Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

ulfric grunts softly at her words, glancing over his shoulder now that they stand near his makeshift hut—little more than a hollow under stone and brush, but it keeps the wind out.
there’s a place called winsook, on the peak there. he jerks his head in the direction of the mountain that rises above the grotto. i know little of them, but they aren't involved in whatever conflict is ongoing in the taiga. he grunts and lowers himself upon his haunches, upon a fur of doe and moose.
then, his head turns southward, to the glacier which does not seem to ever end. and darukaal, actively at war. led by a man named faust. they are wolves of blood and claw. bastards, outcasts. harsh norseman. perhaps not the place to be if you wish to shed whatever lay in your past. ulfric seems to know and to see.
a sigh. he shrugs once, a subtle lift of one shoulder. i live between them. i hear things.