Sundas, 17th of Last Seed. 4E201 9:30 AM

Ulfric Stormcloak

I am Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm. Student of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Leader of the Revolution of the Sons of Skyrim.

And this is the day of my death.

Today, I leave the mortal plane behind, to join my brothers and sisters in Sovngarde. I can only hope the gods forgive the transgressions I have committed in pursuit of justice. But then the timing of the Imperial ambush that leads us now to our deaths was so perfect... Perhaps the gods have abandoned us. Although I find treachery a far more likely explanation.

Our carriage jumps around as we pass over a pothole, pulling me away from my thoughts. I look around, curiosity getting the better of me. From the multitude of pine trees around me, I know we're somewhere in the Hold of Falkreath. Nature flourishes in the south of Skyrim, but I confess it holds less grandeur for myself compared to some of my brethren. My childhood was filled with grand stone walls, surrounded by frozen tundras and volcanic fields. The Throat of the World towers above us, throwing dark shadows for miles, making the morning seem darker than it should. An ominous sign. No doubt the Greybeards still harbor resentment toward me for abandoning my studies at its peak. But no amount of meditation would cool the fire in my veins, could never satisfy my need to protect my homeland, when the call to battle came so long ago. I often wonder how the world would be had I remained a disciple of the Voice.

Another jolt. Poorly maintained roads. A groan draws my attention in close to my fellow cart mates - and prisoners. Across from me, a man in rags. A thief by the look of him, and a coward. He's done naught but complain the last hour. Next to him sits a man in my own colors. Ralof, if I remember correctly. Yes... A passionate young man, though somewhat unremarkable. I want to speak, reassure him. But the cloth in my mouth prevents me from doing anything but breathe, and even that takes effort. Beside me is another man in rags. Unlike the thief, though, he has an aura of culture about him. Beneath the recent bruising and dirt, his face is angular, his hair groomed; even after being tossed unconscious into the cart with us. In the wrong place at the wrong time, and now the Empire will surely punish him for it. Bastards.

The three have been bickering while I mused. I hadn't noticed until Ralof mentioned my name, startling the others. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion!" I'm not sure to be flattered or insulted that the thief didn't recognize my face. Panic enters the man's voice as he realizes the severity of his situation; I doubt he will make it anywhere near the headsman's block. "But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ralof's words echo my thoughts. "I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."

I lose interest as the soldier begins comforting the distraught thief. The other prisoner - a Breton by the name of Talao, I learn as Ralof asks - is handling the situation far better than I would have assumed, though he keeps glancing at me questioningly. I ignore him in favor of watching the road ahead. All too soon, I see our destination. Helgen. Of course; there's an Imperial bastion here. I can here the sounds of a bustling town slowly dying as our procession enters. Imperial archers line the walls, obviously dying to loose their arrows into any foolish enough to take off.

"Look at him," I hear Ralof spit, "General Tullius, the military governor." The military fop; he interests me not. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves." Though his words are heated, they turn the blood in my veins to ice. I turn, and sure enough, next to Tullius sits an Altmer in pitch black clothes. Elenwen, of all people.

Shor save us. What is that Thalmor bitch doing here?... Her presence can't possibly be coincidence. Have the Thalmor finally decided to clean up loose ends? Is she here to ensure my death, or are her machinations more devious? Through it all, I refuse to back down from her damned condescending sneer. I return her smug stare with venom. You don't own me, elf. You never have.

Finally, the carts come to a stop. The horse thief is hyperventilating now, and rambling in terror. I honestly want to punt the coward out of the cart, but it's beneath my dignity. My men look to me for composure. I must be above such pettiness. I notice the other prisoner tumble out of the cart with a cry of pain after me. I notice, as Ralof helps him up, that his leg seems oddly twisted, as if deformed. An old wound, then. Still, there is no time to reflect as the Imperials have already begun to open their lists. The names of every known dissident of the Empire are written on those lists. Surprisingly, I find the Imperial standing in front of me, condemning my soldiers, is a fellow Nord. Another traitor to his people. It disgusts me that one could renounce their ideals so freely, for mere politics.

"Ulfric Stormcloak!"

First to go, then. I shrug off the Imperial hand upon my shoulder, as he leads me away from my compatriots. Ralof calls to me, but I can barely hear him over the blood rushing through my ears as I survey the scene. The headsman stands before us, his axe well-sharpened and gleaming, the chopping block lying at the ready. I should have known better; as if the Empire would bother with a trial. Seems they've given up even the pretense of justice now. All the better. If nothing else, more and more people will soon realize the justness of our cause and fly to our banner as the Empire slowly destroys everything it stands for. Even if the leader of that banner is not myself.

A scuffle reaches my ears behind me, and glance to see the horse thief burst through the line of Imperials. His flight is short-lived, though, and he nearly instantly drops to the ground in a flurry of limbs, numerous arrows buried in his back. I knew he'd never make it to the block. A coward to the end. To Oblivion with him; I've my own date to keep.

By the time all the names had been read, a sizable crowd had formed around the yard, clearly anticipating a spectacle. Nary a friendly face to be found. Tullius walks into the yard, and faces me directly. The esteemed general had obviously been dying to make a speech. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

A pitiful start. And false on several counts. A retort passes my tongue, but no further, as the gag restrains me. The coward refuses me any last words as he rambles on, addressing the crowd as much as myself, clearly wanting to make some kind of example of the situation. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!" The crowd murmurs in assent, my Stormcloaks in disgust. Personally, I find the man's little speech dull beyond compare. He has no sense of eloquence, his words sounding rehearsed and flat. Even at half his age - perhaps even a third, given his graying hair - I could captivate a crowd with a few sentences, drive them into the heights of passion. I understand the souls of my fellow men, and how to inspire them.

Suddenly, a shriek pierces the mid-morning air. Everyone stirs uneasily, and I admit somewhere in the back of my mind, a twinge of primal fear appears. But it is gone as quickly as it came, and I dismiss the noise; the howl of the wind carving through the mountain pass, perhaps. The crowd swiftly settled as well; a Priestess of Arkay stepped forward to deliver our last rites. More Imperial custom than Nord, but decent of them. Or at least, it would be if their priests did not bow the whims of the Elves.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon..."

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."

The Priestess sounds surprised and affronted as Baldor - whose heart burns with a passion so great, I sometimes think it burned out his mind - interrupts her and steps fearlessly toward the headsman. I don't know why she reacted as such; one should expect vitriol when you slight a man's god, even a "heretic's." My heart fills with pride as Baldor taunts the Imperials even as they force him down upon the block. Such bravery. Bravery all my Stormcloaks possess. To die for their beliefs, fighting an unjust Empire, whether by sword or axe.

I don't look away or flinch as the axe finishes its deadly arc. I have seen far worse in my life than a body and head separated from each other. The crowd cries out as the body is unceremoniously shoved aside.

"Justice!"

"You Imperial bastards!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

I lock eyes with Tullius as the captain calls out, "Next, the Breton!" Of course. He wants me to go last. To watch as my men lay down their lives, knowing that I will share their fate. I would feel guilt for their deaths, but for the fact that they are not here following my banner; they are here because they followed their ideals.

Another shriek cuts through the air. Much louder than before. And much, much closer. My blood chills. There is no mistaking it for the wind this time. That howl was undeniably the call of an apex predator. Some creature atop the pecking order, and knows it. But what? I've never heard anything like it in my life, though I feel an ancient part of me quail in fear before it. The crowd is visibly agitated now, but the Imperials push on. The Breton is walked to the block. Amazingly, he seems almost uninterested in his impending death, gazing around, as if curious about the sound. In my mind, I honor him. I remember Ralof's earlier words: A Nord's last thoughts should be of home. And so my own thoughts turn to Windhelm. The majesty of the Palace of Kings, where I spent my childhood, and it's storied history. The strength of its walls and its peoples, with whom I strove to make our world a better place.

As the Breton is brought painfully to his knees... I am not a man given to excessive prayer. I have always preferred to proclaim my faith through the truth of actions than through words that have no substance behind them. And yet for this man, whether fearless or foolhardy, I find myself speaking within me. Mighty Talos. I have sought in my life to honour you through battle and glory. I have fought to save your divine name from enemies who would have your struck from the annals of history, and defile all that for which you stand. Should this be my time to die, I embrace it willingly, knowing I have striven my best to achieve my goals, and knowing others will take up your banner in my absence. But I implore you; spare this innocent life before me, whose only guilt lies in poor fortune. He does not deserve to die a meaningless death by the treachery of this false Empire.

So engrossed am I, it is not until someone forces me to the ground that I notice anything wrong. The ground shakes beneath me, and all of Helgen is in an uproar. I look up and freeze from disbelief. Shock and awe bind my feet. Has Talos answered my prayer? Is this a blessing I have brought upon us, or a curse? Someone unties my hands, and I rip the gag from my mouth. I run from the great black beast without a second thought. I never understood the phrase "Discretion is the better part of valor" until this very moment.

"DRAGON!"