"Rikke, are you sure of this? You know how much stock I put into Nord tales and legends."

"Maven Black-Briar came through for us. She wouldn't name her contacts, but I believe the information is solid. The Stone-Fist has found the Jagged Crown, and seeks even now to enter Korvanjund and reclaim it."

"Hmmm....."

---

Legate Rikke whispered to one of her subordinates as the irregulars were gathered in front of her. These were soldiers with abilities that set them aside from the rank-and-file, each recommended to her by their division commanders for one reason or another. The bulk of the army had settled into a large camp on the plains outside of Whiterun; finally swallowing his pride and realizing Ulfric's true intentions, Balgruuf had agreed to allow the Imperial army to assist in the defense of his city. The Stormcloaks were expected to make their move any day, but this business of the crown threw an axe into things. Ulfric may very well be feigning an attack on Whiterun simply to buy time for Galmar to retrieve the fabled relic. She wasn't about to let that happen.

"Why these four?" she asked.

"They will look as no more than normal travelers, making their fortune along the road. A small group, only one is an Imperial, and we've removed the insignia from her armor," the officer replied.

"No, I know that, I mean why these four?"

"Ah, of course. Well, Carius you know already. The Breton is one of the fiercest we have who isn't also an Imperial. The elf serves admirably as a scout, and the Argonian's magic complements their abilities. All have proven their competence in previous assignments. I thought this the best composition available for your request."

"I see."

The Legate nodded, then looked down at the names of the four written on a sheet of paper in front of her. Rosenna Carius; Alareine Arysden; Arnand; Ukaraz Pehrcalees. She looked up to address them.

"At attention, soldiers. You've been called here for a special assignment. Though none of you are Nords yourselves, you may know the legend of the Jagged Crown. I believe that the crown has been located by the Stormcloaks, and that they're moving even as we speak to claim it from its tomb. If you know the legend, then you know how much this relic could bolster Ulfric's cause, should he lay hands on it. It may be nothing more than a rumor, but we can't afford to sit on our hands and find out the hard way. That's why I'm sending you four to Korvanjund to check it out; that's where the crown is said to rest, on the head of a draugr deep within the barrow.

"You can barter for any supplies you need in Whiterun, and get a map to the barrow there as well. Balgruuf has already provided such a map to the innkeeper at the Bannered Mare; she'll be waiting for you. Get to Korvanjund and find out if there's any Stormcloak presence there or not, then report back to me. I'm sending you four because I've been told that you'll be able to get there and back the fastest, and with the least amount of trouble. Prove that to me. Dismissed."

Rikke turned and walked away; Rosenna relaxed her posture as the officer disappeared into the swarm of soldiers in the nearby camps.

"Well, I may be mistaken, but I don't think we've been introduced. I suppose we'll know each other pretty well before we're back in Whiterun, though. I'm Rosenna Carius," she said, turning to speak to her three new companions.

---

Galmar Stone-Fist took another swig from his mug of ale, then slammed the empty container down into the snow at his side. His small detachment had set up camp in a patch of frozen forest outside Windhelm, closer to Korvanjund. To anyone watching, they were just a normal scouting party, but in reality they were anything but. Galmar beckoned for the four soldiers he'd summoned to lean closer, so as to be heard over the howl of the icy wind at their backs. Yuriah Cariic; Gladron; Kalien; Brynjar War-Weary. He didn't trust all of them, especially not this high elf, but there was nothing else for it. He needed a group that could pass for a few adventurers looking to plunder the ruin for wealth. Besides, this was why he'd picked Brynjar to go along with them. The man was a true Nord, and he could be trusted to hold the group to its purpose.

"Aye, the Jagged Crown. I've found it, and you four are gonna get it, hear?" Galmar said. "It's in Korvanjund, or so I think. Ulfric's been sending out word of his intentions to attack Whiterun in order to keep the Imperials' attention. We'll take Whiterun, alright, but when Ulfric marches into the city, the Jagged Crown will already sit upon his brow. We have to keep up the look of gearing for an invasion, which is why I'm only sending you four while the army prances about. I've been told that you're skilled enough to go in there and get that crown for me without a hitch. If you are, then this is your chance to prove your loyalty as true sons and daughters of Skyrim.

"Now, I suggest you get moving while you still can. Blizzard could roll in at any moment, and I'm not keen on waiting another day or two to get this done. The longer we wait, the more we risk discovery by Imperial spies. Say your hellos, grab your furs and your mead, and get moving. Brynjar, I'm trusting you to do this for us. You know how much rests on this task," Galmar said, slapping his fellow Nord on the back before getting to his feet and ambling away to refill his mug.

"You can barter for any supplies you need in Whiterun, and get a map to the barrow there as well. Balgruuf has already provided such a map to the innkeeper at the Bannered Mare; she'll be waiting for you. Get to Korvanjund and find out if there's any Stormcloak presence there or not, then report back to me. I'm sending you four because I've been told that you'll be able to get there and back the fastest, and with the least amount of trouble. Prove that to me. Dismissed." said Legate Rikke to the four people standing there: an Elf, a Breton, the one referred to as Carius, and the Argonian Ukaraz. Ukaraz turned towards the exit so he could make his way towards the exit to get to Whiterun and acquire this map to the Korvanjund ruins. As Ukaraz began to take his first step, he heard a voice. "Well, I may be mistaken, but I don't think we've been introduced. I suppose we'll know each other pretty well before we're back in Whiterun, though. I'm Rosenna Carius," said one of the four people assigned this job.

"Well, hello, my name is Ukaraz Pehrcalees, I'm sure we will get to know each other eventually, just a word of warning, stay out of my way on this and we won't have any trouble." said Ukaraz, feeling insulted by being assigned a team like this. When Ukaraz walked out, he sighed angrily. "Why did I have to get involved with this?" he started, gritting his teeth "I was so close to perfecting this new spell I've been working on, I guess I'll have time for that after this damnable conflict is over." he added, this time sighing sadly. Ukaraz began to walk toward the camp exit. As he exited the camp, Ukaraz looked around and breathed in the fresh air as he soon turned his attention towards Whiterun.

"So that's my mission, get the map to Korvanjund from the innkeeper at the Bannered Mare huh?" he said to himself "Then I have to kill draugr at this ruin?" he added with a small smile forming across his face. "Well, better get going if I want to make it there in time to stop the Stormcloaks." he finished, walking off towards the city of Whiterun. As he approached the gates, he saw the guards come up to him, asking about his business. "I'm here to pick up a package left for me at the inn." he said as the guards proceeded to open the gates for Ukaraz.

"So this is the famous Whiterun, it has changed a bit since the last time I was in Skyrim, but it looks recognizable at least." he mumbled to himself as he walked down the long road from the Wind District to the Plains District where the Bannered Mare was. As he walked in, he looked around for the innkeeper, when he saw her behind the counter he told her "I am Ukaraz, I work for the Legion and was told you had a map to Korvanjund for me." when Ukaraz was done speaking, the lady quickly grabbed a map from under the counter and gave it to him. "Thank you." said Ukaraz as he walked out, waiting for his teammates to get there so they could begin going to Korvanjund.

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 if but when Ulfric entered the city, and the crown will 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.”

The Breton girl looked up at the one eyed man he had introduced himself but, Yuriah was to distracted by his one eye she couldn't help but stare at it but after getting her wits about herself she managed to stammer out a "My name is Yuriah Cariic, I'm From The College of Winterhold." She told the nord the last word trailing off due to a lot of peoples mistrust of mages trained in The College. With that all said she looked to the other members of the group, She had never really worked with an Argonian before and didn't know much about them, her knowledge about them didn't extend much further than The Lusty Argonian Maid. Which even thinking about it made her turn bright red but eventually she reigned herself in and looked at the other member of the group the high elf.

She didn't trust him right off the bat she knew they were probably not going to get along, they always stuck their noses in her business at the college even going as far as to tell her what she could and could not practice at the college. But for the sake of the mission and The Rebellion she put her feelings to the side and looked at the groups fearless leader the one eyed Nord, she found herself saying what everyone was probably thinking. "Why Us?" She asked The Nord.

Kalien stood to attention as Galmar explained their mission, to obtain the Jagged Crown would be a -according to his knowledge of Nord lore- a huge boost to Ulfric's cause both as a political tool and to boost morale among the Stormcloack soldiers. He realized that they had been chosen more based on their racial diversity than in their individual abilities, not that the latter didn't play a part on it, but he thought that if Galmar hadn't to worry about raising suspicion he'd probably had chosen only Nord members of the rebellion instead of having an Argonian, a Breton, an Altmer and only one Nord.

He still felt a small sense of pride at the chance that Galmar was giving them, to prove themselves as true sons and daughters of Skyrim. Maybe, this was the chance he had been waiting for so long to prove the worth of his people? He thought as Galmar finished speaking, clenching his fists slightly in anxiety as Stone-fist gave a friendly slap on the back to the Nord called Brynjar. He hard heard from some other Argonians at the Assemblage that he was fair with them, but he was of the opinion that one should form an opinion on someone based on one's interaction with said person. He watched as Brynjar erased the colors that marked his armor as that of a Stormcloack and his apparent disregard for him and the others didn't help his first impression of him or at least that lasted until he turned to introduce himself.

He was about to speak when the Breton girl introduced herself as Yuriah Cariic and as a member of the College of Winterhold. He saw her blush when she turned to look at him and he groaned internally "Another person whose knowledge of the Argonians extends to the Lusty Argonian maid" He muttered in an almost inaudible level, cursing the one who had written that book on his mind. Not that he knew much about typical Argonian culture but it still frustrated him a bit, he then heard her ask about why they had been chosen and awaited for Brynjar to confirm what he had suspected from the beginning; but while waiting for that he checked on the Altmer on their group. His presence made him tense, having lost his father to the Dominion didn't help him to get a positive look on the so called "High" Elves, but he guessed that this mission would prove if he was to trust.

He returned his gaze to Brynjar once he had finished answering the question to the Breton mage "My name is Kalien, raised on the Imperial City until the age of twenty. Been living in Windhelm for the past ten years sir" He said as an introduction of himself, still standing firm just in case.

Gladron was sure he had never been so grateful to have a fire in front of him. Any closer and his clothes would have been set ablaze and at the moment he felt it would have been a happy accident. He would have been warm at least. The heavy cloak the Altmer had picked up had done little to stave off the icy wind but such was the life of a mercenary. Fight for who ever was paying most and so long as the Stormcloaks kept the septims rolling, he would continue to aid them in their struggle. It was as loyal as he would allow himself to be, especially after his years of isolation. As indicated, Gladron leaned in to hear about their latest assignment. Get to Korvanjund, get the crown and bring it back in one piece. It sounded easy enough if not for the fact Korvanjund was a nordic ruin and would no doubt hold legions of drauger. Gladron hated the creatures, they reminded him too much of himself in the past years.

It seemed too soon that Brynjar, the leader of their little band, kicked snow over the fire. Gladron felt almost ready to weep in disappointment as the cold set in. His hood was quickly pulled over his head and front of his cloak pulled tightly together as he stood. He felt the eyes of the others on him and knew they had a deep distrust because of his race. He sent a chilling glare toward the lot of them as he listened to their introductions.

"Gladron, raise on the Isles and loyal servant of the Thalmor." He said evenly, "But evidently, not anymore."

That would put them on edge, he thought with a sly smile. He did not care if they distrusted his intentions, it was his abilities they would need to learn to lean on.

As for the question of 'why them,' Gladron decided to take a stab at the answer as it was painfully obvious, "We were all they could scrape together apparently. But Ulfric will have his crown."

The young Breton mage was the first to introduce herself to the group, which seemed almost contradictory to her timid demeanor. The blacksmith wondered what caused her to be so apprehensive, but he finally realized the origin of her concern as she mentioned her origins. The College of Winterhold. In its prime, the college was a hub of activity, where all races would seek to sharpen their minds and learn a variety of magics. Even the Nords, a race so opposed to sorcery, supported the college, travelling from distant lands to have their gear enchanted by the master wizards there. But after the Great Collapse, the Nords shunned the college, believing the mages within were the ones responsible for the almost total destruction of the city below, leaving the college to rot. Whether the college was responsible for the Great Collapse or not, Brynjar did not know, but he was one of the few Nords who did not feel a deep-rooted hatred for all things magic. His wife, Faiela, had been a Nordic healer, trained in the arts of restoration and alteration, and he always admired her for pursuing such a noble profession. However, he understood that the Breton before him, Yuriah, was not familiar with him yet, assuming him to be another prejudicial Nord, and one who would take her into battle no less. He gave the girl a smile and a nod to ease her fears before the next member of their party spoke up.

The next speaker was the armored Argonian, who introduced himself as Kalien. Brynjar was still surprised to see an Argonian among their ranks, especially one from Windhelm, knowing all too well how poorly the race was treated by the Nords working in the docks. What intrigued Brynjar even more was the beautifully crafted ebony sword that hung from the Argonian’s belt. The blacksmith had worked with the material on several occasions, forging swords and armor for wealthy nobles who rarely used them, and hardened treasure hunters who relied on the gear with their lives. Brynjar never owned anything made from ebony himself though, as it was much too expensive, even with his pension from the legion. The black ingots were a true challenge to forge. It refused to alloy with other metals, and it had to be worked with heated or the ebony would shatter into pieces. Once the volcanic ash was melded into the desired shape, however, it was almost indestructible. Indeed, as he looked over his finished craft, Brynjar knew he had created something both beautiful and reliable. However, the blacksmith also knew that a strong blade or sturdy armor did not make a man; it was up to the wielder to get the most out of their weapon. Many times, he witnessed inexperienced nobles charge into battle with the finest equipment in all of Skyrim, only to be cut down by a seasoned warrior wielding a crude iron shortsword in leather armor. However, Brynjar was aware that Argonians were savage and admirable fighters, for he lacked an eye because of their keen abilities. He hoped that Kalien would be just as capable of a warrior as those he fought on the border of Morrowind. The Argonian stood at attention like soldiers he commanded during his time in the Empire, and wondered if he had served in the Emperor’s army like himself.

“Sir… Now there’s a title I haven’t heard in many years. In the Legion, you may have to grovel before officers, but here we are all equal, so there’s no need to call me sir, just Brynjar my friend,” the blacksmith replied . It made him a little uneasy as he recalled the years of service for the Empire, and all the men who fought and died under his command. “We’re all Brothers and Sisters of Skyrim here. Heh, you and me, we practically are brothers, being from Windhelm.” Brynjar chuckled, but mention of his home brought a flicker of pain and longing that flashed through his face, if only for a moment.

The elf in their party introduced himself last, the one which piqued Brynjar’’s interest the most. His name was Gladron, a native of the Summerset Isles, and a former subject of the Thalmor. Brynjar laughed deeply as the elf mentioned this relationship was no longer, pleased that someone in the group had a sense of humor, albeit a slightly dark one. He wondered what had driven the Altmer away from his comrades in the Thalmor. It was obvious the man was not a spy, for the Dominion almost exclusively left this task to other races due to the Nord’s inherent mistrust in elves. Perhaps Gladron’s allies betrayed him, and he now felt a burning desire for revenge. Brynjar knew how powerful revenge could be; in his youth, the blacksmith was practically drunk with it as he sought to avenge his sister, lost to him during the Great War. He also knew that seeking retribution in battle brought with it unnecessary risks, for anger clouded the mind, and the only thought present was who to cut down next. Brynjar bore many scars on his body attributed to his lust for bloody justice. Unfortunately, if Gladron did have a burning desire for revenge, it didn’t burn warm enough to stave off the freezing winds of Skyrim. He could tell from the Altmer’s quivering body that he was unaccustomed to the frigid region, and his winter attire didn't seem to help much. Brynjar sympathized with the man, knowing what it was like being in an alien land with a drastically different climate. When the Nord fought the Dominion in the burning deserts of Hammerfell, sweat poured down his face and into his eyes, rolling down his body and pooling in his boots. The steel armor itself burned like a boiling cauldron, and Brynjar felt as if he were being cooked alive before even reaching the battle. Many of the Nords who sought to continue fighting the Dominion in Hammerfell died from the intense heat as they journeyed into the country. Upon their arrival, the Redguards quickly re-equipped the Nords with light leather armor and flowing robes to protect them from the harsh sun, but even then it was hotter than a burning forge to Brynjar.

The Nord greeted his new Altmer companion before turning to Yuriah, the Breton, who raised an important question. Why were the four of them chosen to carry out this mission? Galmar had informed the blacksmith that the group was not random, but chosen with extreme caution. The Altmer quickly replied before he had a chance to answer, stating that the Stormcloak’s resources were running thin. Brynjar chuckled at Gladron’s statement, as it was quite contrary to reality. “Gladron, you have half of it right. We will retrieve the crown,” the Nord said. “But each of you were handpicked by Stone-Fist to make a group that could slip through Imperial lines unnoticed. Each of your skills cover for what others lack, so we can crush anything in our way,” Brynjar answered. “This crown,” he continued, "is more important than you might think, and Ulfric wants to make sure he gets it. I don’t expect any of you to know why, though, but I’ll tell you on our way. Right now, it's best we get moving and meet up with the final member of our little army down the road,” Brynjar finished, and motioned for the others to follow.
“We’ll travel off the roads so we don’t run into any Imperials,” Brynjar said as they walked away from their camp, "but we’ll keep close to them. Should a blizzard pick up, its best to walk with stone beneath our feet, rather than risk getting lost. If anyone stops us, we’re just a group of adventurers travelling to Winterhold seeking work."

Arnand had been planning on saying something witty once the legate had finished her tirade, but all he could do once the Argonian called Ukaraz had spoken his piece was to stare at him in disbelief, one eyebrow raised in confusion. Once the lizardman had left, he exchanged glances with the rest of the group. "Well", he said sarcastically, "Good thing we got a one man army with us. Easy money is good money, eh?" he winked and nudged the Bosmer with his elbow. "Seriously though, who the hell does he think he is?"

"Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself!" the Breton suddenly exclaimed, removing his helmet and bowing slightly. "The name's Arnand, pleased to meet you. My guess is I'll be taking the front with Carius, if I'm not mistaken. Or, well, I guess the lizard will be taking the front, seeing that he's already off and all, but you get what I mean."

The mission sounded simple enough, but the Argonian, Ukaraz, was a strong reminder of why Alareine preferred being the lone scout. Working in teams was effective when, well, the team stayed a team. Arnand's forwardness didn't help Alareine feel any better; Alareine shifted uncomfortably in response to the nudge. His comment about money bothered her slightly; she had little trust for mercenaries. However, she'd give Arnand the benefit of the doubt; after all, he hadn't run off like Ukaraz, and seemed to mean well. Rosenna appeared decent enough, but Alareine found it difficult to read the woman. Alareine fumbled around with her hands for a bit after everyone had introduced themselves, before realizing that it only made sense that she did, as well.

"Oh. I'm Alareine Arysden. I'm a ranger, of sorts..." Alareine drifted off weakly. She seemed to stumble over her own words, glancing about awkwardly. Alareine hesitated before speaking up again. "We should get moving. That Ukaraz seems like bad news and I don't like him. I'm sure he's already taken the map from the inn, so I would steal the map from him and go on without him. He will bring us down and hand the Crown to the Stormcloaks." Alareine nodded to herself slowly, and motioned towards Whiterun. She remembered briefly that the Legate had mentioned that they could barter for supplies in town; Alareine had no need for supplies, as she had her weapons and could hunt and cook food on her own, though she wasn't sure if Arnand or Rosenna would need supplies.

"Yes, let's," Rosenna replied to the comment about getting moving. She set out from the camp at a steady pace, walking down the cobbled stone road towards Whiterun. On her right, farmlands stretched out almost as far as the eye could see, growing cabbages, wheat, and other crops to feed the city. On her left, Whiterun's ancient yet still imposing walls loomed against the horizon.

"As for the Argonian, well.... he doesn't seem very disciplined, does he? Still, I would question your talk of 'stealing' the map, or leaving him behind..... surely Legate Rikke assigned him to this task for a good reason. I see no harm in taking his company for now. If he continues to run off alone once we reach Korvanjund, the draugr will take care of him for us, simple as that," she said as she walked. The walls of the city rapidly grew closer and it wasn't long before Rosenna stood before the city's massive gates. The two guards flanking them nodded as she approached; the great oaken doors stood open at the moment, so as to let travelers and merchants come and go easily while the markets were still open. Inside the gates, ranks of Whiterun guards could be seen performing drills, a daily practice with the threat of Stormcloak assault now imminent.

"Do either of you have business within the city, or shall we proceed straight to the Bannered Mare?" she asked.

Kalien nodded his head softly when Brynjar said that they were practically brothers, both having lived in Windhelm. SUch attitude from a Nord perplexed him and he wondered why he was that way, he noticed the brief flash of pain on the blacksmiths face and clapped him in the shoulder "Don't worry, soon we will be back home" He said firmly to reassure his companion, he didn't know why he did that but he could understand well how Brynjar felt, for he wished to be back among his compatriots in the Argonian Assemblage but more than that he wished that his mother and father were still alive.

"As for calling you sir, my apologies Brynjar, old habits die hard" He said with a small chuckle, easing his position slightly. He then fell silent as Brynjar answered the question of the Yuriah and turned to look a the Altmer, noticing the cold that seemed to bother the High Elf he went to his rucksack and extracted an extra set of winter clothes he had brought with himself "Here, so you don't freeze" He grunted, still feeling slightly tense around the former Thalmor. He had to admit that the fact that the fact that Gladron had been part of the group had done nothing to alleviate his concerns, but Brynjar seemed to trust the man and one of the lessons that his father had given him was to not second-guess your commanding officer plus deep down he realized that if this mission was to succeed they had to trust in each other.

He listened in attention as Brynjar explained the plan and nodded internally, it was a sound one. Avoid imperial patrols by walking outside the main roads of commerce and if forced onto them to use the fact that they were a group of mercenaries who where going to Winterhold seeking for work, maybe the patrol would think that they wanted that same work to have their weapons enchanted in the College. When the group started moving he couldn't help but laugh a bit "Quite a sight we must be, an Argonian in heavy armor, traveling along a Breton mage, a Nord warrior and an Altmer rouge" He said, chuckling slightly, feeling the situation slightly humorous despite the gravity of their mission "Who is this last member we are picking up?" He asked to Brynjar after a while, slightly curious as to whom they were going to be picking.

It was apparent to Gladron that despite their differences, the small band was trying their best to build trust between them. It was a good start to an assignment and a good start often foretold success. If there was one thing that united them it was their mutual hate of the Thalmor but it was what also set him apart. He did not have a deep seeded hate for his kin. Though he would have no trouble killing his fellow Altmer, he did not enjoy the deed as much as putting someone else out of their misery. It was gold that kept him tied to the group and Ulfric had offered him more than he could refuse and so there he was.

The Argonian that had introduced himself as Kalien offered a set of winter clothing to Gladron. It was more than the Altmer expected from him and he grinned in turn. "I appreciate the offer but I will warm up once we get moving." He declined the offer politely, "But thank you." Gladron listened to their leader's plan to stay just off the roads to avoid Imperial patrols. It would have made sense if they looked anything like Stormcloaks but the point of having such a diverse team was so they could pass by without suspicion. Though perhaps their team was too diverse and Gladron suspected Brynjar had thought of that. He nodded in understanding and pulled the straps of his sack over his shoulder. Apart from the diverse spells, knowing conjuration also left him without any weapons to be concerned about. No need to sharpen or clean steel or lug them around. It left him altogether more free to carry other essentials.

Gladron chuckled at Kalien's explanation of the group. A Nord warrior and Breton mage were not uncommon but an Argonian clad in heavy, cumbersome armor, and a Altmer turned rogue were certainly out of the ordinary. With a last shiver running through his body, Gladron turned and headed toward the road to find an easy enough path for the rest of them to follow. It would be his job to scout out ahead, being the only one halfway decent in stealth.

With a huff, the Breton struggled mightily to pull himself upright, body filled with the aches, pains, and nausea of a hard night spent drinking and wallowing in the pits of his own misery. He had been immaculate once; a man in the prime of his life, wrapped in all the trappings his once noble status had afforded him. Those had been the good times, times filled with days spent loitering around the local arena or discussing the next shipment of spices and wine. Those days were no more, long gone to the shell of a man who was no longer fully himself. His family's ambitions had gotten the better of them and, when discovered he'd been forced to flee to this hellish land, this waste that was just as well filled with sand than snow, it made no difference. The food was hard, the ale and wine stale, the nights barely tolerable, and the winters even more so. But even as the fallen noble remained trapped within his reverie a pair of strong hands found the undersides of his armpits, lifting him away from the solace of his bar-stool. "Another useless man-mer 'eh? And with too much drink in him to stand." Urik made no resistance, resigning himself to the bulky weight of the Nord who was soon enough in the process of removing him forcibly from the establishment in which he'd previously resided. "No coin for the drink man-mer, no Nordic hospitality." The words were neither rough nor hate-filled, simply fact, an explanation of his ejection in the most palatable terms.

Left to the cold of Windhelm's dirty streets the Breton collected himself, tattered robes of blue and grey and white blending nicely against the bleak backdrop of the city's drab stone construction. It was in these moments, when his barely pointed ears grew blue, then white with frostbite that Urik remembered his purpose, remembered why he'd chosen Skyrim and not Hammerfell as the place of his exile. In an instant the depression was gone, filled with the familiar burning heat of rage which warmed his heart and erased the sense of chill which had previously overcome him. He was wasting time here, he knew already the purpose of his mission and how he was to achieve it, knew how and where to channel this anger, how to manifest it's effects. The people of the town had already noticed it, already invited him to their cause, to the side of the rebellion. Stormcloaks. . . Urik cared nothing for their cause, nothing for the security or future of Skyrim, that frosty hellhole at the end of the world. No, what he cared about was himself, his ambitions and his revenge. If Skyrim's liberation would see the blood of a ten thousand imperials spent upon the snow then the Breton was all the more glad for it, all the more willing to pledge his life too it.

It took a couple of minutes travel but the group was finally coming into sight, a collection of misfits like himself, each more curious than the last. The Nord his recognized, Brynjar, the man who'd picked him up from the street not a fort-night or so ago and invited him to the cause. That evening, which already felt so long ago, he'd spoken convincingly enough. The man was firm in his ideals, persuasive, but his fortitude was what had won the Breton caster over. Urik closed the distance between them and himself, entering the circle of the group just as they were beginning to gather their things for departure. "You'll forgive the lateness I hope my friends, the name is Urik." His words were simple and smooth, somewhat at odds with his appearance. Indeed, even the content of the sentence was anomalous; he called them friends even though they'd never met. It was tradecraft at work, politics, the work of the tongue and mind to craft others emotions into a usable vessel. He needed them to like him or at least tolerate his presence long enough to gain the favor of those who could further his agenda.