** ** In the clay smelter you shall build a charcoal fire, of a heat to blacken teeth. You shall add a layer of iron-sand upon the charcoal. *After six yarbans you shall add a layer of charcoal atop the iron. You shall repeat this process, layering iron-sand over charcoal, for three days.

After cooling, you shall separate the low-carbon steel from the high-carbon steel. You shall use the low-carbon steel to form the core of the sword. You shall use the high-carbon steel to form the skin of the sword. You shall forge-weld, fold, and forge-weld anselim the skin of the sword, until it attains its needful kotu-ajcea. You shall sharpen the sword-skin until it may shave an egg without breaking it. You shall speak the Oblation to Onsi, then drink of the Purifying Beverage of Kotu.

*Then, anselim.

• Frandar Hunding

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*Across the great torn sea are the remains of old Yokuda — the corpse-isles all of orichalc, home of the Redguards before we were the Redguards. Word comes to us yearly from wayward sailors and byblown scavengers that the islands remain a smoking waste, that nothing clean is left there, nor anything whole or unbroken.

In all likelihood, it may be as some have said: that all remains unchanged, and is even today as it was in the days of great hunger before the Warrior Wave departed for the shores of Tamriel — when the eldest of the ko-shira and the great fathers of the Na-Totambu, who had before this agreed on nothing at all, began to find agreement among themselves that our history ran forwards no longer, that the stroke which brought final victory had perhaps gone too deep, and cut us off from our own future.

If so, it is a land tracked by roads of dust leading nowhere, peopled by many high and silent columns of jade and orcsteel, prowled by beasts strange in shape and size, creatures which have grown terrible indeed that they might survive in smoking Yokuda, where little grows and less abides.

So great was the force of the calamity that the land itself was rent and driven, and the valleys and the mountains were doubled upon themselves so that no map of them which existed before has remained accurate. The rushing sea has poured in and swallowed much, and many uncharted rivers and lakes now spill across and between the great islands — but these new waters are all of salt, not fit for the drinking.

Of the cities of the star-eyed kings who warred against the Left-Handed Elves, nothing remains. The disaster tore them open one and all and spilled their guts gaping across sand and sea. To-day it is only the senseless and the lost who shelter beneath the too-slanted walls of Lekhu Mora, or scuttle between the ribbed shadows cast by the holy domes of Do Anselim.

Of the survivor settlings which scatter the coasts like pearls, we know less and little.

Some few of these are, of course, the despised Ra Netu, who turned shy at the moment of proof, who stayed behind, who fell back from the Wave — who have surrendered their history and are forever dying, which is punishment enough.

Many are cloisters of those

ansu who went into exile, who did not forgive themselves as Frandar did but instead neutered their minds and their teachings, that the doom which befell ancient Yokuda should never again come to pass. It is said they learn still the many motions of the sword which were given down by their fathers, but have sworn never to stir their blades in their use.

Rumors come to us over the sea that not all the

ansu have kept the old fealties, and that the dusted roads between the dry towns are given today to terrible bandits — death-singers and widow-makers. The strongest of these are tyrants of the sword, who despite the best efforts of the sword saints remember yet those cuts which drive mountains. In the face of these pirates, some of the Ansu have left their cloisters and taken up the old path of Onsi, as warriors were wont to do in the glory-days of Old Yokuda; walking the lands masterless and homeless, enemies of evil wherever it finds them.

Inland, across those uncharted and steaming wastes known as the Shreds, there remain even there bits of Yoku-that-was, places where by the censure or hissing whim of Satakhal the doom that fell all elsewhere did not reach. There there are firelocked temples of arch and opal, fanes built by kings who ruled before our kings, houses to strange gods who made us men, or more than men — but who have long died since in both memory and flesh. Somewhere beyond, among the shoals at the edge of the world, must be the cursed enclaves of the lost Hiradirge, heretics of the blade, whose lost stones are dreaming still those motions which doomed thousands.

There are some who swear on their skins that even further beyond all these mysteries and horrors — where, I know not — there stand foam-scarred buildings not of Yokudan make. Perhaps, they aver, these are the war-halls of the Left-Handers, our sword-teachers of old, whom all but we have forgotten; who, like us, cut their own history, who carried blades wrapped in bright silk, whose empire once spanned the four directions, and who were our only equals in all the world — no mind the pale king in Cyrodiil.

These tales I doubt most, for the Redguards have had no fiercer or finer enemy than the Left-Handed Ones, with whom we struggled for twice ten lifetimes. I doubt, because Redguards do not leave a thing undone, even before we were the Redguards.

But what is certainty is this: Yokuda is a corpse, rooted by scavengers and flies, home to pirates and madmen and lost souls. The air is unclean, and kills in the very breath. The earth is dead. Nothing grows there, or may grow ever again. We are those who Make Way, but the arc of a sword does does not ever turn backwards. Our history is in Yokuda no longer. If you would dare the treacherous journey westward after hearing all this, then you are mad or a fool. In either case, you will be in fine company.

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3E 430

You are a prisoner.

For crimes real or imagined, you have found yourself taken from your home, your family, your friends, and condemned to death. Along with fifty other such prisoners, you have been given to the Imperial Trading Company as convict labor for their latest expedition across the western sea. This is not a stay of your sentence — few expect you will live out the year. Certainly, you will never see your home again.

Your destination is Yokuda, ancient homeland of your people. You will die there.

The nights on the boat are long, and the flickering candles in your room cast strange shadows across the floor. The creaking of the ship around you is interminable, broken every now and then by the slapping of the waves against the hull. You are not permitted to leave your cabin.

From time to time, and for lack of all else to do, you examine the sword which they have allowed you to keep. This is not a kindness, but a practicality: Yokuda is more dangerous than anything you have left behind, and you will need it in the days to come. And after all — who could you kill, and have it matter? Where would you go after, and hope to survive?

The sword is all that remains of the life you have led up until this point.

White-Steel Saber [] A lean, well-balanced saber of unadorned white steel. The hilt is wrapped in strips of brown leather, stained dark with sweat in some places and white with dust in others. It took a dozen months to get enough for the smith in Sentinel who made this for you, but it has paid for itself many times over. It is an astoundingly practical weapon, serving just as well in a bloody barroom brawl as in a frantic melee.

Ruby-Pommeled Blade [] An elegant curveblade of fine make. The rippling steel is patterned with motifs of various leaping beasts. It is a beautiful thing: a weapon made to leap, and flow, and sing. The hilt fits your grip like a glove — and well it should, since it was made for you. The mark of your house is stamped in ruby on the pommel.

Salt-Stained Shortsword [] A short, ugly sword with a backhand grip, of the kind favored in the alleyways of the Pirate City, Stros M’Kai — where anything fancy will get you dead quick. The edge is chipped in a few places, but the point is razor-sharp. Just like you like it. The point is all you’ve ever needed. The tang is wrapped in an old sailcloth which still smells faintly of brine.

**Sterling Rapier [] **A long, thin sword, perfectly balanced. The hilt is filigreed silver, with a guard embossed with grappling golden lions. The silver is really painted copper, and the lions polished brass, but that’s all the crowd has ever needed. When you pick it up, the blade is so light it feels as if you’re holding air — as if it would be the simplest thing in the world to twist, and turn, and plunge.

Great Scimitar [] A heavy scimitar with a wicked edge. The metal is a sickly pale-green that does not mirror light so much as drink it. When you hold it, you feel the weight in your feet. The only way to maintain balance with a blade like this would be to keep moving forward, to let it drag you from one motion to the next. As you know well.

Broad Saber [] A large, flat saber. Terribly overbalanced. The chipped edge has been ground and re-ground several times, and blackened for effect. The metal is dark, and dull, and some might say cruel.

Fine Straight Sword [] A slender straightsword shot with green veins. The handle is ivory, and the tang is touched with delicate rolled script. A masterwork by any measure — but the edge has never been sharpened, and the shine is clean.

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"The sword is the self. Its edge is the mind." -Frandar Hunding

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