Netruk44/uesp-wiki-content huggingface dataset:
Political Hierarchy of Skyrim

Long Life to our Sovereign, Pelagius the Fourth, Emperor of Tamriel, Blessed One of the Nine Divines, Sustainer of Prosperity! Bringer of Justice to the Seditious!

In the year of Akatosh, 3E 362, I have been given the honorable task of documenting the political landscape of the Fatherland of Man, Skyrim, for the education of Imperial envoys, diplomats and chartered merchants. In doing so I hope to foster greater understanding between our two great people united under the Dragon Banner.

As per nord tradition, the greatest possible authority in Skyrim is the title of High King. However, due to unstable and frequent transfers of power between the Holds , it is more often than not that the title of High King is an unclaimed entity. As a result, it would be better for the reader to imagine Skyrim as not one unified monarchy but of nine autonomous kingdoms, each swearing fealty to our Emperor.

As of this writing, there are nine kings, each for the nine Holds of Skyrim: Haafingar, the Reach, Falkreath, Hjaalmarch, Whiterun, The Pale, Winterhold, Eastmarch, and the Rift. The selection of a king is   on what hold it is. The eastern Holds typically follow Absolute Primogeniture succession, where power is transferred to the previous king's eldest child, while in the western Holds it is decided in an event called a Kingsmoot. The Kingsmoot is an affair most Nordic, where every man or woman can travel to the capital and boast their prestige, battle prowess, virility, and wisdom and why they should become king surrounded by their peers, full of roasted meat, sweet mead, and threats of duels and fist fights.

Below the kings are the jarls, who rule over wide tracks of land called jarldoms and are similar to Cyrodiil's own Counts. Jarls are chosen directly by the king and their holdings are split among their children at death, with the jarldom passing to the eldest child. A good amount of jarls can trace their heritage back to the 500 Companions. The jarl typically chooses the most prosperous or fortified town as his seat of power.

Beneath the jarls are thanes, minor nobles who preside over the small towns and villages. In some cases, the position of thane is honorary and there is no bestowment of lands.

Housecarls 
At this time I would like to discuss another important part of nordic politics: the Housecarl. The Housecarl is no mere bodyguard, but is more like the House Guards of the Nibenay valley; a de-facto member of the family. Indeed, it is not unheard of for Housecarls to be adopted into the noble family or even marry into one, such as the famed King Hrodebert Ironheart and his housecarl Queen Mildres.
Proper Lock Design

I have encountered many thieves whose sole interest in locks is how to open them and thereby pilfer the protected contents of the room or chest. I have taken it upon myself to devise a system of locks that can defeat such   intent.

The materials used to create a lock are of utmost importance. Shoddy brass or copper will give way to a well placed kick, thereby rendering the lock itself useless. I recommend steel over iron when choosing a material. More robust materials tend to be prohibitively expensive and necessitate the door being made of similar metals. I have been chagrined to stumble across the shattered shell of a wooden chest,   dwarven lock intact and still locked.

Once these basics are settled, pay particular attention to the offset of the tumblers. A seven degree offset to the keyhole will allow a torque style key to work smoothly, while at the same time causing numerous headaches for the thief attempting to insert non-torque lockpicks.

In similar fashion, the springs of the tumblers should be made by different smiths. Each smith will unknowingly create a spring with different tension than his fellow smiths. This variance will also create difficulties for anyone attempting to pick the lock.
Quarter Palm Liturgy

Read your silks 
your mothers and your mothers mothers 
poured their blood in this land 
poured their ghosts in this river 
it was once a land of plenty 
now it is barren 
sullen and brackish 
a green curse is on our land 
give praise

 

Hear the hermits 
moth-faced and sick of jungle fever 
remember the ways of old 
the tribes were numerous 
they were clad in gold 
their fields were white with rice 
their drums beat the hour 
their shield was called Al-Estia 
gone with the river 
give praise

 

Listen to the dead man 
asleep on his altar 
he foretells the coming of the Dagon 
great destroyer 
of destruction he is made 
in his hand the dagger 
in his hand the lighting 
in his hand the sight of man 
in his hand the whirling nothing 
soon he is upon us 
to wipe away the empire of emperors 
until nothing is left 
give praise
Raid on Pyandonea, Book Four

Dreadmund and Orgnum stood ten paces away from one another, knee-deep in the sparkling, sun-punished sea. The sun stood at its zenith, glaring down at the Ysmir and the Orgnum. Dreadmund stood in full battle attire of tough mail, horned helm, clawed gauntlets, and swirling cloak, as always, and held the Ice Blade of the Monarch aloft with a single hand. Orgnum stood in casual clothing, entirely unarmed and solemn. His tongue flicked between his lips. Dreadmund wondered why Orgnum chose not to bring a weapon to their duel, but he had left his elf-slave translators on the shore along with the others - and, in the end, he really didn't care.

Dreadmund gripped his blade in both hands and charged, howling. Orgnum wriggled his fingers and three forms rose from the water, bulging and thinning into humanlike shapes. The things flooded forward, hoping to slosh down Dreadmund's throat and drown him standing up. Dreadmund cut through the nearest one, and where the Ice Blade touched it, its water froze. He hacked at it amid a mad torrent of flying water, frozen chunks sloughing off with each slash, and the thing collapsed. Dreadmund spat out a mouthful of water; though it hadn't managed reach his lungs, the creature had managed to fill his cheeks. The second one leapt into the air, graceful, hoping to spill down Dreadmund's throat as he stood unawares. Dreadmund cut through it lengthwise as it leapt, and it broke apart. The third crashed into Dreadmund as a wave, and he fell into the water, dropping the Ice Blade. As the thing gathered itself again such that it could slip down Dreadmund's gullet, and Dreadmund Thu'umed the moment before it touched his lips. His Thu'um froze it unto ice, and it fell.

Dreadmund rose and looked back to Orgnum, and his eyes widened. Snake-magic! Orgnum was a great Serpent, larger than any in the battle, with white scales and blank eyes, staring at Dreadmund. His fangs dripped with venom whiter than his pure snow scales, his leering eyes were full of malice, and his coils rolled through one another like slow ocean waves. Dreadmund glared into his eyes and saw power behind them, power like his Thu'um. Orgnum was a powerful opponent, and Dreadmund was not exactly sure that he could match him. The damned wizard had hidden it earlier, but Dreadmund saw it now.

And Orgnum would see Dreadmund now, for Dreadmund was Bomundl, BO-MUN-DU'UL, MOVE-MAN-CROWN, the Dragon of the Sea who was Crowned as an Ysmir, the Crowned Man who Flew through the world on the back of a snow whale, on the back of the Snow Whale. He crouched to the ground on all fours, wings-as-arms and legs gripping into the ground with hooked claws. He whipped his long, spiked tail back and forth. He spread his fanged maw wide and Thu'umed, but Orgnum dodged aside. Orgnum writhed up to Dreadmund and coiled around him, bending his wings-as-arms to his body and stealing his flight. Dreadmund clawed and bit at Orgnum, to no avail. The two rolled into the sea, twisting and clawing and biting and Thu'uming and shrieking.
Reality and Other Falsehoods

It is easy to confuse Illusion and Alteration. Both schools of magic attempt to create what is not there. The difference is in the rules of nature. Illusion is not bound by them, while Alteration is. This may seem to indicate that Alteration is the weaker of the two, but this is not true. Alteration creates a reality that is recognized by everyone. Illusion's reality is only in the mind of the caster and the target.

To master Alteration, first accept that reality is a falsehood. There is no such thing. Our reality is a perception of greater forces impressed upon us for their amusement. Some say that these forces are the gods, other that they are something beyond the gods. For the wizard, it doesn't really matter. What matters is the appeal couched in a manner that cannot be denied. It must be insistent without being insulting.

To cast Alteration spells is to convince a greater power that it will be easier to change reality as requested than to leave it alone. Do not assume that these forces are sentient. Our best guess is that they are like wind and water. Persistent but not thoughtful. Just like directing the wind or water, diversions are easier than outright resistance. Express the spell as a subtle change and it is more likely to be successful.
Songs of the Reaver Clans, vI

Volume One

Introduction 
These volumes are intended to serve as a record of the song-myths particular to the Nordic reaving clans of the Sea of Ghosts. I have devoted much of my scholastic life to studying and cohabitating with these groups, who although literate do not devote much time to recording their own traditions. It is my hope that through these works, I will be able to disabuse the popular conception of these groups as savage raiders worthy only of extermination.

[Note from the author: This first song concerns the very first arrival of the gods in their new home, and is typical of the style. I have tried to retain the use of alliteration and repetition, which allows the skalds and rememberers to retain the same flow and wording between tellings. The strange metre and lack of rhyme, although harsh to more "civilised" ears, is consistent with the song's original form.]

'Fore the proud world-hall was filled with gods and men 
There was but the crashing surf and sturdy rocks 
The empty sea above and the extant land of 'neath 
And e'er did they clash, as e'er they will, those two

It was to that battleground that staunch Shor 
Father to all that is worthy 
Did sail downwards, following the plumb line 
Of clever Jhunal, clever-man of gods

And as the keel of Sovngarde beached on that sideways shore 
Where the hot waves of never-above 
Break on the frigid capes of always-below 
Staunch Shor leapt from the prow and shouted:

"This place, somewhat-up and almost-down, 
This seething shore of possibilities 
This will be known to us as Sky 
The posts of our hall shall enter it lovingly"

All his clan did love staunch Shor 
And at his crafty words they followed 
First crazed Kyne, War-Wife and warrior 
Leapt screaming into Sky's shined surf

Next the Shield-Thanes, Stuhn and Tsun 
Twins to test Men, came ashore 
Follow'd Dibella, lustful Bed-Wife 
[Frigging?] and teaching the children-to-come

And mournful Mara, Brood-Wife to Shor 
Descended determined and dour 
Lastly clever Jhunal, wide-eyed and wise 
Came scratching his runes that are yet to be found
Songs of the Reaver Clans, vIII

Volume Three

[Note from the author: This final song concerns the introduction of time into Mundus, and depicts Shor in his capacity as a wily trickster god - one who could extend the kalpa but for his betrayal and death. It is notable for its interesting blend of pre-Return totemism with an Old Empire understanding of the Nordic mythic cycle. For a summary of this scholarly framework, please consult Elonwe of Lillandril's inestimable volume "Cultural Eras of the Nords".]

So far does shrewd Shor, fox-furred 
Seek goodness for his salt-flecked scions 
That even [autarch] Alduin, despot dragon, 
Sleeps fitfully, slumbers fearfully

But, bright bushed, shrewd Shor 
Deepens the dragon's dozing 
And boasts "Only the foxy god of Men 
Can keep the world-hall standing"

Witnessed by the wild clan 
Shrewd Shor seized the dragon's tail 
And lashed tight the worthy world-hall 
Weaving with time the waiting world

Revealing to none his secret schemes, Shor settled against the wolf 
As hawk and moth upwards circled 
And the Children fought and fucked 
Knowing themselves safe by shrewd Shor's shift

But woe! Foul elves, unnatural, exist 
Sneaking snake, wicked woodsman 
Hating the hall, creation of the clan 
Stirring the dragon, seeking death

And in deepest darkness, craven creatures 
Cut cords and fastened the father of all 
Secure to Sovngarde's shorebound keel 
Drowning dead in the starlit surf of Sky

So did shrewd Shor, fine father 
Die disgraced by dragon-doomed demons 
The eternal world ended by envious elves 
And mighty Man made mortal once more
Redemption Volume I

Vertius Felannus gazed down upon the rich valley of his homeland. The rich loamy earth clung to the hem of his simple woolen robe. He was dressed in the garb of his order, wearing the simple weave of Maran devotees. The thick folds of cloth hid his thin frame from the eyes of men and the teeth of the harsh wind. A faint smile played about the edges of his care-worn lips. It was the same gentle smile that was etched into his face by a combination of years of missionary work and a trust in the divinity of the Nine. His feet were unshod, epitomizing the virtue of humility by which he tried to live his life.

He strode joyfully towards the village of Sten. The thatched roofs of the modest houses were partially obscured by a copse of flowering fruit trees, branches laden with their bounty. He carried with him nothing but his faith and a joy that stemmed from the knowledge that he would soon be home.

The orange glow of sunset hung in the air, filling the empty pastures with a subtle glow; a light for the eyes and a light for the soul.

This was Vertius' land; it was here that he had gone through his transformation from a smiling infant, to a solemn youth, into the quiet pious young man who had left to become a missionary. His long years in Argonia had given him an acceptance of life's hardships and had strengthened his faith in Mara. He had decided to return to Sten to run the local shrine. He would live out his last days in peace and solitude; nothing but him and his faith.

That night, he settled down to sleep on the rough paillasse that served as his bed. He was once more on the bed where he had slept for his formative years. He did not desire more comfortable surroundings. The house was empty now of his family, his last relatives having perished recently. Though he was alone, he felt the warmth of their spirits envelope him. As he drifted into slumber, he whispered a prayer of thanks that his family was in the arms of the gods.

Suddenly, a piercing scream broke through the veil of sleep that enveloped him and thrust him back into the waking world. He arose from his bed, hastily pulling on his clothing. He picked up his traveling staff and rushed to the source of the commotion, trying to think of an innocent reason for a yell in the dark hours of the night. He could think of none and added an extra note of urgency to his efforts.
Redemption Volume II

He emerged into the sharp air of midnight. The moon was full and cast a sprinkling of shimmering light over the rooftops. To Vertius' eyes, all that was visible were blue shapes in the inky darkness. He could discern no movement.

Then he stopped.

Something was stirring. He felt an indescribable urge to take refuge in his home. He had seen nothing, he had heard nothing, but the cold hand of fear gripped his heart. He moved his hand down to the icon that hung around his neck. The soft line of its carved wood gave him solace. He whispered a prayer the Nine and prayed for his own safety and the safety of whoever had released that earth-shattering scream. He shivered-the scream still reverberated in his skull.

Then he saw a shadow unfolding in the darkness. It was the color of the midnight air and its movement was all that distinguished it from the scenery. It was moving at a rate that Vertius could not fathom. It was faster than any creature or person he had ever seen. It was getting closer, and quick.

Suddenly it reached the crouched priest. He saw moonlight glinting off long rows of teeth. He heard a blood-curdling snarl issue from it.

It pounced.

Vertius raised his hand to shield himself from the creature. In the moment of thought available to him, his brain struggled to identify the ball of fury unleashed upon him.

Its jaws connected with the soft flesh of his frail arm. He felt the spikes of pain emanating from his arm as those terrible teeth tore through his papery skin, his thin muscles and his brittle bones. A fear beyond that which he had felt before reached down and enveloped him. He tried to summon the text of the homilies of peace in his mind but they were drowned out by the terror that gripped him.

The beast flung him to the ground. The shock of his impact with the hard-packed earth echoed through him. The beast salivated over him as he lay helpless. Just as it was about to leap for his jugular, it stopped. Its ears were pricked up and its nostrils searched for scents on the breeze.

It turned and bounded away from the paralyzed cleric. He watched in shock as the creature moved towards the shouting that was now audible over the breeze. The source of the commotion was a group of the local farmers. In their hands, they held the implements that they knew so well. A pitchfork or a shovel was a deadly weapon in their hands.

Vertius watched as the beast fell upon the hapless farmers. Their screams shook the night air as blood loss pushed him out of conscience.
Redemption Volume III

Vertius awoke to the sound of weeping. He tried to move his head to examine his surroundings, but the attempt sent waves of pain echoing through him.

He was lying in an unfamiliar bed. The linen sheets felt strange to him, accustomed to years of coarse wool. He resolved to find the source of the crying, and with a great effort managed to lever himself into a semi-upright position.

A girl of no more than eight years was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. Their eyes met and a connection was formed between the two. Her eyes were obscured by tears, but in them he could see deep pools of sadness. This child had an age far beyond that of her few years. She looked away and the connection between the two was broken.

Then the pain of his injuries overcame him once more and he drifted back into a feverish sleep. As he slept, dreams came to him that he could not begin to comprehend. He was visited by images of the moon, its eerie glow awaking in him feelings in him that were both frightening and exciting.

He woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat and his mind enveloped in foreboding. Something was wrong; he could feel the absence of Mara from his mind. There was a gaping hole in his soul, one that he could not fill. The images of moonlight that still assailed him had driven his god way from him. For the first time, Vertius felt truly alone.

He spent the day lying in his bed pondering what could have brought about this change. The absence that filled him left him lying in his bed, unwilling and unable to move. A desire for something was still haunting him, but still couldn't pinpoint it.

The next night was the same as before.

Again the moonlight shone into his soul and once again he awoke with that terrible emptiness inside. This time the desire that he felt was in the form of a terrible thirst, one that could not be sated.
Redemption Volume IV

He spent the day praying to Mara, pleading for her to make him whole again and to rid him of the nightmares that separated him from her. But instead of the waves of serenity that usually came to him during prayer, he heard only silence.

On the third night, the visions came to him once more. But this time as the light of the moon shone down upon him, he felt a prickling sensation start to overcome him. He convulsed in pain as he long claws burst out from under his fingernails. He felt the indescribable agony of his bones warping and taking on a new shape. His stringy and frail muscles swelled and he felt new strength in his limbs. He looked at his hands and saw that his wrinkled hands had been replaced by the terrible hairy claws of a monster. He drew breath to find that new scents were coming to him from all sides, providing him with a wealth of sensory information. He was shocked to see a long bushy tail protruding from behind him.

He took a step only to find that he instead of his usual slow and deliberate movements; he was instinctively running across the floor. He ran out of the door, frightened by his new form and new-found strength.
He ran silently through the night, unseen and unnoticed.

He reached the shelter of the forest's darkness, and there he spent the night, alone with his new form and the strange lust for something indescribable that welled up inside him.

The next morning he awoke to find the body was returned to itself, and he felt the chill of the morning on his bare skin. He checked the wounds on his arm only to find that the gashes were gone and his arm was whole once more. This was not healing energy of Mara that had done this; her absence still tore at his soul.
Redemption Volume V

He spent the day in fits of prayer, dreading the night and the shadows it would bring.

As the moon rose to shine down upon him, it was not terror as before that came over him, but an unexplainable lust and desire, stronger than before.

As before, he felt his skin splitting and he bones shift.

As before, claws sprouted from his fingers.

As before, he stepped out into the night air.

He felt the call of the beast inside him, and he now he knew what the beast hungered for: blood.

He watched a small figure walking home under the moon's glow, and the lust overtook the last of his reservations. He bounded towards the figure, ignoring his screams of terror. His mind did not register that this was one of his neighbors, a father and a husband.

He lashed out at the helpless individual, and soon lost all consciousness to the ecstasy of the hunt.

He awoke once more in the shade of a tree, his mouth filled with the taste of human blood.

He felt no regret for the life of the farmer. He was but prey to be hunted. Though Mara no longer called to him, he did not wish for her company.

He spent the day waiting for the night, for when he would feel the rush of power once more. As the transformation overtook him once more, he did not fear its pain. He simply waited for blood.

Without delay, he stepped out into the undergrowth. He surged silently through the trees, keen senses searching for life. It did not take long to find it. Sitting alone by a carved headstone overlooking a gorge, a small figure lay weeping.

He approached under the blanket of darkness, mind consumed with the lust for blood and the anticipation of its taste. He emerged from the trees and revealed himself to the girl. Their eyes met, and through the clouds of desire in his mind, he felt a pang of familiarity. The beast retreated. This was the girl who had tended to him. Deep behind his bestial features, a battle raged with the beast. He reached out to Mara for strength, and she responded.

Infused with the strength of his god, he flung himself and the other over the precipice. Man and beast sailed through the air. He saw the beast fall away from him as it dropped like a stone to the ground below. He felt Mara embrace him and fold him in her arms as he sailed above his bestial body, sailing upwards to find his redemption.