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. [i]Stormcloaks. . .[/i] 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.