work. Many of the soldiers have conducted secret marriages and settled into familiar routines. These activities contradict standard military procedure, but I allow them to play out anyway. Marriages, children, comfort, routine … these are the things that deaden wanderlust and harden the roots. So long as the troops maintain military readiness and hold to the chain of command, I will continue to turn a blind eye.

5th Morning Star,  

I write this with an unsteady hand. I fear that death is not far off.

Gisbourne, the Watch (and this journal) will soon be yours. For years we have nursed this weakened regiment back to health. I am sure it will thrive under your leadership.

Continue the work. Pass on the traditions. Preserve the glory of Daggerfall and suffer not the  s to rebuild. This was, is, and ever shall be our oath. See it upheld. The Eight protect you and our Pale Watch.
Lore:Letter to King Maxevian

To his most royal Highness, King   of  ,

My king, it is with all respect and humility that I write you once again.

I have served faithfully here at   since I was old enough to lift a sword. For twenty-four years   and I maintained our vigil. Our love of king and country remains strong, but morale dwindles, as do our food and supplies. Without relief, I fear we cannot long remain viable.

Your majesty, we beg of you. Relieve us of our honorable duty.

Your faithful servant, 
Captain   
27th Frost Fall,
Lore:The Battle of Orsinium

The battle for   raged on. The clans, already reeling from the surprise attack, retreated into the temple as the  s finally broke through the walls and swarmed into the city. The clan chiefs knew that  if they did not escape soon, they would die inside their beloved temple.

As they latched the temple doors behind them, the high chief turned and gave instructions to his oldest son. "You need to open the way to the tunnels beneath the temple by setting the pillars correctly. Remember these words and the way will be opened."

And with that, the high chief spoke the following words. "My eyes gaze upon the battlefield, but I feel calm. To my right,   fights with ferocity and keeps our enemy at bay. To my left,   serves as our shield, protecting us from sights unseen. And above,   guards the hills, bows at the ready."

It was now up to the high chief's son. He had to remember the words, to call upon his knowledge of the clans and their symbols, or the tunnels would never open and the   clans would fall. He could not let that happen.
Lore:The Hidden Tunnels of Orsinium

When next the  s decided to rebuild the city of  , they determined to create a series of tunnels beneath the streets that would serve as an escape route should the city ever again fall under siege. These tunnels still exist in the current day, with the newest stones of Orsinium being laid atop their foundation.

As the king's workers continue to build the city, some of the tunnels have been sealed off or even collapsed. But many of the tunnels, hidden beneath the ancient foundations of older structures, continue to crisscross below the city streets. One of the most famous of these tunnels, described in the fictional account " ," is the Temple Tunnel, which was said to run from beneath the temple in Orsinium to the mountains behind Scarp Keep.

According to the work of fiction mentioned above, a secret passage guarded the way to the tunnel. To access the tunnel, at least in the story, the high chief's son had to solve a riddle to open the secret passage.

I look forward to a time when the priests of the temple allow me the opportunity to attempt to open the secret passage. Then we can determine once and for all whether Bangor the Liar's tale is based on facts or truly is a complete work of fiction.
Lore:The Ice Elder of the Ogres

I've spent a fair amount of time researching the wildlife of  , from the common (and fickle)   to the powerful and beastly   of  . When I was invited to  , I jumped at the chance to explore its untamed wilderness.

Before we even arrived at the city of Orsinium, my caravan was attacked by those filthy  . My protectors were either slain or fled into the hills, so I tried to follow. I soon found myself lost. In my panic, I fell into a small ravine.

That was the last I remember before waking up, surrounded by blue-furred  s. They seemed to take an interest in my well-being. Either that, or they were keeping me alive so that they could devour me later.  s, while technically of the  -kin, are not known for their intelligence, but they are far smarter than most animals. As a rule, I do not study the intelligent races. Circumstances being what they were, I was intrigued enough to record what I was able to observe.

From what I saw, the ogres of the Wrothgarian foothills are far more advanced than the crude brutes I've occasionally encountered near  . Several of them, elders I suppose, seemed to practice some sort of crude totemic magic that involved the manipulation of ice. One of them approached me and studied me with as much interest as I showed in them. That was when something amazing happened.

My leg was broken and bleeding from my fall, and I couldn't move. The elder raised his hand in the air and I braced for a strike. Instead, a beam of energy coursed into my leg, freezing it. I could feel the wound stitching together and the bone mending. The pain was excruciating, but I found it to be exhilarating at the same time.

As I stood up upon my mended leg, I heard grunts of panic and excitement from the ogres nearby. I thought I had frightened them, but there was a commotion from outside. The ogres, while not capable of conversing in the common speech, do grunt and vocalize. They all repeated the same thing. " . Urkazbur!" It was surreal.

I exited the tent to find a scene of carnage. A larger, angrier ogre was fighting the other ogres. The large one had bony claws strapped to his arms. He slammed them into the ground. Ripples of ice shot out from the impact sites, slamming into the others and knocking them down. The ogre who had healed my leg tossed what appeared to be a glowing ball of snow at the larger one. When it hit him, he reared back and shouted. He gestured and   snow around him rose up and formed into crude simulacrums and joined him in the fight.

While the ogres were distracted by all this violence, I escaped. Perhaps one day when I've recovered fully, I'll return to see what became of "Urkazbur" and his snow simulacrums.
Lore:The Sport of Clans

Vosh ball has a long and fabled history, going back to the earliest days of the   people. As the Orcs gathered into clans, they developed the concept of "courage" ball. It started not as a sport or recreational pastime, but as a way to test the bravery and resilience of clan warriors.

The earliest forms of vosh ball utilized a heavy sphere made of wood or metal that was about the size of an Orc's head. The novice warrior to be tested stood on the far end of a paced off court, staring down a battery of veteran warriors, each armed with a vosh ball. The veterans would each toss their vosh ball in turn, hurling it with as much strength as they could muster. If the novice was still standing after the volley of heavy missiles subsided, he proved his courage and was promoted higher into the warrior ranks.

As time went on, the test became an organized sport, with teams competing for honor and recognition among the clans. The heavy metal ball was replaced with a heavy leather ball, and rules and regulations were formalized and agreed to among the participating clans.

Today, no gathering of clans is complete without a rousing, multiple-day vosh ball contest.   holds the current record for ongoing victories, winning the last seven "series of the clans" by wide margins.   of  , the Fharun's most valuable player, has a particularly nasty and powerful toss he affectionately refers to as "the bone-breaker."

While the rules of vosh ball are constantly changing, the basic structure of the game remains the same. Two teams of six Orcs each, all armed with a sling of three vosh balls, competes to control the enclosed court by rendering their opponents unconscious by hurling the heavy spheres with all of their might. Beyond that, there are dozens of rules and regulations that non-Orcs find confusing and contradictory. No matter. Anyone who has ever witnessed the game played in all its glory comes away excited, breathless, and with a renewed understanding of the definition of courage.
Lore:The Watcher's Pledge

By the sword of my fathers, I pledge fealty to   and to the rightful heirs of King  . I do hereby bind myself to the laws and regulations of the Watch, and shall faithfully execute any orders given to me by the Watchmaster or her surrogates, without question or hesitation. I shall not suffer an   to  , and I will defend the   against all enemies, be they  ,  , or  .

I take this vow without reservation, and shall hold to it unto death.
Lore:Watcher's Report

Honored Watchmaster,

Our scouts have noticed increased activity in the  . They request permission to go deeper into the ruins to investigate the situation. As you know, the   have been migrating in greater numbers recently. This may be the beginning of a  . We cannot afford to stand idly by and give them time to dig in.

Sergeant Malene has been interrogating the Orcs we captured in last week's raid. Apparently there is some discord among their savage tribes—something of a leadership dispute. If any of these beasts plan to return to the city, we must be prepared to go to war. We cannot suffer the Orcs to stack stones.   demands that we act!

Your vigilant servant, 
Captain Gerarde
Lore:Vorgrosh Rot-Tusk's Guide to Dirty Fighting

All right you slack-jawed,  -loving, inglorious bastards—simmer down! We're here today because some of you ugly runts have been complaining about a lack of "honor" in the arena, or some ox-piss like that. Look at you—a bunch of tuskless whelps with your heads up your arses! It's probably a waste of time, but I'm going to try to pound some hard-earned knowledge into your thick skulls.

Honor. Bah! Let me tell you something about honor. Honor is the excuse that little orphans use to explain why their dear-old pa got sloppy and allowed some   to kill him with a stone knife! Honor is the shield that covers your ego and leaves your arse hanging out in the wind to get pierced by an arrow! Honor is a brave  's worst enemy. The sooner you shake those chains off, the better chance you'll have in a fight.

Combat is about one thing and one thing only—killing that other dumb bastard before he kills you. That means using your head, looking for weaknesses, finding gaps in the armor. Trust me when I tell you, honor is a big damn gap in the armor.

First thing's first—if I ever see any of you whelps bow to an opponent, I'll beat you senseless. I say let that other bastard bow. The second your opponent looks down, you knock his teeth out with a knee to the jaw.

Never let your opponent see. Dirt, snow, a flick of blood—just as useful as any axe and usually readily available. If you haven't flung something into your opponent's face before your second weapon swing, you're doing it wrong.

Always, always, always go for the crotch. Two or three times. A good kick in the nethers can make an   weep like a   girl who lost her favorite dolly.

Never stop talking—and I don't mean pleasant conversation over tea and crumpets! You should be jawing about their ugly mothers, and their sister's creaky bed, and their father's yellow belly. It's best if you know these folks by name. It also helps a lot if what you're saying contains a ring of truth. And it's not enough to just say it—you've got to mean it! Angry fighters make mistakes, and mistakes will make it easier for you to kill them.

If you can't chop, kick. If you can't kick, punch. If you can't punch, bite. If you can't bite—well, if you can't bite, you probably did something stupid.

All right, that's enough for now. By  's cracked tusk, I don't know why I even bother sometimes. Just adjust your nethers and get back to work!
Lore:All About Echatere

When it is time to eat, what fills your belly?  . When it is bitter cold, what clothes your body? Echatere. Never forget that echatere is food, echatere is clothes. This is the first rule of the  .

If an   comes to your village and says the echatere is "cute" or "noble"—punch him in the face. Echatere are not cute or noble, but ugly, mean, and pointy. If you fall in love with echatere, echatere kill you. This is the second rule of the range.

You cannot herd echatere without whistling. But whistling makes echatere angry. Still you must do it or you will not eat. We must all do things that could get us killed in order to not die. This is the third rule of the range.

When you slaughter echatere, cut open its throat and catch the blood in a basin. Otherwise, it will rot from the inside. This is not a rule. This is just common sense. You do not want to eat rotten meat.

If you give a baby echatere a name, then your children will fall in love with it and they will cry when you kill it. So even though it is hard to tell all echatere apart and you want to give them names so that you can tell which is which, name them things like "Dumb-Hamster-Crab" and "Possibly-Poisonous" and "Very-Stabby" but do not give them   names or else your children will become soft and hate you for the rest of your life.

These are all the rules of the range. Follow them and your herd will prosper and your bellies will be full and your children will not hate you.

ADDENDUM: One echatere is an echatere. Two are echateres—everyone knows this. But when you herd them all your life, you can say "five echatere over there" because you know they are all the same.
Lore:Armlet of Torug

King  , founder of the original city of  , possessed a powerful relic known as the Armlet of Torug. According to legend, the armlet is a magical bracelet encrusted with gems. With its power, Torug was able to tame the savage wilderness of   and establish the first city of Orsinium.

Ancient text fragments describe the armlet, Torug's shrine, and something called " ." Armed only with these hints, the famed explorer   agreed to lead an expedition to the summit to find and retrieve the relic on behalf of the  .

As with all items of historic significance, please remember not to touch anything in the museum.
Lore:Honor's Rest Monument Stone

the warriors find serenity, 
Upon walls names carved for eternity, 
And shall never be forgotten.

Ash and bone—here shall they rest, 
By iron and stone does honor attest, 
It must never be forgotten.

Within is treasure greater than jewels, 
Through the gift of the Memorial Pools, 
They shall never be forgotten.

Drink deep of long lost memories, 
Shed light on faded histories, 
That must never be forgotten.
Lore:Malacath and Trinimac

For generations,  s have believed in three constant truths: the stronghold, the grudge, and the fury of  . But before Malacath, at least according to certain traditions and a few noted scholars, there was  . Today, the city of   reverberates with the intellectual debate and reverent faith of both sides of the argument: Who is the true god of the Orcs?

For traditionalists, there is no question. Malacath is lord and god. He personifies the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse. His portfolio includes conflict, battle, broken promises, and anguish. Everything an Orc feels concerning his or her place in the world comes from the Furious One. The Orcs see themselves as a people betrayed, and Malacath reinforces this belief. For Malacath, clans must stand powerful but alone in their ancestral strongholds. The strongest rules and weakness is cast out with extreme intolerance.

Clan chiefs such as  , who oppose the idea of an Orsimer king, hold to the teachings of Malacath.

For the new Orsimer, Trinimac is the culmination of their dreams and desires. The warrior god personifies culture and civilization. He calls for unity, not discord; for strength, not malicious chaos. He stands for unifying the Orsimer. For elevating us above our baser nature and making us equal to the other races.

  and the Orsimer of Orsinium follow the teachings of Trinimac.
Lore:Morkuldin Visitor's Observations

I received a rare invitation from the reclusive  . According to the master of their forge, I am the first outsider permitted to gaze upon the forge where they create their greatest works, deep beneath the  . In my first day alone I have witnessed many wonders of which I never thought  s to be capable. I decided to document my experience before I return to the College.

I am struck by the secretive nature of these Orcs. Even the entrances to their great forge are carefully concealed, invisible if one does not know their presence. As if that were not enough, some paths only seem to open for those of their own bloodline, or perhaps those who prove themselves in some way. I shall have to inquire further.

The forge itself was breathtaking. I must admit, I had my doubts—these are Orcs, after all—but it is indeed a magnificent sight. I made no mention of it, but it was clear the forge was not created by the Orcs. True, they have done much work on the exterior to conceal its origins. But the inner workings, the meticulous design? There is   brilliance beneath the Orc stone. Of that, I have no doubts.

The Orcs boast proudly of the forge, and work it with a variety of implements, but say nothing of the forge-hammer itself. Do they even know what they have? The forge is special, true, and my senses are keen enough to recognize the Dwemer had good reason for constructing it here. Yet the forge-hammer is older, and stronger still. What such a tool could do in my hands instead of theirs!

Perhaps an opportunity will arise. For now, the forge-master showed me to a side chamber for rest and drink. The heat from this place is sweltering and clouds the mind. More after my head clears.
Lore:Mystery of the Chub Loon

There is a creature in the land of the  s that defies explanation. The   has no purpose and little known history. However, it is delicious when cooked with   glaze and  .

I,  , and several companions sought to secure trade with the Orcs of   when we found ourselves on the wrong side of the negotiations. We had little choice but to run for our lives when the chief burned our ship and sent warriors after us. The cold and rocky coast overlooking the frigid   became our home for the night. The howling sea wind bit deep into our fur. Despite that, sleep eventually came in the dark of the night.

As the sun rose over the  , a cacophony of honking sounds broke the rhythmic peace of the waves against the rocks. The others feared some unknown beast had come to eat us, but curiosity overcame this one, and she slipped out of her bedroll, grabbed her staff, and moved toward the coast to let her eyes decide if we should stay or flee. Of all the creatures that have passed before Zabia-ko's eyes, none are stranger than the stub-legged, waddling birds that swarmed the ice floes and rocks. They stood in groups, clumping for warmth, with their useless wings flapping at their sides. Their call, once frightening, sounded comical when I looked upon them.

The birds were nothing like anything in the old and well-worn wilderness guide I borrowed from the library back home. Escape through the   could wait. This was something new, and new things have value. At first we were very careful to gather a few of the creatures, but we soon learned that they were too stupid to flee from a  . They had no trouble fleeing from Orcs, though! Any proper prey should try to run away when Khajiit walk among them, but not these flightless birds. We scooped them up and made haste for the gate, lest the   catch our scent and give chase.

This one's first stop in   was to the  . A few pieces of gold gained me access to their natural history library, where a new edition of the wilderness guide was prominently displayed. It mentions the chub loon as an elusive creature that was not observed by earlier writers. How could such an obnoxious creature be overlooked?

This one spent several days and candle-lit nights going over every tome on the creatures and wildlife of  . Not a single mention of the chub loon exists before the beginning of the  . How could that be? The very first mention is in a text on the  , and it only says that they were moving in on the horker habitat, disrupting the food source. Could it be that, like the  s and other men, they came from another land? Could the stupid birds have been brought here by travelers from  ? Could they have traversed the Sea of Ghosts on their own with only floating chunks of ice to carry them? In any case, no matter how they arrived, they secured a new habitat, flourishing on  's rocky coast.
Lore:Riekrs of Wrothgar: Observations

Day 1

Upon applying  's  -stench formula, the  s seem to have accepted me into their number. They are very social creatures, with each Riekr expected to do his part.

I have been assigned the task of smashing rocks with a hammer. I have yet to determine the purpose of this task, but that does not seem to trouble the other rock-breakers, who have taken to the task with gleeful cackling.

Day 2

More rock-breaking. I fear I have pulled some kind of muscle in my forearm.

Day 3

Further observation of the Riekr social structure reveals a strange attitude toward magic and its practitioners. Being creatures of limited intelligence, they lack the kind of formal training in magic that one sees in other parts of  . They make up for this through an innate connection to the magic of the world, so to speak.

When a Riekr demonstrates a connection to magic, he is immediately shunned by his brothers. They throw stones, such as the ones we broke when I first joined the clan, to drive him off. The mage must then flee into the wilderness or face certain death. After a period of exile, the Riekr mage buys his way back into the clan with an offering of food, such as freshly slain deer, bear, or  .

After that, the mage is elevated into a revered member of the clan, suddenly gaining power and influence with the Riekr chief.

Day 5

The mages have gathered in a council and the signal has been given for a migration. It seems a new food source has been located.

Day 6

We have arrived in a cavern filled with food crates. It is clear this was some encampment, though I have yet to see the owners.

Day 7

One of the Riekrs found a book among the crates. He asked me what it was. It appeared to be a book of recipes. I told him as much and he eagerly took a bite out of it.

"Recipes no taste good," he said and spit the book out.

Day 8

My rock-breaking has not kept pace with my fellow Riekrs, and I'm afraid the others are starting to look upon me with suspicion. The Riekrs do not take kindly to those who can't pull their own weight. I should probably leave soon, before I am completely found out.