The houradrez is another stranger oft-alluded to in literature, and can thus be identified by its role in modern distohistori-fiction as much as it can by its clanking polywood rods. A newly-generated houradrez bore anywhere from thirty-five to forty of these rods, which fell one-by-one from the limping, burdened beast, whose gait grew more vibrant with each rodfall.

If the many-times corrupted and un-corrupted "original" file for the houradrez is to be believed, the strain became the center of a kind of recurring and ritualistic hunt. During such spectacles, the stranger itself appeared to act as a seemingly willing participant, tempting the hunters with its exaggerated limps and trails before bounding away down unlit wing.

The apparent return to the "jolly hunts" of yore and other such throwback behaviour of the antediluvian sensitives has been an ample source of pastoral fiction in recent years. This primeval narrative endures itself in these romantic tales, despite (or perhaps, due to) the hunt's purpose being long since lost to the rushing red waters of the flood.

The details of the strain that do remain, though, shrine brightly. The houradrez appeared exclusively in museums – places which, in the era's final years, grew both more solemn and more tidy by the week as "new" material was pruned, and more and more old works fell victim to any kind of private auction or deliberate destruction. Within these dwindling refuges, the houradrez led a relatively uneventful life. Though it seemed to grow more vigorous as it lost its rods, the stranger died abruptly once the last one fell out – a terrifying and existential consequence for the hunters of even the most post-genre pastoral fiction works.