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

I have listened to all the stories, talked to all the tale-tellers and elders. After many seasons of searching and investigation, I have come to the conclusion that the ancestor of my egg family led the     to the  s. That's where they all disappeared into history and became  . 

   
Many of the stories involving the Tsofeer Caverns mention a massive and powerful   known as the  . From what I could ascertain, this huge pool of malevolent slime behaves unlike other voriplasms. It creates extensions of itself, mobile puddles of ooze that remain connected to it in some manner, serving as its eyes, ears, and appendages—its connection to the world outside its spawning pool. The elders I spoke to talked about the Wuju-Ka in reverent terms, but they were also clearly afraid of the creature. They said that in ancient seasons, elders from nearby tribes would go to the Tsofeer Caverns and perform a binding ritual to trap the massive voriplasm and its extensions inside the caves. 

The binding ritual hasn't been performed in many, many seasons. Not since a rock slide sealed the entrance to the Tsofeer Caverns. I wonder if that was when the Ninth Legion was lost? Were they somehow trapped inside the caves? 

   
Here's what I learned about voriplasms. These slime creatures slither through the swamp, consuming whatever gets in their way. To spawn, they either split apart and form new voriplasms, or they turn consumed flesh into voriplasmic corpses. Voriplasmic corpses appear as skeletal bodies, the flesh melted from their bones and replaced with voriplasmic slime. These disgusting, shambling creatures have some connection to the voriplasm that spawned them, but not to the degree associated with the Wuju-Ka. 

   
One elder was willing to teach me the binding ritual for the Wuju-Ka. At least, she taught me what the elders before her told her. I hope the Wuju-Ka no longer exists, but if it still occupies the Tsofeer Caverns, then I must perform the binding ritual before I leave the caves. I just hope I can also find proof of the Lost Legion and some evidence to exonerate my ancestor and clear the mark of traitor that has sullied my egg-family's name.
Lore:Drakeeh the Unchained's Journal, Page 3

My grand-sire was chained within these very walls. He spoke a sharper tongue than I, but his heart was filled with the same venom. Taken from his home, the  s tried to bend him to their will. To break the unbreakable spirit of a   warrior. 

They failed. Every insult hardened his resolve. Every lash of their whips sharpened his claws. Every chain they shackled upon him only added to his strength. He gathered his egg-siblings, and he sang a warrior's song into their hearts. Together, they took   from the very Imperial scum who had wrapped them in chains. 

But when the other tribes heard such a warrior song, they shrank back in fear. They looked upon the venom in my grand-sire's heart, and they thought him poisoned. They bid him to forget his anger, to forget the Imperial's transgressions. To dance once more beneath the leaves of the  , content to only gaze longingly at the horizon. 

My grand-sire saw this for the foolishness it was. He had become raj-kaal, the war chief of a new tribe. He reclaimed the tools of those who oppressed them. Reclaimed the dryskins' prison to be his fortress, their weapons to be his strength, their armor to be his protection. And so the   were born, wielding the very chains that once confined them.
Lore:Drakeeh the Unchained's Journal, Page 12

For too long we fought with only our egg-siblings alongside us. Warriors of merit, yes, but few in number. Our power was limited, our scope miniscule; forced to crawl along the shadows like insects. We had degraded to become nothing more than bandits. A hindrance, nothing more. 

It was I that saw the wisdom in change. To grow our numbers, to grow our influence, we needed allies. I allowed dryskins into our ranks, inviting them to add their strength to ours. And so the   grew, like a mighty storm, like a crashing wave. 

But many clouded eyes looked out among our ranks. They questioned my leadership, blinded as they were by the old ways. They cried out in angry voices, rising louder and louder. I looked upon them calmly, for   has taught me that change always leads to chaos, just as chaos leads to blood. 

And so my gauntlet was born. Any who questioned my decision would have their chance to test the combat prowess of our dryskin allies. And the very few who were able to succeed in such a challenge? They would face me. After all, it was my orders that they were questioning, my strength as a leader. 

Like Sithis before me, I became both destroyer and creator, slaughtering those who questioned and strengthening all who followed. And thus was the rebirth of the Blackguards.
Lore:Drakeeh the Unchained's Journal, Page 17

It is not often that someone escapes us. Within the  , there is loyalty and there is death. So when someone manages to slip from my grasp, I tend not to forget. 

He calls himself   now, but I knew him to be Pimaxi-Taeed. Once he was egg-brother, warrior, Blackguard. Now he hides away in a den of thieves. Why he chose to return to  , I do not know. But I will make sure that he regrets such a decision, most adamantly. 

I had planned to force him to fight within my gauntlet. I relished in the idea of seeing him die before me, battered and broken. But when my scouts told me that his companion was seen lurking about my fortress, I knew what must be done. 

Though watching Pimaxi-Taeed die a slow, agonizing death would be satisfying, I feel that he and this Wood Elf must share a bond. So first, I will kill his heart. I will watch as the misery wells up within his eyes, knowing that he caused the death of one who obviously cares so deeply for him. 

Death can come later. For now, I will write a letter and offer the   a choice. Only then can my revenge be complete.
Lore:From Wrothgar to Lilmoth: A Smith's Tale, Vol 1

I'm just an old   weaponsmith, and weapons are my life. When I was just a nub-tusked whelp, I would sneak into the great forges of   to watch the masters at work. In time I became an apprentice, dragging slag from one end of the forge to the other. Then a journeyman, coated head to toe in soot and sweat. Eventually, I took my place as one of the great forge masters. In all my years of folding iron and hammering steel, I never once considered the possibility that we could use something other than metal to craft our weapons. Sure, we used mammoth leather and the like for binding and lacing. Sometimes the silk-born dandies would demand an inlaid gem or two. But metal was the heart of my craft. Imagine my surprise when I encountered the weaponsmiths here in  . 

I'd always meant to see the south of   eventually. Once the war broke out, I figured, why not now? I could make a killing selling my wares to the   quartermasters, sure; but something about   always piqued my curiosity. 

I'd heard tales of these lizard-folk wielding wooden clubs and such in battle. I imagined hissing savages with turtle-shell helmets and crude leather greaves. I don't mind admitting that I was dead wrong. These  s use methods and materials that I never could have imagined, and the results are extraordinary. I've been taking notes, but I doubt they'll do me any good. Half the materials are found only in Black Marsh, and after decades of pounding metal, I doubt these old mitts would be worth a damn on the finer details. Still, a smith who refuses to study isn't worth spit in a snow-storm. So here I am. I thought I could teach these lizards a thing or two, but it looks like I've got a lot to learn.
Lore:Onkobra River

is a fast-moving stream that runs into the dark center of   from various points in the province. One of the river estuaries of the Onkobra runs around the city of  , along a muddy and dysfunctional road. This estuary is found near the  .  There is another portion of the Onkobra in the region of  , south of the port-town of  . 

The   had established a   called the Onkobra Kwama Mine, but when Argonian slaves were able to overwhelm their slavers, they took over the Kwama Mines in Black Marsh, including the Onkobra Mine. This, however, did not end successfully. All the while, armillary spheres showcasing the   etched in Onkobra Kwama Eggs were in circulation in  .   

 

References
Lore:From Wrothgar to Lilmoth: A Smith's Tale, Vol 3

An   "forge" is a strange place, let me tell you. I guess it's more of a workshop than a forge. None of the familiar sounds or smells of my forge back home greeted me when I entered the place: no ringing anvils, no  -smoke, no hissing quench troughs. They're just eerily quiet and packed with chisels, axes, wooden buckets full of weird liquids, piles of rocks, dead birds, live slugs ... on and on it goes. 

For the first week or so, I felt very uneasy in  's workshop. She's not exactly a big talker. The only sounds she made for the first few days were sudden and irritated hisses when something didn't go exactly as she had planned. She also sang a few old   folksongs, although I use the term "sang" loosely. The first time I heard it, I thought she was murdering one of those lizards crawling all over everything. The place is infested with them! 

Eventually Shukesh started talking to me. At first, her comments were mostly about my disgusting lack of scales or my round, beady eyes. Of course once she started making fun of me, I knew we had become fast friends. One of the first secrets Shukesh shared with me was the art of "slug shaping." Apparently   is chock full of slugs. Back home we don't see a lot of the slimy little creatures, but when we do, we tend to squash them and then wipe them off our boots in disgust. Here in  , however, everything has a purpose. Most slugs aren't good for anything but eating. (Or so I've heard. I won't eat anything that doesn't stand on four legs.) But apparently some slugs have surprising applications. One of these special slugs, called a "jassa red," has an unusual defense mechanism. When threatened, it squirts out an acidic mucous. I'm not sure what good that does when something tries to eat it, but the acidic mucous is useful for Argonian weaponsmiths. 

When Shukesh wants to incorporate a natural motif into her work, she places the slugs onto the wood or stone and repeatedly flashes a piece of   directly behind them. Adjusting the position of the flint pushes the slugs in different directions. As the slugs move across the wood or stone, they leave behind a thin layer of acidic slime, creating long, smooth channels in the material. The mucous interacts with different materials in different ways. The reaction of the slime can even create natural pigments that range from a muted umber to a phosphorescent yellow. 

Shukesh let me try my hand at it (on a piece of worthless broken lumber). Not surprisingly, I was all thumbs. I created a tangled mess of grooves—all dyed a sickly, mottled green. When I threw the flint down in disgust, I think Shukesh laughed at me. She insisted it was just a cough, and then told me my slug shaping was utter "rajpu." I didn't try to argue, as I wasn't sure what rajpu was exactly, although I could hazard a good guess. Anyway, I'll take a hammer and tongs over a slimy ball of burning snot any day.
Lore:Imperial Incursions: Officer's Lament

Incursions: Officer's Lament 

Imperial Memorandum #61509.N 

Imperial Secretary Jirolin Arius, 

Dear brother, why am I being punished? What did I do that was so terrible that they decided to ship me off to  ? It was because I refused the advances of General  , wasn't it? I knew I should have just shut my eyes and let her have her way! But no, I had standards. Self respect. Now look at me! I'm covered in mud and sweat, and I'll never get this smell out of my hair! 

Did I mention how much I hate it here? We can't even get a good battle going because the damn lizards don't fight like regular people! They cheat! We've never fought an enemy like these sap-sucking  s! 

So, dear brother, what would I have to give you to get you to drop a few hints on behalf of your loving sister? If you could happen to mention to the general that I'd probably be inclined to spend some time with her the next time I'm back in  , I'd owe you more than you could ever imagine. I'll give you anything if you can get me out of this damn swamp! 

Captain Millona Arius,  
Fourth Legion  
17th Second Seed,
Lore:Imperial Incursions: Why a Swamp?

Imperial Memorandum #53902.B 

Members of the  , 

First, I want to thank you again for offering me this opportunity to serve the  . I will do everything in my power to constantly be worthy of your faith in me. 

Second, it has come to my attention that certain members of the council have expressed curiosity or even concern over my decision to take command of the   of  . "Why conquer a damn swamp when there are more important locations to deal with?" was one particular quote, reportedly spoken by a ranking member of the council, that reached my ears. Now of course, I will always defer to your limitless wisdom, but let me tell you why I think this "damn swamp" is necessary to the future security of the Empire. 

Black Marsh covers a huge portion of southeast  . From our exploration of the coastline, the interior swampland is easily as large as   or  , and it contains an untapped reservoir of wealth and resources waiting to be exploited. If the   won't take advantage of that, then certainly we should. 

And what about the Lizard-Folk themselves? Do we really want these primitive savages governing themselves? That would leave our borders ripe for attack if they ever gave rise to a charismatic leader of their own. Why wait for the inevitable? Better to take matters into our own hands and chart our own destiny. After all, that is the   way! 

Finally, Black Marsh represents the final frontier for the Imperial war machine. It is new and unblemished, an unknown region demanding to be explored. I look forward to leading our forces on this necessary and worthwhile endeavor. And I assure you, our victory over the Lizard-Folk will be fast and glorious. I guarantee it! 

General  ,  
Commander,    
13th Sun's Dawn,
The Belharzareta I

In those days, of course, it was uncommon among the Nedic tribesmen for a male to achieve any notoriety out of the arena of combat. If he wore silks, they were woven in rings of enchantment to ward off spear and arrow; if rubies glittered at his throat, they were arrayed there by a foeman s heart as it pounded its last frantic tattoo through iron-scarred veins. In those days, a man's hands were for plows and swords, not scrolls nor sceptres. And so it was that when Belharza was born, the unhappy product of a convenient marriage, blessed Al-Esh permitted his father, who had served her well during her rebellion, to spirit him away back to the North. Perhaps, in her mercy, she thought it a kindness, a chance to win honor upon the battlefields of Skyrim, and avoid the diplomatic pitfalls of an arena that would never welcome him. Mayhap she dreamed he would be a mercenary captain or general in the service of the High King, leading a skvadron of Nord screamers all the way to Sovngarde's gate.

But it was not to be, for his father was a troubled and paranoid man with a great many enemies both real and perceived. He kept his prize locked away in a cold fortress of wood and earth against the time when the warlord might press a claim to the Ruby Throne and sweep aside the frail woman who played at Empire there. Thus for eight years Belharza grew in isolation, thin and sickly, spoiled and sheltered, unaware of the royal blood which coursed like fire through him and sung yearning for conquest. At night, he dreamed of bleached towers reaching for the sky like mammoth-bones, webs of beaded silk criss-crossing the avenues dotted with rice-paper lanterns, and above all, a faceless woman with kind hands and a soft voice, breast aglow in sanguine royalty.

But when he asked his father about these dreams and inquired after his mother, the warlord laughed and told him his mother was a pox-ridden camp follower who had given up her only son for a horn of ale and a sack of iron coins. With his liar s tongue he poured poisoned words into his son s cup, and the boy drank obediently until his stomach was full and his heart was empty. And so Belharza put no more stock in these dragon s dreams, and resigned himself to be married off to one of the daughters of his father s thanes, as was the custom in those days for the marsh-lendrs of Hjaal. And in this darkness his only companions were his father s sworn men, hoary weepers whose lowborn breath stank of wasabi and blood.
The Belharzareta II

On the eve of his ninth name-day, Belharza grew bold, and in his boldness formed a plan that would forever alter his destiny. It was customary in those days of totem-worship for gifts to be exchanged on the first nine of a child s name days a carving or song in the Year of the Moth, a new sword or fishing-net in the Year of the Whale, and so on.

But on the ninth year, the Year of the Dragon, tradition held that a child might ask for anything at all and receive it, were it in his guardian s power to grant. So it was that on that fateful morning, Belharza arrayed himself in his finest furs and armor and presented himself before his father to make his demand freedom to leave the castle as he will.

The warlord, however, was not amused by his child s bravery, and not to be so easily rid of his trophy. He took up his axe and dragged young Belharza out to the yard, spittle and thu um fast falling from his thick tongue, demanding that the boy bow down and beg for quarter. and beg forgiveness for his arrogance. But Belharza s eyes now flared with half-remembered royalty, and he would not bend nor break before such a man as this But as the Nord readied his weapon over the boy s neck, as Belharza's honored ancestors smiled down, a shadow fell over the castle and a glorious trumpeting broke through the morning mist. A great golden form crashed down between the boy and his father, and with gore-painted horns ended the warlord s schemes and ambitions in one august instant.

With fiery eyes, Morihaus (for indeed it was he) looked over the boy, starved for love and honor, and thus spake; YOU ARE NO CHILD OF MINE OWN, YOU PALE-FACED BETRAYAL OF STAR-CROSSED LOVE. BUT I SMELL SOMETHING ABOUT YOU STILL, LIKE A DAWN-STREAKED DREAM OF BLOODY CRUSADE AND RESPLENDENT PASSION. YOU ARE ONLY MAN, AND I HAVE BUT A BULL S WIT, BUT PERHAPS I CAN HELP YOU BECOME MORE THAN YOU SEEM. And Morihaus touched his snout to the boy s forehead, and Belharza cried out as a bull s horns sprouted from his temples. Morihaus looked over this work with satisfaction, and snorted, THOUGH YOU HAVE KNOWN NO LIFE BUT THIS ONE, TIS CLEAR TO ME THAT YOU ARE INDEED YOUR MOTHER S SON, FIRST OF THE ALESSIANS. SEEK OUT YOUR HALF-BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN THE HIGH LONELY PLACES OF ALD CYROD, SHOULD YOU SEEK TO CLAIM YOUR BIRTHRIGHT. And with a stroke of his wings Morihaus disappeared into the sky, and the marcher lords looked upon this in wonder and from the timbers of the castle built shrines upon the ground where the Breath-of-Kyne had walked in taurine nobility.
The Belharzareta IV

During the first months of the Man-Bull s reign, there was peace and happiness throughout his empire. But as time went by, the people grew uneasy, and began to stir and mutter amongst themselves. They said to each other, King Belharza is a fine warrior, but this arrangement of his is unnatural. The gods in their wisdom did not see fit to shape man for rule; see how he grows restless at peace, and even now stands atop his palace each morning rattling his spear in the direction of Alinor. We cannot allow this man to undo the good works of blessed Al-Esh: Belharza must be wed! And they went to the King with their worries, but Belharza just laughed and said to them, Put your minds at rest, my friends. I have already joined myself in marriage to a wife, and she is the Empire of Cyrodiil. And he would hear no more from them, for he knew that to marry would be to forfeit his hold on the Amulet of Kings and the Ruby Throne.

His vassals were not so easily dissuaded, though. Throughout his reign, Belharza endured pressure from all quarters to find a wife and restore the natural order of things. The wise women of the jungle tribes would visit on occasion with grim portents, warning of doom for himself and his kingdom. The warlords of the west told him that honor could only be found on the battlefield there was no glory to be won sitting on a throne. His minotaurs remained silent, for their loyalty was to the Man-Bull alone and they cared little for the bleating of the no-horns of his court.

Though he would occasionally attempt to placate his counselors by feasting the daughters of jarls and silklords, sending them home with gold and land and titles, Belharza s energies were largely spent on the administration of his kingdom. Bringing the new Colovian city-states into his empire, both through diplomacy, which the Westerners spat at, and warfare, which they could respect and honor. Treating with his Ayleid vassals, and relieving the tensions of their new lives side by side with former slaves. Most importantly, fending off the carrion birds already flocking at his borders. He knew, though his subjects may not, that the position of Cyrodiil in the Starry-Heart was a precarious one, with the elves of the west crying for blood at the diaspora of their heartland cousins, and the men of the north positioning themselves for conquest, should he prove an easy quarry. Many a night was spent locked in his bedchambers with the young battlemage Hathna, the king s closest friend and advisor, poring over maps and treaties. Oft would they both emerge from his quarters in the light of dawn, glistening with sweat and clothing disheveled from the passion of their arguments. The two men became inseparable and rumors soon abounded about the handsome, raven-haired tribesman of the Niben whom the king depended upon so. His people smiled at these rumors though, and said wonderingly to one another, Surely two kings must be equal to a queen. See how Cyrod has prospered these past years?
The Bird-Goblins

'Neath the trees,

'Neath the ground,

Making nary a sound,

The Bird-Goblins come out to play.

 

Flash of feather

Flash of claw

Too mad to withdraw,

The Bird-Goblins have come today.

 

Keep away, my sons,

Though there are fewer,

They are not the green ones

Who live in the sewer.

 

They’re clever and cruel,

Tall and pale-faced,

Sons of Hadhuul

Should you see one, make haste!

 

Dear old Colovia

Is not nearly as dear

When the Wild Elves

Of ald-Cyrod draw near.

 

The Bird-Goblins are here to stay.
Online:Chronic Chronologer

Chronic Chronologer is awarded for recovering 12 stone tablets for the ancient Argonian calendar at Xinchei-Konu Monument following the quest Monument of Change.

 
Locations
The Vakka Tablet is obtained from Swallows-the-Sun during the aforementioned quest. The remaining tablets are as follows: