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Wanna know why people really join the Stormcloaks?
Galmar Stone-Fist eyes me with the thinly-veiled contempt that I've come to expect as the default Nord attitude towards a non-native of Skyrim. "Why does a Breton want to join the Stormcloaks?"
To be perfectly honest, I'm wondering a bit myself. The average Stormcloak stinks of ale and poorly-tanned bear hide, and half of them are so racist they make my teeth hurt. I've learned three new ethnic slurs that apparently describe me, and I've only been here an hour.
"When I was captured with Ulfric and his men near Helgen, it was an accident. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the Imperials knew this, and were ready to execute me anyway, just because to do anything else would be inconvenient. Any Empire that has so little regard for the basic rights of its citizens is clearly a corrupt institution that must be brought down."
Galmar's eyes narrow. I can't tell if he distrusts my ideological fervor, or if I've just confused him by using three-syllable words. He shakes his head. "Not good enough, Breton."
"Well..." I look around to make sure the Jarl isn't within earshot. "If you must know, it's also that Ulfric's voice is really, um, sexy."
Galmar goes starry-eyed. "Isn't it, though?" he sighs.
One of the Stormcloaks guarding the door nods. "He can Shout at me any time, for sure."
"I would happily sit and listen to him read all 56 volumes of Songs of the Return
," his partner adds.
Galmar claps me on the shoulder. "You're one of us, sister. I'll get you a bear hide."