Netruk44/uesp-wiki-content huggingface dataset:
Lore:A Call for Common Hair

The nobles of our fair city have gone mad for ornate and over-styled hair. Have they nothing better to do than to ape the witless Prince  , who is enamored of elaborate hairstyles?

The Highness of the High Hair has appeared in public with numerous elaborate (and, to the common man, utterly ridiculous) hairstyles. Whether they are wigs, or his own natural hair tortured into ludicrous designs, matters not. We have people starving in the alleys, or homeless due to the sinking of some sections of our city, while Prince of the Curious Coifs pays his hairdresser a sum of 100 gold pieces for each work of "art."

His most recent follicular follies include:

A representation of the  , adorned with diamonds to represent lighted windows. It is said that he could not pass through the doorway of Lady Michefaba's main ballroom without ducking during a recent ball.

At a recent outing to the docks, to welcome some luminary from  , our Prince wore his hair styled to represent a   warship at full sail. The stunningly ridiculous effect was only enhanced with tern excrement, when one of the birds flew over his head, narrowly missing the mainsail.

For a recent outing, it was seen that Prince Hew's Hair was artfully arranged as a   about to charge. Rumor has it that the scales of the "hair-beast" were individual rubies of uniform size. The beast's eyes were emeralds. One young maiden was so alarmed by the horror on His Hairness' head that she fainted. Her parents quickly blamed the heat, not the Hair-Mota, so as not to displease Prince Hew. However the young woman was overheard later saying that the emerald eyes kept staring at her until she was quite undone.

People of  , I implore you! Rise up against the Prince's Hair!

(NOTE: This is a reprinting of an actual handbill produced by one of the Abah's Landing original residents. It seems "Prince Hew" is not just a nickname we use for the luckless prince&mdash;he was truly called this by his contemporaries.)
Lore:The Cliff-Strider Song

While  s spread their wings, so broad, 
And lesser birds bend their knees, so awed, 
You snarl, and hiss, and spit, and screech! 
I hear the guars grunting each to each, 
"What a terror! What savage speech!" 
Oh to be like you.

Your temper flares at the smallest offense, 
You snatch our guars and mangle our fence! 
You nest in our lofts, spray dung on the wall, 
Tear up our roofs like a mid-summer squall, 
Frighten our children and make the babes bawl, 
Promise you'll never change.

 , stride so high, 
On fiery crags, you touch the sky! 
Cliff-strider, stride so high, 
Screech loud as thunder, may you never die!

You're vengeful and petty like my mother-in-law, 
You stink like you've got old fish in your craw, 
Your shrieks shatter glass, and rattle my ears, 
Your rotten-fig smell brings grown mer to tears, 
You piss on our pillows, they smell bad for years, 
You're  's pride and joy!

Cliff-strider, stride so high, 
On fiery crags, you touch the sky! 
Cliff-strider, stride so high, 
Screech loud as thunder, may you never die!
Lore:Cliff Strider

Cliff Striders were a species of large, winged, reptilian creatures found in Vvardenfell. They were related to Cliff Racers and Cliff Darters, and the three species coexisted contemporaneously. Unlike Cliff Racers, Cliff Striders had great difficulty flying despite their wings, and consequently spent their lives on the ground, while using their wings to glide from cliff heights. But this did not stop them from being a successful predator, as a carnivorous species, they would prey on much of the local wildlife, including man and mer. Their young were known as Cliff Skippers and were hatched from giant nest piles.  Despite their aggressive nature, they were admired in Vvardenfell literature and some were tamed as pets.  

In the mid-Second Era, one Thetys Ramarys of Balmora, selectively bred the Cliff Strider for their wing strength, in the hopes that they would eventually be able to take flight and dominate Vvardenfell's skies.  However, by the late  , Cliff Striders had been exterminated by the Ash Blight, along with several other unique Vvvardenfell species.  It was recorded that the physiology and behavior of the Cliff Strider was very similar to the hackwings of Black Marsh, and it is possible that they shared ancestry. Some historians theorize this possible divergence resulted from Dark Elves raiding Black Marsh for thousands of years to bring back things they deemed valuable, such as slave labor, livestock, and critters. 

Several breeds existed but shared a commonality with their loud screeches and terrible smell.  The most common was known as the Bitter Coast Cliff Strider. Despite their name, they were once found all around the island of Vvardenfell.  Other subspecies were more localized but could be distinguished by their coloration. The Ascadian Cliff Strider was known for its beautiful blue coloring , while the breed from the Molag Amur area were known for their golden coloring. . Flocks of red and black Striders could be found in Bal Ur. 
Gallery
 
See Also
For game-specific information, see the ESO and   articles.
References
Lore:Egg Mines and You!

Welcome to the wonderful world of  ! These adorable creatures come in a variety of sizes, roles, and dispositions, each more beautiful than the last. Our goal, of course, is the welfare of each and every kwama in  , but many see these majestic creatures only as sources of profit. Remember though, a happy mine is a productive mine! It's in the best interest of all that we treat kwama with respect and dignity.

Kwama are best known for their relation to egg-mining, and of course there can be no eggs without a queen. Kwama queens are beautiful beings, far larger than any other kwama. Good thing for us, for she's the one who produces all of the yummy eggs which end up on our dinner plates! A queen in distress is not only a sad sight to see, it also can cause egg productivity to plummet. Make sure your queen is well fed, and at the end of the day you'll end up with a full belly, too!

You're not the only one taking care of the queen, of course. She has kwama foragers, warriors, and workers at her disposal. Each of these kwama have important roles to play in the colony, and each makes sure their queen is well fed or well protected. If you want a happy queen, you need a happy colony. The reverse is also quite true! A distressed queen always leads to an upset colony, and that hurts productivity.

Kwama foragers serve as the scouts of the colony, always looking for new homes and suitable prey. If met in the wild, it's best to resist the urge to pet these lovely creatures, as they can be quite aggressive. I'm sure you would be a bit peeved as well if some stranger came up to pat you on the head! Keep your distance and these little fellows shouldn't harm you.

A kwama built to inflict harm, however, is the mighty warrior. Though not as large as their lovely queen, these soldiers are often taller than your common  . Don't be too awestruck if you meet one! A hasty exit is usually your best chance to escape the mine unscathed. Workers often emit special scents to protect them from a kwama warrior's wrath. Make sure that you speak to a knowledgeable alchemist if you wish to obtain the proper scents.

And last, but most certainly not least, is the ever busy kwama worker! My word, but there would be no colony at all without these bustling bugs! The kwama worker digs the tunnels, tends to the queen, and watches over the precious eggs until they're ready to harvest. They're often nonaggressive, but best not to disturb these little ones while they're about their work. You never know if a kwama warrior lurks around the corner.

These basics provide the start in understanding our hard-shelled little friends! Further chapters in this volume will explore breeding methods, nutrition guides, mining practices, and much more! Join me in the journey, and together we can protect kwama of all kinds.
Lore:An Excerpt from the Book of Seasons

Of all my reasons, 
Spring is my first and favorite seasons. 
To see the blue water shine in the sun, 
or the green trees inviting a climb&mdash;oh, what fun!

The air is cool and I am without thought, 
As I sleep on the rock which aren't yet too hot. 
And I wake to see endless fields of green grass, 
Not faded pastures or a leaf-covered mass.

This is why Spring is my first and favorite of seasons. 
Summer, Fall, and Winter? All have lesser reasons.
Lore:The Flames of the Fetcherfly

I, Zabia-ko, now study creatures for the fools in the  . Can you imagine? This one, whose last gold was earned selling half-rotten candied   to migrant workers on a ship bound for  ? Ha! The fools wanted to pay for stories that would be written anyway, so this one took their gold and questioned no further.

After filling little Zabzag's belly with fresh greens and a night at  's  , this one packed up to explore the wetlands of  . For two nights nothing more than the common creeping pests came across my path. What misfortune! In all other stories, they found their way across my path during desperate times. How does one seek out such things? Perhaps I, Zabia-ko, was the fool for taking the guild's gold.

While wallowing in misfortune, it was the smell that drew this one's attention. Large flies, with wide glowing wings buzzed by this one's head. The   call them the "fetcherfly." It seems a mere pest, but do not be fooled! When one landed on my arm, it smoked, singeing the fur.

There was no choice. The creature must be followed so the tale can be told and the gold can be earned. Tracking the creature back to its nest, there was discovered a large rock the size of two  s (or one Orc, if the Orc tells it). Thousands of the flying fires swarmed the rock, which glowed from the heat, its pores venting smoke and life. Suddenly, the whole nest shifted. When it stood, understanding came on how wrong I was. It was the size of at least three Orcs.

I dove flat into the rotten mud as the creature of rock and flies began to amble in my direction. This one is no slayer of great beasts! Why must it pick on me? Swarms of smoking insects fluttered around, hissing as they landed on wet fur. Poor Zabzag shrieked and fled. The end of Zabia-ko would be face down in the mud.

But, obviously, it was not so. The hive golem must have thought this one was no longer a threat, so it plodded off like an   with a belly full of snow truffles. This one returned to the inn with many things: a story to tell, a clothes full of burn holes, and mud-caked fur.

So if you're ever in the wilds of Vvardenfell, you will wonder as this one did whether the Dark Elves named the fetcherfly because it was annoying or if the word "fetcher" came from these pests.
Lore:Hlaalu Letter of Complaint

Most esteemed Minister Tharyon,  ,

I write to you on a matter of grave importance. My office has received an ever-increasing number of complaints in recent weeks. Many of our House Guests have experienced poor treatment at the hands of House Redoran bailiffs and constables. As you well know,   is duty-bound to address these grievances on their behalf.

My dear minster, while I share your belief in the superiority of the   people, we must try to keep such opinions to ourselves. House Hlaalu defers to House Redoran on matters of defense; I would urge you to defer to us on matters of commerce and diplomacy.

Our economy is in peril. The   has brought us some measure of security, yes, but the cost has been dear. Dearer than I think your Redoran kinsmen are willing to admit. My trade ministers have gone to great lengths to solidify our holdings outside  . While the enemy has seized most of our extraterritorial property, we retain sizable assets in   bourses and foreign business concerns. Extracting this wealth is no small task. It takes time, gold, and most importantly, connections. We can ill-afford to alienate what few friends we have outside the Pact.

Just this morning I received a complaint from one  —a respected   investor. Apparently he was accosted by a pair of constables. while inspecting a potential construction site. Some minor religious infraction, I'm told—stepping over a fence to get a better look at the property, or something? According to Ashcroft, the constable forced him to the ground, dragged him to the Temple, and turned him over to the  , who subjected him to no less than three hours of interrogation and corporal reeducation. Needless to say, he will not be investing in our fair city. Both Ashcroft and his gold fled to the mainland.

These people may be inferior, their religions may be repugnant, their manners may be tiresome. But for the love of the Three, swallow your pride and bear it! Idle zealotry cannot put food on the table. We cannot fill our coffers with incense and prayer and expect to wage war effectively. Interprovincial commerce is a necessary evil, whether you like it or not. I urge you in the strongest possible terms—leave outsiders be. I hope this will be my final word on the subject.

Yours most respectfully,

 , House Hlaalu Deputy Trade Viceroy
Lore:King Farangel's Ode to Wayrest

This is my first attempt at poetry; history will remember these words.

"Swell the impetuous tides that crash upon your darkened shore. 
"The lights of your towers rival the stars gleaming in the sky, 
"Their light doubled in the shadowed bay."

No, that's not it. It's too high-minded. I want this to be something everyone can relate to. Perhaps a song?

"If I had a daughter, I tell you what she'd say, 
"I want a man of  , to stay with me all day! 
"And if I had a son, I tell you he'd be right, 
"To want a girl of Wayrest, to stay with him all night!"

Uh-oh. This is heading in the wrong direction, fast. What do you think, scribe? Do you have any ideas?

"W is for the city Where I want to be. 
"A is for the Apple of  's eye. 
"Y is for whY would you go to  , that stinking, reeking slum."

All right. We're getting nowhere. I think we need to turn this over to the bards.

Why are you still writing? Scribe, I know I told you to write everything down but … look, I'm ordering you on pain of death, stop—
Lore:Mantra of Expulsion

Blessed Moons, name our hearts with your dancing.

Honored  , hasten our paws to prayer.

Honored  , strengthen our claws for your greater glory.

Ghost moon, be gone! In the Moons' bright light, vanish!

The Lunar Lattice sweetens all life. It is right to praise the moons. Praise them with all your heart.
Lore:No Fuss, No Rush

or, "Hard-Earned Tips From Old Sculler"

Some of these nobles … all that money and they still want more. They'll pay, too. But you have to be smart.

You get sent all over   to grab goods and "clean" them, take a tip from Old Sculler&mdash;get it done quick and without getting caught! Paying off your bounty takes away from the profits.

Here's what Old Sculler does:

1. Find the right targets. Somebody wants "ritual objects," you'll likely find them near cathedrals or on priests. Sounds obvious, right? Well, that means big cities … usually with lots of guards. Pick your targets carefully. Make sure the temple isn't big enough to have its own guards, or if it does that they aren't staring everywhere at once.

2. If you do get a bounty on you, don't be in such a rush. Find something outside the city to do before you try finishing the contract. Old Sculler once made some extra gold helping a village with their bandit problem. Nobody there cared about a bounty. By the time that job was done, the guards had lost interest and Old Sculler turned in her "clean" goods, sweet as you please.

Be smart or be dead.
Lore:The Nycotic Cult

High Ordinator,

Who can say what drives some of our blessed people to abandon their faith and take up with heretical gods? Greed, I suppose, is a motivating factor, as well as anger, jealousy, and the search for something better. A few, I can accept, are true believers, misguided though they might be. Most, I suspect, are duped fools chasing after whatever promises are laid before them. Take, for example, the   that has recently become active around  . These are supreme fools indeed!

It's obvious that no one in their hierarchy can actually read or understand the  . Instead, one of their founding members discovered an ancient scroll or forbidden text and bastardized a Daedric word into the Tamrielic tongue. How else can you explain them taking Daedric letters that mean nothing of the sort and deciding that the Prince they have pledged themselves to is someone called "Nycot." Yes, the first five letters of  's name in Daedric   a passing resemblance to the letters n, y, c, o, and t in the Tamrielic script, but that's not how it should be rendered or pronounced—the imbeciles!

Further, I don't even think they know that they're worshiping the Prince of Trickery and Bargains. I'm not sure who they think they've pledged themselves to, but that hasn't stopped them from causing problems from Balmora to the  . Some of the cult's leaders have demonstrated real talent in the arcane arts. Who knows? Perhaps Vile has actually heard their foolish prayers and decided to answer them! Regardless, we need to rouse the Order of War and march upon the caves and fissures where they hide and wipe them out—every last one of them!

In  's name, you have my recommendation.

  of the Order of Doctrine and Ordination
Lore:On Extending Existence

For every being, the Great Gear provides a set number of rotations, a set number of ticks before our natural clockwork mechanisms wear out and die. It's as inevitable as dusk giving way to dawn, but that doesn't mean we have to accept it. And I still have so much work left to accomplish. There isn't enough time in the day, let alone in a lifetime! I find this situation to be completely unacceptable.

While my education started with the arcane arts, since   took me under his tutelage I've gravitated toward pursuits of a more scientific and mechanical nature. I have tried to apply these techniques to the problem, but so far my cogs and gears and widgets have failed to achieve any noticeable results. Gadgets and devices can accomplish wonders, but so far I have not found a suitable and compelling mechanism to prolong life in any meaningful manner. For this reason, I must return to my arcane roots and explore what magic may achieve where artificing has failed.

I haven't let my magic grow stale, despite my concentration on more mechanical endeavors. Indeed, like my master before me, I tend to use magic to bolster the effectiveness of my mechanical creations. But it's through the concerted use of magic that I believe I can extend my existence. Why should the   alone get to be immortal when there are others (including myself) that have more than a lifetime of achievements to contribute to the betterment of society?

Now, some may look down upon the magical arts labeled as "dark," but knowledge and technique should never be dismissed out of hand. A use for every tool and a tool for every job, after all, as the Father of Mysteries always liked to remind me. So, my next great adventure shall be to conquer the intricacies of the dark arts and discover the secret to extending the natural lifespan. Who knows? Perhaps I might even discover the path to true immortality, if the gears align correctly.

Now, where did I put my hourglass and that relic I had my hirelings uncover from the Faledran family tomb?
Lore:On Moving Ebonheart

Members of the   Priesthood and   Engineers,

During a recent visit to the mainland,   became enthralled with the quaint and picturesque city of  , in  , on the northern coast of  . He spent an inordinate amount of time within the confines of the city, wandering the streets and carefully examining all of the buildings and houses located therein. Truth be told, the visit put us behind schedule and made me extremely anxious about upholding the rest of our commitments before we had to return to  .

After remaining quietly at the Warrior-Poet's side as he tenaciously studied every cobblestone and patch of thatch, filling his notebook with every notion and observation, the Living God finally turned to me. "Archcanon," Lord Vivec said, "I am fascinated by this place. We must have one in Vvardenfell!"

"We must, my lord?" I asked, trying to ascertain where the Living God was going with this line of reasoning.

"I think that spot to the south of my city," Lord Vivec continued. "Yes, that will be the perfect place to build my new  !"

"Build, my lord?" I asked, still somewhat unsure what was being asked of me.

"Build, move, whatever you think is best," Lord Vivec said. "Have the canons and Hlaalu's engineers begin drawing up plans immediately. I can't wait to begin a new project!"

So, there you have it. From the lips of Our Lord to your ears, through the medium of this letter. I look forward to reviewing your ideas in, let us say, three month's time?

In Lord Vivec's name,
Lore:Pact Pamphlet: Congratulations!

Now That You're No Longer a Slave ....

:By Order of the alliance herein referred to as the  , and with the agreement of the ruling bodies of  ,  , and  , let it be known now and forever that slavery has been abolished in all Pact territories and principalities. 

:Congratulations! You are no longer a slave! 

:Whether you identify yourself as a   or  ,  ,  , or  , know and understand that your shackles have been broken and you are a FREE* and INDEPENDENT* being, a citizen of the Pact with all the rights and responsibilities inherent in that singular honor. 

:So, what now, you're probably asking? What does a person born to slavery suddenly do with his or her newfound freedom? The answer, of course, is "Whatever you want to!" That's the beauty of being a free and independent being! 

:Advisors and counselors will be traveling throughout Morrowind, excluding certain regions* not yet ready to accept the rulings of the Ebonheart Pact, to provide guidance and other assistance to make your transition from slave to free being a simple and painless process. 

:Welcome to the Pact! We're happy that you're free! 

:(*The following   of the   have agreed to and will honor this stipulation:  ,  , and  . Citizenship and freedom are not guaranteed in other Dark Elf territories.)
Lore:A Petition for the Mighty Nix-Ox

Yes, we are thankful for the mighty   of our land. These gentle giants, a distant cousin to nix-hounds, were our salvation when we were forced to go without slaves, and have been the backbone of the farming community ever since. But have you stopped to think about what we are doing to these magnificent creatures?

Unlike a slave, whose daily labors would only create callous and muscle, the nix-ox is forced to plow the land by dragging their pedipalps through the soil. This creates furrows for our saltrice, marshmerrow, and other needed crops. Many of our livelihoods depend on the quick growth and trade of these items. But what is the true cost of these goods?

The nix-ox is not a beast of steel as the   once created, but a living, breathing animal. Over years of dedicated service, the nix-ox pedipalps begin to erode. Not only do they lose this important form of protection, they are then deemed useless by our "good neighbor" the farmer. They're left to starve in the ash wastes, or butchered for their carapaces. What a fine way to thank the being who put so many years of dedication into the very soil of  !

"But what can we do?" you may be asking. "Is there a better way?" Fellow Housefolk, of course there is. There's always a better way.

I believe that the law should require all farmers to retire nix-oxen after a certain amount of years of service.They then should be allowed a peaceful retirement, still given food and care by those who they have peacefully collaborated with throughout the years. They deserve all of the tasty mushrooms they can get their mandibles on, and peace and comfort in their twilight years.

To make this vision possible I propose a public mandate, a petition to protect our gentle giant friends. All you need to do is show your support. Will you join me, House Dunmer?