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______________________________________________ FOR THE SANCTITY OF STEEL ______________________________________________ The dispatch of dead-men. Click-clack-click… — floats of skeleton-men and bug-bogeymen march from and between highways and holdfasts, parading through boulevards and barricades in lands east through west. The couriers peered out from dung-dark pits in the sides of their skulls, from within whom they cast long, foreboding stares over townsfolk and tribesmen, boney facial-composition falling grave in the presence of taxpayers and burghers. Saturated by soot and other wretched magicks, doubtless, each of the thousand-and-some hauled reams of paper and pamphlet, distributing the memos into the hands of every man, woman, and no-good. Not one of which, by the way, stunk of anything less than manure, piss, and booziness. And, when all was done, the profusion of living-dead men sunk back into the bones of the earth, plunging earthward wherefrom they came. They all read as follows, save for inconsistencies in spelling and egregious handwriting: ______________________________________________ FOR THE SANCTITY OF STEEL FROM THE DESK OF THE EMISSARY OF THE PROPHET IN RED, Recorded on Hexicanum stationary, Rh’thoraen pine paper: Let the metalworkers, weaponsmiths, and armourers of the realm be addressed hereinafter. This address is written and overseen on behalf of the Prophet in Red, Adunakhor-from-Adria: For those who hold stock in the surety of steel, the sanctitude of iron, allow me to introduce myself. I am Pharzankhor-from-Petra, Champion of the Abyss, Bellkeeper of Rock Tower, Keeper of the Crypt-in-Kraija, the Grand Prince of the Raevir (yes, those Raevir). I have a home, but do not sleep. A heart which does not beat. I can take his or her home and build another, and love to play games with my many brothers. I can promise many silks and many golds, and enviable wardrobes. Grant premium w**res, and cloaks from boars. Most of all, I bid to you, metalworkers and swordsmiths, power. And, better yet, championship over the elements: over death. For fourteen days and fourteen nights, I will take from coast-to-coast. If you can bend steel into many fantastic fashions, and wring and wrench bronze, and heat and treat iron, then prove your finesse over those other, battered weaponsmiths which you call brothers. Repute yourself, or otherwise become swept away by the current, and lose all trace of importance. Be advised that I am improbably paranoid of birds. A critter which is able to track and identify individuals from many miles abreast? Something is amiss. Take any necessary measures to speak with me first-hand. I am partial to the drink. In witness hereof, I set my seal, HIS GOOD GRACE, Pharzankhor-from-Petra, Champion of the Abyss, Prince of Petra Turris, Grand Prince of the Raevir, Apprentice of Adunkahor, Bellkeeper of Rock Tower, Keeper of the Crypt-in-Kraija. ______________________________________________

Ihievhii'thilln Maeyr'onn sorrowed night and day, watching his Elibar'acal compatriot sealed and wound tight behind brass bars of sky prison; then, his friend Veluthri Elibar'acal. Low amber eyes boiled with regret. "It's... over!"

______________________________________________ HOUSE OF BARROW THE BONDS OF BASTARDS ______________________________________________ An illustration of the author and publisher, alleged by the pamphlet. Bone-clad skeletons, animate from head to hoof, wreathed by gore and flesh in varying capacities, pace from place-to-place along the Almarican peninsula. A stalwart clack, clack, clack accompanies the couriers as they make haste to deliver some dozen parcels and pamphlets. All of which, as it so happens, secrete the stench of beetroot and dung, and are recorded in atrocious font and handwriting, flip-flopping proses — traditional Raevir slang, then proper colloquialisms. The bone-men herald themselves with a ‘hek-hek-hek’ cackle, and the babbling of bone-on-bone, wearing their hearts on their sleeve in the torn-and-tattered Carrion regalia. Said pamphlets read as followed: ______________________________________________ THE HOUSE OF BARROW The Bonds of the Bastards of the Houses Carrion und Karovic “Spell-checked and dictated. This publication is of impeccable verity, the likes of which are unseen.” — SERGE FRANZ VON TOLLEMACHE-UND-TOLLEMACHE, AUTHOR OF THREE, FATHER OF FOUR. “Strong-arming the campaign into a better future, for all Raevir. New and old..” — M. FERDINAND FÜRST ZU SKELETONE ESTEEMED SCIENCMANCER. ______________________________________________ TO THE VALUED SUBJECTS OF THE HOUSES OF CROW, CARRION, AND KAROVIC, OF WHAT RANK AND DEGREE SOEVER: Whereas the Raevir realm has, as evident, come to a juncture in recent years, given the separation of Luceafă from Carrion-Woldzmir, the splintering of Tuvyic, the enthronement of Sigismund the Third, the re-vestment of Pompourelia, etcetera, it is seen fit that this amendment be made. Once Count-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow, has resolved — while, there was not necessarily a last straw broken in the camel's back — to sever the bloodline, definitively. His Bastard-ship cited the silliness finally in letting live what once died, now, four-hundred and some years prior. And then, letting live multiple times over, ad nauseam. It is unclear to the courtiers thereof whether the former Count-in-the-Running recognised the irony of the above, in his case. Henceforth, from the day, the twenty-first of the Sun’s Smile, 1864 Anno Domini, ad infinitum, the Lord-Supreme Barrow and company pledges and renders: I. That all Crow houses (that is, characterised by descent from the lines of Karovic), including, but not limited to, Carrion, Barbanov, Sarkozic, Ruthern, and Vladov, be terminated and dissolved II. That the subjects of aforementioned houses be liberated of designations pertaining to them, or other whatsoever Karovic stylings which may constitute titles or nomenclature. a. That the collective subjects hereinabove be known by the name, and inherit the pedigree of ‘Barrow,’ bearing on a bastardisation of the name ‘Carrion,’ which is to refer to a tomb, prior designated to Karovics sired out of wedlock. b. Titles and heirships hereinabove shall cede forthwith to the former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow. III. That the subjects of aforementioned houses be stripped and barred of any privileges or prerogatives which pertained, in particular, to their familial Karovic nativity and/or roots. a. Prerogatives hereinabove shall cede forthwith to the former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow. IV. That the houses Karovic be discontinued here-and-for-all, and any descendants bearing to or boasting Crow lineage be disallowed revival of the houses, for any reason. V. That the former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Vladislav Barrow, be elevated to, and henceforth bear the distinction of, Lord-Supreme Barrow. a. That the Lord-Supreme Barrow be distributed the Karovic titles and stylings (refer to catalogue 2.a), unimpeded, including but not limited to, Anti-Holy Orenian Emperor, Anti-King of Hanseti, Anti-Count of Dobrov, et. al. VI. That the houses Karovic be disassociated with their bearing as nobility in all states and fiefs, nor affiliated with the triumphs of its members, predecessor or otherwise, as casus for nobility, futurely. With additional — thespian — justifications from His Bastard-ship: I. The Barrow is the grave of all Karovic Crows, ever, which are and were. II. The Barrow is where all lines of Karovic, be they Carrion, Sarkoziv, Vladov, Barbanov, et. al, former and future, converge in termination. III. The Barrow is the stub of all lines of Karovic, with special urgency of those of Carrion. IV. The Barrow is the stump of the vast Karovic tree: that which supports its immense weight in its longevity, and that which remains of its weight when the rest is gone. V. The Barrow roots run far and broad. ______________________________________________ In witness hereof, our seal is set, in Dobrov. Penned and delivered, HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, Vladislav Barrow, Anti-Emperor of the Holy Orenian Empire, forever august, Anti-King of Oren, Haense, Hanseti, Renatus, Alras, Salvus, Savoy, Galahar, and Ruska, Anti-Grand Prince of the Raevir, Anti-Prince of Altion, and Dules, Anti-Archduke of Herendul, Anti-Grand Duke of Kaedrin, Anti-Duke of Kraija, Abresi, Corazon, Aldersburg, Furnestock, Kingston, Carnatia, Akovia, Vekaro, and Adria, Anti-Count of Pravets, Kovagrad, Kralta, Petrus, Ager, Owynswood, Sabrinsky, Werdenberg, Brelus, Ayr, Bihar, Kvasz, Karovia, Royce, Siegrad, Susa, and Dobrov, Anti-Viscount of Galmore, Anti-Baron of Woldzmir, Amaury, and Montfort, Protector of the Skeletons, Ghouls, and Jesters, President of Barrow Brokerage Investment Centre, Vice President of Carrion Pharmaceuticals, Chairman of the Dobrov Neighbourhood Committee, and Woldzmir Parents’ Association, former Count-Dobrov-in-the-Running, Darkest Lord, etcetera. ______________________________________________ The same ensemble of living-dead couriers break to a gallop back to their master, re-distributing copies with even more titles tacked on, by the hour. ______________________________________________

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"I saw a ghost today," Drudo padded his hands along the aftereffects a recent downpour had left on his face. Moisture boiled on his cheek, a two-way cross between sweat and mourning, and glistening occasionally with grief: soft, but fine streaks in the sooty areas surrounding his eyes. "… sort of, in a way." Life is precious, such as it was, and so started the trek for Drudo's well-beloved cousin.

______________________________________________ WHO AM I? THE RECRUITMENT DRIVE ______________________________________________ A depiction of the esteemed author, so says the dossier Luridly-clad couriers in torn-and-tattered foustanellas and impossibly stacked and festooned turbans, evidently from the south, strut from place-to-place, city-to-city, fort-to-fort, hellbent on delivering a memo. They haul dozens upon dozens upon hundreds of copies — half of which, it was clear, would not touch another man’s hands nor meet his eyes. The corners of the memos are saturated with sweat from the palms of the mail-heralds, and, for all intents and purposes, appear to be wrought of a pretender-gold paper composite. Ostensible depictions of a fantastically-handsome gentleman have been printed across the page header, contrasted wholly by an egregious handwriting, flip-flopping between Common and an indeterminate foreign script — almost fictional. The memos all read as followed: ______________________________________________ WHO AM I? A Field Guide to the Moneyed Prince, Ur-Sahar, and a Recruitment Drive to His Court “A man of affluence, to be sure.” — IMPERATOR OF THE EMPIRE OF AAUN (OREN), C. THE PRIOR MONTH. “What is there to say? He is sophisticated, dependable, and, by Godan… devilishly handsome.” — QUEEN-MOTHER OF HANSETI C. THIS MORNING. “An excellent sparring partner. Ten marks out of ten, if I should say.” — INTERREX OF ELVENDOM C. THE LAST GRAND MIHYAARI DERBY. ______________________________________________ INDEX i. Introduction … ii. Cause … iii. Contact Me … iv. On Ur-Sahar … ______________________________________________ I - INTRODUCTION Greetings, all and sundry. I am Sahar-Maharaj, of the patrician house of Ur (Sahar is my given name, please remember it). You may surmise then, what reason have I to indulge in this field guide? With heavy heart, I declare that I am, in fact, the Pharaoh of Mihyaar, and, so far as I and my people are concerned, the Prince of Baal-Hazor. For reasons provided, I think I am owed a modicum of respect. I hope you will forgive my audacity, impoliteness, and inability to deliver this memo on my own accord. Lady Luck has rendered me bed-bound on this day after last evening’s champagne bender — in other words, I was cross-eyed drunk as a skunk and pissed as a newt, and am henceforth legless on account of a hangover, and the aftertaste of yesterday’s excess. This memo shall suffice in my absence, in conveying to you the honour of my character (I have a mule’s resoluteness and the quick-wit of a king). Mihyaar is two-continents over this realm, in the lands adjoining the False Sea and Rh’thor, the Lodge of Yulthar. Our diaspora has seen adversity of the worst severity, and, as good fortune should have it, a man temperate as I is mantled with dominion and princeship over it. The pilgrimage to descendant lands has boded terrible, I regret to inform. Danger on every step, and at every danger, an increasingly tenuous descendant lore and subsequent defeat: taxes, warfare, legislation, laws. All so banal and unnecessarily convoluted. When did Mankind become so complicated? Even so little as to own land is a tangled affair. That is besides the point. Our exile has marked a hard-bitten and difficult point in our history. Even then, I hold the stalwart and hardy belief that, there are faint glimmers of civilisation in this barbaric slaughterhouse which was once known as humanity. It is what I provide, in my own modest, humble, insignificant… oh, **** it. The writer has given up. The writings following this point amount only to an indistinct, erratic slur of hieroglyphics. Hence, I have taken the initiative to accost you to my company. Rather, my entourage and court. I hold bated breath in your response. II - CAUSE I pen to you this memo with wishes that you will join my court and my retinue. It begs the question, however, who are we? My court of Mihyaar seeks to establish a village in the southern badlands, but otherwise, spread joy and positivity and indulge in scholarship (among other endeavours i.e., world domination). Those who oppose will be slighted, do not underestimate my wealth. Trust and believe, it will be an exquisite affair. And, there is also the third question of, who are you? My standards are high, do not doubt, and I believe that not all among us hold purpose. Not in my entourage, at least. Please consider this message if you are one of the followed: i. a jester (and/or dabble in joke-telling). ii. a juggler (juggled object non-specific). iii. an elephant-rearer (elephant required). iv. a learned scholar (grasp upon the alchemical not required). v. a pretty woman. Negotiations are, in all matters, fine. If you are none of the above, or otherwise a good-for-nothing, good-at-nothing wastrel, respectfully find another court or entourage to join. III - CONTACT ME Should you prove interested in this pursuit, then I implore you to approach me or my contemporaries. Ordinarily, I can be found in Niseep and the surrounding heath-lands. However, I can similarly be found in the company of variable drunk pissants, i.e., taverns, and speakeasies. Do not take me for a fool, I am very perceptive (I am also a pharaoh and prince). ______________________________________________ IV - ABOUT THE AUTHOR, ON UR-SAHAR Ur-Sahar-Maharaj (in order of; surname, given name, and additional name) was born to Ur-Farhan in the first year of the third-decade, of the Second Age, and is the de jure Pharaoh of Mihyaar and Prince of the City of Baal-Hazor, twice-elected Mr. Yulthar, and published author of Mihyaari romantic and alchemical poetry (see, Ballads for Mihyaari Women, Seventy Ways to Say ‘I Love You,’ Ras-Vida: the Penultimate Alchemy). One of the most intuitive bohemians and scribes of the Lands-Adjoining-Rh’thor, he is reputed for his intuition and quick-wit, as well as influence as the largest mogul and tycoon in the splintered Mihyaar, and the greatest Ras-Vidaean alchemist in the south, questionable sources say. Notable achievements are consistent of, authority over the Mihyaari, and bringing western alchemy to the likes of the Mihyaari.

______________________________________________ PRINCELY HOUSE OF UR NOT THE MEAT, BUT THE APPETITE ______________________________________________ “.𐤊 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓𐤋𐤍 𐤊𐤎𐤐 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓 𐤋𐤍 𐤇𐤓𐤑 𐤅𐤊𐤋 𐤌𐤍𐤌 𐤌𐤔𐤃" “‘Not the meat, but the appetite that makes eating a delight.” — WORDS OF HOUSE UR, 16XX. INTRODUCTORY The house of Ur traces its provenance to southern settlers on the banks of Yulthar, who joined to form the first stratum of Mihyaari men and women. This occurred when the resolute and temperate wunderkind, Ur-Mihyar, promised bread, shelter, and arms against the beast-men and boogeymen in the wastes of the Yultharan peninsula. In earlier, formative years, men of the house were jewellers and engravers who worked in fashioning ornaments and talismans from sticks and stones, among other fruitless trades and professions. Bannermen of Ur settled themselves in the cores and kernels of the four cities in Yulthar, if not having rotated between them, with intent to peddle and tout their wares, and rub shoulders with all from pirates and poets to puppets and paupers. Frugality was a given, to the splintered brothers and sisters of Ur who placed their beds in neither of the four cities, but rather on the fringes of the continent, be that in the surrounding strings of islands, or in the tempestuous mainland. These familial minorities usually dabbled in forging pearls in the waters adjoining the archipelago. Small, discrete colonies of the Ur people of Mihyaar have not yet left the Yultharan isle; a dying, fragmentary breed, albeit. The bulk of the house’s bannermen made their flight from the peninsula in the years preceding the establishment of Mihyaar and its subsequent, empyrean city of Baal-Hazor. Naturally, the campaign was promoted between blood-relatives and extended families, spilt from one relative to the other. Brothers and sisters, cousins, uncles and aunts, and other relatives of increasingly tenuous connection. The better share of which followed the usurper-hegemon out of desperation for fortune; the other, fortitude against the elements in Yulthar. Hard-pressed to make route from the humid and strenuous peninsula, the bannermen fed Ur-Mihyar his praise, and when the time would come, he gave them beds and bulwarked them in his hospitality and goodwill. Among the formidable Mihyaari citizenry, especially those who adopted serfdom — unpopular, even for the likes of most men in Mihyaar and Baal-Hazor, — the banner-brothers and sisters of the house of Ur were less than reputable. Hearsays and a far-from-thorough examination of their conventions and habits in the years settled in Rh’thor would earn the house and its attendees the reputation of being freeloaders. Toad-like barnacles who leached from the influence of their de facto head, Ur-Mihyar, and gained their alms from latching onto his teat. Archivists represented the exile to Rh’thor as a time of economic boom, yet the days and troubles of the less fortunate Mihyaari were unsung, however. Ur men and women practised usury, and strong-armed up the social hierarchy in Rh’thor through appointing themselves as the de jure loan-sharks, money-mongers, and bankrollers of Mihyaar. They were tycoons and moguls, lending charities for extortionate — and, often pyrrhic — prices. There was a proverb, in fact, elsewhere in the city of Mihyaar, marked by tall spires and narrow boulevards, that the Urs were saw-fish in the flesh, and found fortuity in the financial loss of others. Suffice it to say, the stigma surrounding the old patrician house was thorough, and those slighted by the loans peddled by its members have held hatred in their hearts, and their hearts on sleeves, to the present day. ATTRIBUTES “My body and its captors are in one land, my heart and its owners elsewhere.” — UR-BELSHEZZAR, 170X. Folklore and mythos runs deep and dank in the street-culture of Mihyaar, yet no local legend in the side-streets of Baal-Hazor is a larger moot-point than that of amber-eyes among the sisters and sons of Ur. Patricians of the house were long characterised especially by pallid and glassy eyes which adopted a dim gold. In Rh’thor, especially, wisemen postulated theories that, the gutsiness of the men of Ur, and eagerness for gold and silver and comestibles of all manners saturated their windows into the world with the greed they wore on their hearts. And, that the very colour holds as much friction and conduction to wrongdoing and wickedness, as it does reverence. The latter, of course, held little merit in the counterculture of Mihyaar, and is disputable even in more refined times. There is a second suspicion of the nature of these eyes, however. In the passage to Rh’thor-by-the-Sea, the men and women of Ur coveted and carried on their backs the Ark of Ur, a sarcophagus fashioned from an oxidised wedge of brass and ivory. What the sepulchre had borne is disputed yet, but consensus will say that it was the cadaver of Ur-Shaaraim, a shepherd of Ur in the year eleven-hundred, reportedly thrusting the house into good favour, and achieved an unfathomable state of self-awareness. So the story goes that, exposure to the fumes expunged by the brass vault inspired rust to gloss over their eyes, and to henceforth bear the weight of gilding metal on their stone-hard faces. Bannermen of Ur are on the darker side, with respect to skin tone, and are often identified as such rather than a dimmer bronze, as most Mihyaari might sport. The house carries its own signets which its sons and daughters wear on their sleeve, as tattoos and markings. Notable are the lopsided scales, typically representing the capacity for greed and a taste for fineries, which are relished equally. The members of the house of Ur similarly revel in their piercings of all manners, hooks through the upper cartilage of the ear. The bearer of this practice typically sustains irreversible deterioration to the ear, another identifier of an Ur. MANTLE The approach of the Second Age has seen the dying-out of the old house. Still, its sons and daughters acknowledge their inheritance to dominion over Mihyaar — a claim very loosely latched onto, being that usurpers have tried, and succeeded, in stripping it from them. It is, admittedly, now a tenuous connection. Ur-Sahar-Maharaj sits at the head of the house presently (c. 1860s, First Age). The state of the patrician house is lamentable. It is more akin to a house of cards, now. ______________________________________________ Written by Hephaestus @Hephaestus Pertinent to the below lore: ______________________________________________

A glassy-eyed Drudo Pasquina knelt at the foot of an altar to Owyn, with dew in the corners of his eyes, snivelling: "They fuckin' killed him. They killed him…"

"Albert was m'good lord friend. This is his granddaughter, I bet, th'treacherous wife-robber: five-hundred and twelve minae." Friendly faces glanced surreptitious eyes over the invitation from around a Leuvaardenish poker table, the most sumptuous yet worst-smelling among them having laid his bet proudly. "No. Five-hundred-thousand."

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"Stone don't burn." PONDERED a layman of Owyn's Lectorate.

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___________________________________________________________________ Desert sands gyrated out from the earth, cresting the Sultan in smog and ambiguity. Being that word of the grapevine had reached him, he navigated the realm from reaches east where the sun stands, to its reaches in the west, where the sun sleeps. Needless to say, men of esteem as the bannermen of Malik's Company had a place in his court. Men who dealt in all manner of thievery and skullduggery, — and, concubines. ___________________________________________________________________

The hegemon did not stir.

The static of Gib Garak Experience reruns flickered off and on in the walls of Casa Pasquina. When, cling! clang! The bass and treble from the proprietor's swinging of stones, precious metals, and what could only be penned as a barbell sent a rattle in his feet, and a torrent of sweats down his temple. Drudo sought to seat himself — placate himself — in that moment. And, his mind went to the noblest dunmer he'd known: Gib Garak. Of course, it had been some time since Drudo had made the occasional spottings of Gib, be that in the studio wherein the Gib Garak Experience was recorded. Or, the gymnasium in Kaer'Lassar. He stsirred, and prayed. "God bless you, Gib Garak. Helluva' workout, there — it's all in'th' legs. Calves, 'y'know?" He advised, to his council of none.

"Great success…" Rhinestones stir in the eyes of a prince from neither east nor west. Candlewicks spat noisome cinders in the chamber of his lantern as he spelunked this pestilential land, the infernum incarnate, the hell-on-earth. And, with each step down that winding road, the twilight wind whipped and thrashed at his flare, sending the lamp's heart into many dying grains of fire and fry. A match had become unbound from his inventory near every-other-moment, the strident clicking as he vied to set it alight reverberating in his arthritic hands, the chord and bass of which inspired even his bones to rattle. Jitter, jitter… — the rime cold wasted away at his old shoulders, heaving the weight of winter onto him. And then, he arrived, and took sight of the fortification: a spire, which if you were to see its spire, might see the breadth of space entire. Behold, the Hexicanum.

"Hey, wait a minute…" A perceptive observation had begun to wax in Drudo's mind, as a burgher somewhere narrated the transcript.

"It's over." A pupil of the mighty Lectorate gibbered, interrupting his fast of seven days and seven nights. "It's OVER."