Brynjar’s eye followed the licks of the crackling flame as they leapt from the dwindling stack of logs situated in the middle of the party. The warmth was not vital to him nor Galmar, for all Nords carried with them a fire in their belly to stave off the cold. His internal hearth burned brighter than most perhaps, being a native of Windhelm, one of the coldest cities in Skyrim. For his comrades, however, Bynjar was sure the heat was welcome, especially as the roaring winds whipped at their backs. The wind slowly began to die, allowing Galmar to speak amongst the troops, though he beckoned them closer anyway. Although he knew the mission already, Brynjar listened intently, ready to fill in any blanks the Stormcloak might forget. The blacksmith and Galmar shared a unique connection; both Nords served in the Imperial Legion in their youth, and were now fighting the very same Empire they bled for to protect. 

Galmar told the party their mission to retrieve the Jagged Crown, though he failed to mention the importance of the crown. Brynjar figured his fellow Nord knew he would fill the others in on the details, but decided it was in their best interest to get moving as soon as possible. He couldn’t help but admire the Stormcloak’s confidence, stating not [i]if[/i] but [i]when[/i] Ulfric entered the city, and the crown [i]will[/i] sit on his brow. It was this kind of faith, Brynjar knew, that would win the war against the Empire, a lot so unsure of themselves. The Legion didn’t trust they could win the war against the Thalmor, and so they were defeated. History was bound to repeat itself in Skyrim. But Brynjar was tired. Tired of war, tired of losing the ones he loved, tired of killing his brothers, and tired of being so far from home. He prayed to Talos the end of their fight would see him make it back to Windhelm, where he could stay with his feet planted for the rest of his days.

As Galmar continued, Brynjar reached down into the glimmering snow with a gauntleted hand and scooped up a handful before smearing it onto his steel breastplate. Slowly, as he worked the powder into water, the blue paint streaking his armor began to fade, dripping off his body. The blue paint identified Brynjar as a Stormcloak, and if they were to be marching through Imperial territory, it was best for them to slip through unnoticed. He looked down at his armor for a moment, admiring his own craftsmanship. A metal snake formed a high collar that protected his vulnerable, with the tail and head almost meeting at his sternum as snake became more slender. A massive eagle with its wings spread covered his heart, the creature embossed into the heavy steel. His eye returned just as Galmar was finishing his instructions.

“Brynjar, I’m trusting you to do this for us. You know how much rests on this task.” 

The blacksmith nodded, knowing all too well what was at stake. It seemed that Galmar wanted him as the head of the operation, knowing that Brynjar commanded men during his time in the Legion. “Aye, consider the crown to already be on Ulfric’s head. I just hope it fits,” Brynjar replied, his voice gravelly and coated with a thick Nordic accent. With a grunt, Brynjar stood up and looked over the other three Stormcloaks. An Argonian, Breton, and Altmer, all travelling together might raise suspicions, but none would suspect them of being rebels. It was a silver lining to the Stormcloak’s lack of racial diversity, Brynjar knew, as the majority of rebels were Nords like himself. Brynjar was quite familiar with Argonians, occasionally working with them in the ports of Windhelm to ship out his wares. They were hard workers no doubt, but greatly discriminated against by Nords in the city. Brynjar always made sure to pay them the same wages he would a brother. The Bretons, he admitted he was less familiar with, knowing only a few when he served in the Legion. Brynjar did know that they were greatly inclined towards magic, and this one seemed to be no exception with her robes and staff. The final member of their party, an Altmer, intrigued him the most. Almost no high elves were seen serving the Stormcloaks; their race always stuck to the Thalmor. It would take a great hatred, Brynjar thought, to turn your back on your own kind, and this hatred could serve very well in battle. 

“Well, we’d best move on towards Korvanjund, the sooner the better. The Imperial’s spies are everywhere, and it’s best we carry out this mission without any more company,” Brynjar said to the group. “Grab your gear and let’s head out.” With a booted foot, Brynjar kicked a blanket of snow over the bonfire, extinguishing the flame. He grabbed his claymore, from the log he had sat upon, sheathed in its scabbard, and slung it on his back before throwing his fur cloak over his armor. The blacksmith said his goodbyes to Galmar and returned to the group. “Oh, where are my manners?” The Nord scolded himself with a chuckle. “My name’s Brynjar War-Weary, of Windhelm.”