"Ulfric, this is Galmar Stone-Fist. He was won the right to serve as your housecarl," The Bear of Eastmarch smiled pleasantly as he rested a hand on his son's shoulder. In the three months that his son had been in Windhelm, his father could only be grateful. It was an honor for his son to have been called to High Hrothgar, although when he saw his child at the gates, his old heart had nearly skipped a beat.

"Won the right?" Ulfric asked with a raised brow. The man standing before him was small, and donned light armor. Ulfric could safely say that he was at least a head taller than the man who was supposed to be protecting him, "And just how did he manage that? Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he doesn't exactly… Look like a warrior."

A grin spread on the small Nord's face, "Lord, I'm no warrior, I am a barbarian."

"A barbarian?" Ulfric repeated at he studied the man's body. He was small, there was no denying that. But what he lacked in height he seemed to make up for in muscle. His armor, kilted as it was, left parts of his legs exposed, and Ulfric could see the powerful muscles that rested in them, which seemed to match those in his arms.

"So, barbarian, what's your weapon?"

"Axe, two handed." The grin remained on the to-be housecarl's face, "Ask any of the arena fighters, I'm the best fighter you could ask for."

"Galmar proved to be the strongest in a proving held in your honor," Ulfric's father explained, "It was held before you arrived, so he could be a surprise. He's spent the past few months learning how to act in his position." The jarl's smile faded slightly, "I figured he would be a good fit for you. He's a bit… Louder than you are, my boy. Perhaps you two can balance each other out."

Ulfric looked back to the barbarian, and noticed the feral grin that had remained on his face. He took him in: His armor was simple leather and chainmail. While it had pauldrons, it was sleeveless, showing off the arms of its wearer. On both his boots and gauntlets, it looked as if they had bear claws on the tips. The prince couldn't help but wonder how practical it was, and how often the barbarian would cut himself while scratching his nose. Strapped to the man's back was the enormous weapon the agile man seemed to prefer, obviously shined recently in an attempt to impress the prince.

"Light armor and a two handed weapon isn't the traditional choice," Ulfric commented, "Would you be able to give me a little demonstration of your fighting style? I find myself curious."

"Of course he can," the jarl smiled, eager to flaunt the barbarian's skills. He looked to one of the guards, "Guardsman, please, help Galmar with this demonstration, will you?"

Though she complied, the guardswoman tensed. She stepped forward, eyeing the arena fighter warily, "What would you like me to do, my jarl?" she asked hesitantly.

"Spar with him, of course," he answered, "And don't hold back, Galmar can take anything you throw at him, I'm sure of it."

Ulfric watched as Galmar turned to the woman, and retrieved his axe from behind him, "Come on, woman, I'll even give you the first strike," he said almost mockingly.

Under expectant eyes, the guardswoman unsheathed her own weapon, and charged at the Nord, letting out a cry as her blade swung through the air, right toward the man's chest.

Instead of meeting leather or the handle of Galmar's weapon, however, her momentum never stopped, her weapon tearing through the air, causing her to take a few steps forward. The barbarian, rather than blocking the attack, had sidestepped out of the way, and maneuvered to her rear.

He treaded lightly, the prince observed. He moved much like a rogue would, with quick, silent steps rather than powerful stomps. He watched the man as his quickness earned him the ideal striking position behind the guardswoman. His rogue-like steps shifted as his weapon raised. His feet dug into the stone floors, becoming heavy and indomable.

His weapon came swinging down, though instead of the sharpened edge heading toward her, it was the side of the blade. It quickly came in contact with the woman's rump, sending her forward a good few feet across the palace floor. There was no real injury on her, as Galmar had used the fat-end of his axe, though Ulfric had no doubt that she would have a bruise to compliment her wounded pride.

Galmar turned back to the jarl and his son, beaming at them as he bowed, as if he were an actor that had finished a scene.

Looking at his proud, smiling face, Ulfric could see a scabbed wound crinkling on the little man's face. A cut just at the tip of the Nord's mouth that reached down to his jaw, half covered by loose brown hair.

"So, Galmar, you won my hand?" Ulfric asked, unsure if he was using the correct terminology. Having spent most of his life away from society, in a place where speaking was all but forbidden, he had only read of social interactions. He knew he had either asked the barbarian if he won a position, or an engagement. He smiled bashfully as the Nord let out an uncomfortable laugh, and knew it had been the latter.

"I, uh, I don't know about that," Galmar smiled, "But I'll be fighting with you, training with you until we're sent off to Cyrodiil. Getting into trouble with you, the works." He then crossed his arms, and nodded to the door, "Which reminds me, my first task is to escort you to the smith. You're getting your first axe today, M'lord."

The simple sentence made Ulfric's heart race, and a bright grin spread onto his face. Any reservations toward the barbarian were quickly dispersed as he nearly leapt to his side. He was quick to storm past him, however, "Then what are we still doing here?" he asked, eagerness obvious in his voice. Every true Nord had an axe at their hip, and soon, the prince would be no exception.

Galmar let out a husky snicker as he followed his new lord, "Won't lie, I was getting antsy, anyway."

The aging jarl couldn't help but smile at the bluntness of his son's guardian. It seemed that even after he had gone through the obedience training, the taskmasters couldn't beat the spirit out of him. His hand reached to the Talos amulet around his neck, and his fingers gently rubbed against the metal, "Thank the Nine for small mercies…" he whispered as he walked back to his throne.

Ulfric was awakened by his housecarl, and groaned quietly as he sat up. He had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to sleep covered in steel plate. His eyes glanced up to the night skies, and noticed that it had begun to rain again.

He stood, and a dark furred cape fell from his form. He glanced at the cloak, and a smile found its way onto his lips. He looked back at Galmar as he picked it up off the ground, "Did you put this on me while I slept?"

The older Nord took it from his lord, and placed it back around his shoulders, "Couldn't let you get sick . Now, come on, the elf is going to start climbing soon."

Ulfric nodded and followed his housecarl. The ride to their position had been uneventful, to say the least. The wet ground caused their horses to move slowly for fear of slipping. They had arrived later than planned, and as a result had less time to prepare themselves for the coming battle. Ulfric had taken the time to sleep, as anxiety had kept him awake the night before. The delay made little difference, as the rain prevented most of the men from actually preparing. It was too wet to groom the horses, the rain would make any warpaint run, and they couldn't even oil their weapons without difficulty. A few of the men were sitting around, chewing on salted meats or sipping at their canteens. With no preparations to do, most of them found themselves anxious with the waiting period, and were doing anything to keep themselves amused.

Sitting atop a ledge of rock, Ulfric could see a shivering Bosmer staring at the fort. Since the trees were few and far between in the Pale, their camp had been made around a large pile of stones. Unlike the rest of the men, the elf didn't wear the traditional Stormcloak uniform. He wore simple black leather armor, fitting for a scout or sniper. However, around the man's chest was a dark blue sash, identifying him as a rebel.

The elf must have noticed them, as he quickly began making his way down to the pair. Ulfric had remembered speaking to the wiry man days prior. It wasn't often that they would see a foreigner in their ranks, after all, especially one of elven blood.

"Athraden, was it?" Ulfric asked, to which the little man nodded, "It's good to see you can still climb in this weather." he noted, and nodded to the fort, "You will be able to climb the tower, yes?"

"Without a problem," the Bosmer said with a wave of his hand. Ulfric had noticed that the little man had a habit of speaking with his hands. It was almost amusing to watch him speak, with all the movement that went into it, "It is too warm for the rain to freeze over, and I used to climb in storms as a pastime. Scaling the tower will be a simple task for this one."

"And you'll be able to shoot men down?" the jarl asked, a concerned frown on his face. The clouded night mixed with the rain did not do any favors for visibility.

The Bosmer grinned, showing off a feral set of sharp, carnivorous teeth, "You have clearly never seen a child of Valenwood hunt. Have faith in your little elf, yes? He will not disappoint; he will do as ordered, all you need worry about is yourselves."

" Khi'ra an shurh ," Ulfric could only assume that the little man had wished them well in the strange, cat-like language of his. With that, the elf nodded respectfully to the two before pulling his hood up, and beginning to run toward the tower. Despite his speed, Ulfric found it difficult to keep his eye on the elf. He moved with an eerie silence through the tall spring grasses, cloaked in shadow.

"I don't like him," Galmar muttered as he watched him go, motioning for their men to ready themselves, "He's got enough bravado as the rest of the witch elves and talks like one of those rugs ." Galmar spat on the ground, to some it would look like he was simply clearing the rainwater from his lips. Others knew better.

"You don't have to like him. If he's as skilled as he leads on, he's useful to us," Ulfric responded as their men prepared to charge.

Two of the men were mounted atop war horses. The stallions snorted and dragged their hooves against the mud, as if counting. Their riders took hold of the steeds' manes to keep from pulling on their reigns anxiously. The rest of the soldiers were no better when it came to nerves, many of them fiddling with their armor or weapons, looking for something, anything to calm themselves.

Their mage seemed to be the only calm one, and even then, Ulfric was almost certain that it was a facade. She was glancing at a tome, likely trying to perfect a spell, and kept a straight face. Even though her seemingly collected stance, subtle movements alerted the jarl of her nerves: How quickly she would turn the page, how she was biting the inside of her cheeks, the constant shifting of her weight… Ulfric doubted that any solider was completely at ease before battle.

It was the waiting. The goddamned waiting that tortured every soldier, and Ulfric remembered it well. Seconds would drag on as dread-filled hours. Hours filled with vain attempts to remain still and silent, while knowing that in a matter of minutes, Gods know how many of their comrades could be in Sovngarde.

Ulfric could feel himself tensing in his armor. His heart seeming to have lept into the back of his throat. He couldn't speak, even if he wanted to. He had forgotten much of war during his years in the palace. The discomfort of armor, the feeling of sleeping on rocky, muddy ground, the death grip every soldier had to their weapon before the fight. It was horrifically thrilling.

He spared his housecarl a glance, though was hardly surprised when the pair of icy eyes stared back at him. A shaky grin found itself on the bearded man's face, "Ready?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Ulfric assumed that he had nodded, because before he knew it, battle cries had erupted from the raiding party. He ran, as always, next to Galmar. His face was sore, and he realized that he had been grinning with anticipation. Horses galloped past them, splashing mud onto their armor while their riders let out adrenaline fueled howls. The nimbler of their soldiers danced to the front of their jarl, avoiding obstacles with ease as they swiftly entered the fort after the riders.

The rain keeping the heavily armored warriors at a steady trot, Ulfric cursed under his breath when the ringing of bells and blowing of horns met his ears. The fort was aware of their presence before the bulk of their men could storm the gates, and were calling for reinforcements from within the fortress.

Bouncing nimbly from foot to foot, Galmar raced to the front of his lord, a grin spread across his face. The jarl could only watch as the older man sped into the fortress, axe in hand. Fresh-faced Imperial soldiers were ready to greet the rebels, shouting their own battle cries as they charged toward the troops.

Ulfric had seen Galmar flaunt his combat prowess on countless occasions, and nearly every time he couldn't help but admire the aging barbarian. Light on his feet, Galmar could evade most of the crude Imperial blows. In the same instance, he would then dig his feet into the ground and overpower them, delivering the fatal blow with ease. Swift, vigorous and powerful was the barbarian's style, with intense passion lying behind every swing of his axe.

A soldier came from behind the barbarian in an attempt to flank him and strike at his unguarded rear. Icy eyes met the attacker's for only a moment before Galmar sprung from the man's range, diving to the side, and rolling to the backside of his would-be opponent. Agility was quickly replaced with strength as the housecarl once again took his axe in both hands, and hauled the weapon's blade at the soldier with more power than one would expect from the grizzled Nord.

A third assaulter not far behind, Galmar attacked not with the head of his axe, but with the hilt, using it to crack down on the man's skull. When the soldier stumbled forward, the Nord was quick to thrust his knee into his jaw, effectively turning the man around. Instead of delivering the killing blow, the housecarl's eyes darted to the direction of the tower. They narrowed at the elven archer as he used the hilt of his axe to hook around the Imperial's neck, pulling him close to his own body. The Nord then spun them both, facing the tower, and grunted upon feeling the impact of a black shafted arrow.

Glancing down at the pierced chest of the unfortunate corpse, Galmar let it fall to the ground, and turned to face his jarl, "Finally! I swear, all that steel makes you slower than a horker!" The old bear then looked toward the center of the fortress.

The fort was divided into two sections, one walled by stone and the other by wood, the only entrances were in the wooden side while the only doors in and out of the interior fortress were in the stone side. He could see that their cavalry had broken through to the stone-walled section, though more enemy troops were piling out of the small building on their own wood-walled area. They looked to be nothing more than common Auxiliary soldiers along with a few higher ranked men in the mix. More of a nuisance than an actual threat.

Where Galmar's armor was dripping with the blood of the fallen, Ulfric's protective steel was untouched . A smile appeared on the jarl's lips, and he nodded to the stone section, "Galmar," He called over the clashing of steel and pouring rain, "Why don't you go join the men on the other side, let me finish up here?" He suggested before a huff of laughter escaped him, "I could use a warm up."

Silver brows rose as the housecarl's expression grew skeptical, "You sure you want me to leave you alone, Ulfric?" He asked, "We could probably clear these legionnaires out faster together."

"They're just auxiliary soldiers," The jarl shook his head, his drenched hair slapping against his face, "The bulk of their troops are in the other section, now go." As the barbarian moved away, Ulfric called out to him once more, "And Galmar," a grin spread on the Bear of Markarth's lips, " Try not to get pegged with any arrows. Last thing I need is that elf missing and shooting you next time."

A bark of laughter erupted from the older Nord, "Just Shout if you need me," Galmar smiled, as if exchanging a private joke with the man. He then turned, and began running through the splashing mud, leaving his jarl with a handful of men to deal with the remaining pests.

Ulfric charged in to do battle with the lesser soldiers, who seemed to eye him with the same mundane glares as they did the other rebels. It was easy to forget how few people outside of Skyrim knew the future High King's face. Steel coated feet dug into the mud as the former Greybeard made the first strike. Steel met leather, and slashed through the scout's uniform with ease, sending the man's lifeblood splattering over them both. He chuckled as he sprung back, ready for another attack.

A black shafted arrow flew past him as he nearly jumped into its path. It hissed against his ear as it traveled, clearly finding its mark by the pained grunt that followed. Ulfric turned and his eyes went wide. Connected to the arrow-pierced neck was another Imperial, likely trying to attack him from behind. 'Sloppy,' he could almost hear Galmar growl at him. The jarl was rustier than he thought. He turned to the remaining Imperials, and managed to grin; they didn't need to know he was out of his element.

"Should I close my eyes?" he asked, vicious mockery dripping off of every word, "Would that even things out a little?"

There were only three Imperials left: What looked to be a hooded scout, and two heavily armored warriors, "One of you take the little one," Ulfric ordered as he began stepping toward the larger of the warriors, "The rest of you follow me."

The jarl charged; as his blade kissed the fellow warrior's, their steel sang piercing war songs that had once been only a memory. From the corner of his eye, Ulfric could see one of the soldiers rushing at the scout, who was making some strange movements with his arms. All the while, the other two Stormcloaks flanked the second Legionnaire. He turned back to his opponent, and stared into his eyes for a moment. Despite the rank and came with his armor, the former Greybeard could see youth in the soldier's features: he was just barely a man, fresh from a war-filled childhood.

The laughter of his men, and clanking of armor could only mean that the flanking pair had killed their target. It wasn't surprising. The Bear of Markarth beamed at his own opponent, "You'd think the Emperor's dogs would be better trained, eh?"

Ulfric's smile quickly fell. Despite his mockery, he didn't seem to have the Imperial's attention, instead, the man was staring at the hooded scout, who was still standing for some reason or another. Taking advantage of the other man's divided attention, Ulfric shoved his boot into the man's torso, knocking him to the ground, "It's polite to look at someone when they speak to you."

Rather than respond, the heavily armored Legionnaire did something the Nord honestly didn't expect: he stood up, and began running away. Something was wrong. The Empire surely wasn't what it used to be, but weak as it might have become, it would never allow for cowardly men to take on high ranks.

The hairs on Ulfric's neck were standing straight up, and he could feel goosebumps rising under his armor. He frowned. He knew this sensation, but not from battle. He could feel his skin crawl and prickle, almost with anticipation for something that was yet to come, waiting for it to strike. Time stopped, if only for a moment. An unnatural silence overcame the battlefield, and the jarl turned to the Imperial scout. The little man's arms were still waving, though something was happening. The tips of the man's fingers began to spark to life, crackling and flickering like a lightning storm.

Ulfric's eyes went wide upon realizing what was about to happen.

The Nord dove to the ground before a deafening blast and blinding light numbed his senses. He pinned himself to the ground, helpless in a temporarily dark and silent world. He must have screamed, because his mouth soon tasted like rotten eggs and sand. He coughed, trying to rid his mouth from such a foul taste, but when he inhaled, more dust flew down his windpipe. No. It wasn't dust .

His sight returned in a matter of seconds, though it may as well had been years. The rain-soaked grass was covered in pale ashes, and Ulfric could make out what had once been an axe lying in the acrid-smelling field. The men, who had been laughing and cheering only seconds prior, were nowhere to be found, though looking back down at the powdered ground, Ulfric had a fairly clear idea as to what had happened to them. Lightning spells were known to incinerate its victims, after all.

Shakily, Ulfric rose to his feet once again. Dazed and alone, he began running toward the other side of the fortress. He needed to get away from the mage; even he was not so bold as to face such a master alone.

The world was spinning, and the battle cries sounded distant, as if he were not on the battlefield, but watching it from the bottom of a lake. One thing called his attention back to the physical world: The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise again.

Waves of panic were quick to strike through Ulfric's body, which seemed to have developed a mind of its own. He was sprinting, and yet he didn't even notice. The spinning world was flying from under his feet, disorienting him further. One thing remained clear to him, however. He needed to get to Galmar.

The ground gave way beneath him, and Ulfric fell once more. Instead of rough, dry powder, he fell on bloody mud. His face rose to what he could only hope was toward the rest of the battle. Faces weaved in and out of focus, becoming indistinguishable from one another. Waves of panic crashed against him once more. Where was he? He needed to be there, somewhere!

Taking several deep breaths, Ulfric could feel adrenaline-fueled energy build up inside of him. His chest swelled, and he raised his head as rain water soaked his face, "GALMAR!" His Voice boomed, sending tremors through the fortress. Distant screams met the jarl's ears, all of their voices he couldn't recognize.

His eyes snapped open once more in a vain attempt to locate his housecarl. The panic in his heart turned to grief. His skin began to tingle and twitch as the hairs under his armor stood up straight.

Storm magic engulfed Ulfric, spreading rapidly through his drenched suit of armor. His last thought before fading into a restful nothingness was that he was dead, and he was completely and utterly alone.