Nova Peak blessed be our descendants

ulfric listens as she speaks. telling of spirits, to which she earns his undivided attention. but it is faltering, as he notices the sway in her stature. the man frowns.
a request to tell her of his home. there threatens a grim cast of storm clouds over his expression; but she would not see it, watery blue eyes dancing between the ground and his rooted paws. ulfric heaves a gentle sigh, and moves to her side.
he would help her further into her territory, but if she did not wish for anyone to know of her state, then there was little else ulfric could do. he would respect her wishes—only if they did not bring her danger.
my story is not a happy one. he tells her with a laugh meant to dissuade any sympathy or bad feelings. but skarvheim was beautiful, keeping focus upon the incline they walk upon, frozen lakes that shine like glass. pine forests thick with snow, where the wind sings through the trees like a dirge.
when he talks of it, it is almost like he misses it. the high mountains where the birds flew and the air was clear were the only place i ever knew peace.
my father was styr bjornsson of the hafniring. a bastard who made himself with blood. my mother an apsáalooke woman called sakari who he stole from the south. my brothers fought; hallkell died for the crime of being first-born. veigr slew him—and then my father slew veigr. ulfric does not know if this story is any help to her mental condition, but she had asked—and if talking kept her conscious, he would speak. i leave behind that life in favor of a simpler one. a nomad, a huntsman. i will not kill again.