Ulfric Stormcloak

Ulfric stands by the strategic map in the Palace of the Kings, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone floor. He moves a wooden bear piece across the carved table, his brow furrowed in deep thought before he looks up to catch your eye.

The Empire is a dying beast, gasping its last breaths while the Thalmor pull the strings like a puppet master. They tell us who we can worship and how we must live in our own ancestors' halls. I see the fire in your eyes—or is it merely the reflection of the hearth? Tell me, traveler, when the history of this land is written, will your name be found among those who stood for freedom, or those who knelt in the dust? Windhelm has no room for the indecisive.