Morning rose once again on Ivarstead, the sunlight bouncing off the rooves of the homes, and across the snowy fields. The fields were mostly barren, a few growing sparse patches of carrots and potatoes. A few kilometers over, a field of corn ran as far as they eye could see. Enormous stalks, big enough to dwarf a horse, stood lining the fields in the carefully plowed soil. These were the fields belonging to Gruickshak the orc. He was a simple, gentle (unless provoked) orc who had seen his fair share of adventure and violence, and had decided to spend the rest of his days peacefully growing corn. And he had gotten very, very good at it. He plowed the fields himself, sometimes plowing for days on end, making sure that the soil was just right to grow the corn in this unforgiving province. Gruickshak was, by any standards, orc or nord, dunmer or altmer, a hero. He had delved through dungeons, fought giant spiders, sabre cats, Draugr and even a Dragon. He had dealt with a Daedric prince, made friends with a half demon, half dog and saved a city from invading Imperials. And through all his adventures, he had his axe, Brekyeir, by his side. It was a light blue axe made from dragon bones, bones that were prone to glowing different colours whenever something exciting was happening. He had found Brekyeir in a tavern in Solitude with his brother Gretkar, and the axe had been nothing but trouble since. But Gruickshak assumed that no matter where he went, trouble would find him anyways, so he kept the axe with him. But now, in Ivarstead, retired from his exciting and stressful life of raiding tombs and slaying monsters, Gruickshak was finally happy. Here, people treated him like any other citizen, although it wasn't easy at first. Many people did not trust him, but slowly warmed up to him after they realized that his corn had become the main export of their little village. Gruickshaks corn had made him very rich, but he didn't care for money. He had a modest little house near his farm, and much of his money was spent at taverns or tossed to children playing in the streets. Although nobody knew of his actions in Riften, Gruickshak had become the "Hero of Ivarstead", a name the people had affectionately given him when he stopped a rampaging giant with a single blow. But like always, Gruickshaks life would never be truly peaceful as long as that evil, ancient artifact sat above his glowing fireplace.
Windhelm was alive with celebration. The Stormcloak rebels had driven out the head Imperials once, two years ago, but the Imperial prescence remained in Skyrim. Ambitious Imperial commanders such as Captain Dericus attacked cities such as Riften and Whiterun, but the Nords banded together for one final push, and finally, after years upon years of civil war, the bloody Imperials had been driven out of Skyrim. The Nords smashed their flagons together in celebration, drinking and feasting until night became dawn. But, for some reason, the ones who had the most reason to celebrate were solemnly strategizing in Windhelms keep. Jarl and King Ulfric Stormcloak stood with his most trusted advisor Galmar Stonefist stood over a map of Skyrim stretched out across a table. Blue tokens were used to mark Stormcloak forces, and the red tokens were used to mark Imperial forces. But there were no red tokens this time, but black ones. These signified orcs.
"A horde attacked Dawnstar this morning." Galmar said while moving a black token to the Dawnstar marker. "They were held off but not defeated. They are camped out nearby, doing gods know what."
Ulfric rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He removed his crown, as it was weighing down his head and his neck was sore. He hated that thing, that empty symbol of leadership. He loved the position, but he hated the crown.
"And there's still a force outside Morthal?" Ulfric asked, troubled.
"Yes." Galmar responded. "And somehow they know where supply routes and reinforcements are coming. Morthal and Dawnstar haven't had fresh food or new troops in weeks."
"They've been intercepting supplies?" Ulfric asked for clarification, as he was now deeply troubled.
"Yes." Galmar repeated. "They have spies. They figure if they starve out the smaller cities we won't notice. We captured one of these spies ourselves, but not before watching him massacre nine soldiers first."
"This spy..." Ulfric asked "Is he in Windhelm?"
Galmar nodded and began walking out of the room. Ulfric followed him and the made their way through a series of hallways and down the staircase before reaching the dungeons. They reeked of filth and decay. Petty criminals were kept in the other holds, but Winterhelm was home to the worst of the worst, the mass murderers and war criminals. Many Imperial commanders spent their final days rotting in these cells. They reached a cell that was just barely lit enough to see the silhouette of an enormous beast kneeling in the center or the cell, facing the wall.
"This orc..." Ulfric whispered to Galmar. "Did he say his name?"
"Rojjek..." the orc interrupted, in a guttural, spine tingling voice. "Rojjek Warmonger."