Chapter 1: The First Debate
Chapter Text
The fire in the central hearth of the Candlehearth Inn was dying down, casting long, flickering shadows across the wooden walls. Outside, the wind howled a lonely tune, rattling the very foundations of Windhelm—the stone heart of the Stormcloak rebellion.
At a corner table, well-worn and carved with decades of patrons’ idle etchings, sat three unlikely companions.
Ragnar, a Nord, known across Skyrim simply as the Dragonborn, was a figure of quiet but undeniable intensity. His armor, though currently set aside, was famed, and his deep-set eyes held the weariness of one who had stared into the heart of chaos and emerged victorious. He wore a simple tunic, but his great-sword, Axe of the North, lay sheathed beneath the bench—a constant, heavy presence.
Across from him sat Anoriath, a High Elf—a mer from a race now synonymous with the tyranny of the Aldmeri Dominion and the hated Thalmor. Anoriath was younger than Ragnar, with keen, pale eyes and hands that moved with the rapid, precise gestures of a scholar, not a soldier. He wore practical, dark clothing, eschewing the flashy robes of the mages his people preferred. He was currently nursing a flagon of mead, his expression thoughtful, bordering on grim.
Completing the trio was R’Jahn, a Khajiit. R’Jahn was slight, quiet, and carried himself with a perpetual air of caution, a necessity for a cat-man in a city that confined his kin to the slums outside the city walls. He was a master smuggler and information broker, but tonight he was simply a friend, meticulously cleaning a short, curved dagger while occasionally contributing a low, melodic purr to the quiet atmosphere. They were, in the parlance of the wary locals, the "Gray Host"—a term given to those who served Ulfric’s cause but whose presence undermined the Stormcloaks' "Skyrim for the Nords" slogan.
The three had finished their meal and were discussing the recent, brutal skirmish outside Falkreath—a messy Imperial retreat—when a shadow fell over their table.
Dathyril, a Dark Elf, stood over them. He was clad in patched, travel-stained armor, clearly a former legionary or perhaps a seasoned mercenary, his eyes burning with a deep, ancestral resentment common to Dunmer who called Windhelm home. He did not ask to sit; he simply stood and began, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the general tavern noise like broken glass.
“So this is it,” Dathyril said, his gaze sweeping over the High Elf, then the Khajiit, lingering distastefully on Ragnar’s face last. “The grand alliance of the damned. A Dragonborn—the hero of the Nords, or so they say—siding with a hypocritical bigot. A Thalmor puppet’s cousin is siding with a man who would see all Mer banished. And a cat, caged outside the very walls you supposedly ‘liberate.’ Tell me, what lies do you tell yourselves at night to justify wearing that bear hide? Why would any of you—any of you—become a Stormcloak, harboring such transparent contempt for Ulfric Stormcloak, and yet still fight for him?”
Ragnar looked up, his expression unreadable, and gestured toward the empty bench. “Sit, friend. It’s a long story, and the mead is fresh.”
Dathyril hesitated, his dark eyes narrowing, then, with a sharp intake of breath, he pulled the bench out and sat down opposite them. “I am Dathyril. I have lived outside the walls of this frozen, hateful city my entire life, and I have watched Ulfric’s true cause rot the soul of Skyrim. I want the honest truth, not the slogans carved on a Jarl’s shield.”
The silence that followed was heavy. R’Jahn stopped cleaning his blade. Anoriath leaned back, his Elven features impassive. Ragnar merely met the Dark Elf’s gaze.
“The honest truth is never simple, Dathyril,” Ragnar began, his voice a low rumble, the very sound of the northern mountains. “You are right. You are, painfully and fundamentally, correct in your assessment of Ulfric and the immediate reality of Windhelm. The Gray Quarter is a disgrace. The blatant prejudice of some of our Jarls is indefensible. When I first took up the banner, it was with a full chest and an empty head, believing in the simple slogan: ‘Freedom or Death.’ But the more I fight, the more I see that the cause is a complex, flawed, necessary machine built around a deeply flawed, necessary man.”
Ragnar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He was addressing Dathyril, but his words were for all of them, a declaration of faith he had wrestled into shape over months of bloodshed.
“You hate Ulfric because he is a racist, and you have every right to. I will never tell a Dunmer living in the misery of the Gray Quarter that their suffering is less important than the war. But my loyalty, Dathyril, is not to Ulfric the man; it is to the principle that Ulfric embodies, however imperfectly he manifests it. That principle is self-determination.
“Look beyond Windhelm. Look at the larger picture: the Thalmor. The Aldmeri Dominion’s true goal is not merely to conquer the Empire, but to unmake Nirn. They despise the existence of Mundus and the very notion of mortality and free will. The Empire, in its craven fear and exhaustion, signed the White-Gold Concordat. They outlawed the worship of Talos, the greatest of men, the Nord who founded the Third Empire. They allow Thalmor Justiciars to roam free, kidnapping and torturing our priests, our veterans, our families, all under the banner of Imperial peace.
“Do you understand what that means? The Empire signed away the soul of man and the sovereignty of this province for a temporary truce. They sacrificed our faith and our freedom. Ulfric’s rebellion, at its core, is a massive, violent rejection of that surrender. It is a scream in the face of oblivion.
“Ulfric is a bigot, yes. But he is also the only man in Skyrim who had the moral courage to look the Empire and the Thalmor in the eye and say, ‘No. We will not give up our god, and we will not give up our freedom.’ The Dragonborn’s purpose is to stand against the final destruction of the world. In the grand scheme, the Thalmor are the biggest threat to all life. The Imperial Legion, right now, serves the Thalmor’s interests by keeping Skyrim weak and divided.
“The way I see it, the Stormcloaks are a crude tool, perhaps a hammer too heavy for its task, but they are the only tool we have that is currently aimed at the Thalmor. If the Stormcloaks win, we gain a sovereign Skyrim. That Skyrim will have internal problems—big ones, like the Gray Quarter—but they will be internal problems. We will deal with them. The people of Skyrim, Nord, Mer, and Khajiit alike, will be free to solve their own flaws, not controlled by a distant, compromised Empire or, worse, by the knife-point of a High Elf Justiciar.
“My fight is not for Ulfric’s Jarlship. My fight is for a free, sovereign territory—a necessary staging ground for the next Great War. If the Thalmor destroy the faith of man here, they destroy the soul of the resistance everywhere. Ulfric is the necessary spark, even if his fire leaves some ugly, burned patches.”
He paused, taking a long drink of mead.
Dathyril scoffed, but a thoughtful skepticism replaced the anger in his eyes. “A necessary spark? Or a convenient excuse for men who enjoy oppressing the rest of us? You claim you’ll deal with the Gray Quarter after the war. My grandfather heard that same promise fifty years ago. But let us turn to your companion. Anoriath, I see a High Elf fighting for the very people who would hang his kind the moment the Thalmor are gone. The irony is too thick to swallow.”
Anoriath placed his flagon down with precision. He had the patience of someone who had spent his life debating ideas, not men.
“You assume, Dathyril, that because I am Altmer, my heart must naturally align with the Aldmeri Dominion. You assume that blood loyalty supersedes ideology. That is the first mistake the Thalmor make, and it is the mistake the Empire makes when they see me fighting alongside Ragnar. They see a traitor. I see a survivor fighting for a fundamental truth my homeland has forgotten.”
Anoriath leaned forward, his voice low, educated, and filled with a quiet, burning disdain.
“My family served the Empire for generations in Valenwood. When the Dominion rose, they weren’t looking for allies; they were looking for purity. The Thalmor’s ideal is not merely Altmeri rule; it is the total, dogmatic purification of reality to an imagined, perfect past. It is the rejection of all evolution, all chaos, all change. They see the entire sweep of Tamrielic history since the first era as a mistake—a deviation from the sublime order.
“They are the true zealots, Dathyril. They don’t just forbid the worship of Talos; they seek to unravel the very divine architecture of the world by eliminating the human aspects of the Nine Divines. They seek to unmake reality. My own sister, a talented but free-thinking mage, was dragged away by the Justiciars—not for being disloyal to the Dominion, but for questioning the rigidity of their doctrine. They called her ‘tainted by human philosophy.’
“I came to Skyrim not to flee, but to fight. And who, in all of Tamriel, is actually doing the fighting? The Empire is a toothless lion, bound by treaties, too terrified of the next war to break the peace. They collaborate with the enemy on Skyrim’s soil! They stand by while the Justiciars murder innocents. The Empire is a necessary evil that has become a self-defeating compromise.
“But Ulfric, the bigot, broke the peace. He forced the issue. He is rallying the least compromised, most fiercely independent people left on the continent. I fight for the Stormcloaks because they offer the most direct, immediate chance for a power bloc independent of the Dominion’s grasp. My people are currently the Dominion. I cannot fight the Dominion as an Altmer. I fight the Dominion as a free-thinking Mer who recognizes tyranny when he sees it, whether it comes from a White-Gold Tower or a Nordic city.
“You bring up the irony of me serving a Nord who hates Elves. And I say to you: better to fight beside a blunt, honest bigot whose eyes are fixed on a greater enemy, than to stand with the civilized collaborators who smile while they let the enemy dismantle your culture piece by piece. Ragnar is correct: if Ulfric wins, we have a messy, provincial power. We have the task of educating and refining it. We have the internal fight against prejudice.
“But if the Empire wins, we have a Thalmor protectorate. They will simply replace Imperial soldiers with Justiciars and call it ‘policing the treaty.’
“My fight, Dathyril, is the ultimate rejection of the Dominion. It is an Altmer saying: ‘My home is not where my blood originates; my home is where I can be free to think, to worship, and to live without the shadow of the White-Gold Concordat.’ And right now, the only place on this continent with the raw, untamed courage to wage that fight is the Stormcloak rebellion. I hate the racism of some Nords, but I despise the tyranny of my own kin. Given the choice between a flawed, imperfect freedom and a smooth, sanitized subjugation, I choose the scars of sovereignty every time.”
Anoriath finished, his chest heaving slightly, the conviction in his voice silencing the scattered conversations in the inn. He picked up his mead, watching Dathyril’s face for reaction.
Dathyril slowly shook his head. “A powerful speech. You trade one form of dogmatism for another, yet you call it freedom. But your suffering does not excuse the suffering of my people here. You are in Windhelm, but you are not of the Gray Quarter. You have the Dragonborn’s protection. Now, let’s talk about the one who has neither: the cat. R’Jahn, you are confined to the filthy slums, barred from the city gates, treated as a criminal by the very guards you may die fighting for. Your people are beggars and traders, yet you fight for the very people who actively suppress your economy and confine your movement. What could possibly justify that betrayal of your own survival?”
R’Jahn, who had remained silent, his purr a low hum, looked up. He set his dagger aside and pulled his hood back slightly, revealing his intelligent, amber eyes. His voice was soft, almost a lullaby, in sharp contrast to the others’ intensity.
“Dathyril, you speak of survival, and R’Jahn must agree," he began, his voice cool and calm. "The Khajiit people have always faced prejudice. We are not just travelers; we are trade-masters, wanderers, and survivors. We have long understood that a hostile local authority is bad, but a hostile central authority is existential. Ulfric’s guards are rude. They call me a thief and an outsider. They bar my path. This is true, and it is a vile shame upon this city.”
He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the wind rattled the panes.
“But consider the nature of their prejudice, friend. Ulfric’s guards are prejudiced because they are Nords in Windhelm. They see Nords-first. This is a local problem, a cultural ugliness we deal with daily. If we win the war, this problem becomes a domestic political issue, addressable by trade guilds, lobbying Jarls, and, eventually, cultural integration. It is a hurdle we can overcome with time and pressure.
“Now, consider the Empire’s alternative. The Empire, bound by the Concordat, has created a bureaucracy of oppression. They have no interest in Khajiit trade—only in control. Under the Thalmor-influenced Empire, our trade routes are taxed, regulated, and inspected by foreign powers who seek to eliminate the Moon Sugar trade entirely—a trade that is, for many of my kin, the only path to prosperity. The Empire’s ‘peace’ cripples our economic survival.
“Do you know what the Thalmor call the Khajiit? Beasts. They have doctrines that suggest Khajiit are not true Men or Mer, but a corrupt offshoot—a race to be eliminated or enslaved. The Dominion is already conquering Valenwood. If they win, they will turn their attention to the Elsweyr Confederacy. The Khajiit are already seen as criminals by the Empire and as non-persons by the Dominion.
“R’Jahn fights for the Stormcloaks because, paradoxically, the chaos of a free Skyrim is better for Khajiit trade than the order of an Imperial-Thalmor-occupied Skyrim. Chaos means opportunity. Chaos means the great Imperial customs houses fall, and the independent markets—the caravans, the smugglers, the free cities—flourish. The Dragonborn is right: we are fighting to create a sovereign space, and a sovereign space, however flawed, is a space where the free movement of goods and people can eventually happen.
“If Ulfric wins, he is Jarl of Windhelm and High King. He is a local tyrant with a racist bias. He will have to deal with the overwhelming needs of war reconstruction. He will need trade, Dathyril. He will need resources. And who supplies the resources? The Khajiit caravans. The moment the Imperial Legion is gone, the Khajiit have leverage—economic leverage. We become necessary. We can push for change, for walls to come down, because the alternative is economic collapse.
“If the Empire wins, we are locked down. We have no leverage. We are a footnote in a treaty written by people who don't care if we live or die, as long as the tax rolls are tidy.
“I am a Stormcloak not because I love the Nords, but because I believe the Nord desire for independence is the key to my people’s long-term economic and political independence. I will suffer the slings and arrows of bigots today so that I may be a partner in trade tomorrow. You see betrayal, Dathyril. R’Jahn sees strategic necessity. We are all fighting for the lesser evil, and in this war, the lesser evil is the man who refuses to kneel to the true monsters of this age.”
Dathyril leaned back, running a hand over his deeply furrowed brow. The initial fire in his eyes had been banked, replaced by the deep exhaustion of a man who realized the enemy he hated might also be the most viable path to survival.
“Your arguments are… compelling,” he conceded slowly. “You have traded your immediate personal dignity for a long-term political gamble. But what if you are wrong, Dragonborn? What if Ulfric wins and simply becomes the next Emperor, a Nord who uses his freedom to crush everyone else, including his allies? You are trusting a flawed man with an absolute mandate.”
Ragnar smiled faintly, a tired, humorless expression.
“We are not trusting Ulfric,” Ragnar corrected gently. “We are trusting the nature of power and the nature of people. Ulfric is High King, yes, but he is a High King surrounded by Jarls who just fought a war for their own independence. He will be a King with checks and balances—the very thing the Empire destroyed when it bent the knee to the Thalmor. Ulfric, when the dust settles, will have to rebuild, and you don’t rebuild a war-torn province by alienating every trading partner and skilled craftsman who isn’t a Nord.”
Anoriath picked up the thread. “Furthermore, the moment the war ends, our fight against prejudice begins. We do not stop being his allies just because the Empire is gone. We become the necessary counter-balance within the new regime. We are the proof that the Stormcloak cause is not just a Nord cause. We are the walking, talking refutations of Ulfric’s own implicit bias. That is our burden and our leverage.”
R’Jahn nodded, his purr returning, deep and content. “Yes. R’Jahn’s business will be essential. The High Elf’s political mind will be essential. The Dragonborn’s sheer power and authority will be essential. We will not be so easily dismissed. We are fighting to be partners in the new creation, not subjects in the old one.”
Ragnar concluded, looking directly at Dathyril. “The cause is flawed because men are flawed. Every ideal, every nation, every movement is built on the backs of compromises and dirty hands. But the choice before Skyrim is stark: do we fight for a flawed freedom that we must then fix, or do we accept a comfortable peace that is actually perpetual servitude to a genocidal power?
“I fight for the day when I can stand before Ulfric and look him in the eye—not as a soldier, but as a peer—and tell him, ‘The Gray Quarter is gone. The Dunmer live in the city, they hold seats on the council, and they are protected by law.’ And if he argues, I will use my voice—or rather, the Thuum—to show him the path. That’s why I joined. Not for a man, but for the chance to make a free Skyrim worthy of the name.”
Dathyril sat quietly for a long moment, the warmth of the dying fire failing to reach his cold heart, yet somehow, the coldness had less to do with the outside weather and more to do with his own weary worldview.
“A terrifying gamble,” Dathyril murmured, finally. “But I see now that you do not wear the bear hide out of blind loyalty. You wear it as a necessary coat in a storm, hoping you survive long enough to discard it for a finer garment. Perhaps you are right. The alternative is certainly worse for the souls of men. And for the souls of Mer who still cling to the belief in self-determination.”
He rose, pushing the bench back gently, an action far more respectful than his arrival.
“I still hate Ulfric,” Dathyril said, meeting Ragnar’s eyes. “But I will consider your position. May your gamble pay off, Dragonborn. For all our sakes.”
With a nod to Anoriath and a fractional bow to R’Jahn, the Dark Elf walked out into the cold Windhelm night, leaving the Gray Host to the quiet companionship of the inn, their long, complex defense of an ugly war hanging heavy and thoughtful in the air. The fire crackled softly, a reminder that even the biggest conflict starts with a single, controlled spark.
Chapter 2: The Second Debate
Notes:
Now we're in the second half of the debate. I've decided to try a few more chapters of this before calling it quits.
This chapter will discuss the positives of the Empire, while the three main heroes still stay loyal to the Stormcloaks.
Chapter Text
Hours later, the Candlehearth Inn was nearly empty. The fire was now embers, and the only light came from a few oil lamps and the pale glow of the moons filtered through the icy glass. Ragnar was sharpening his sword, the rhythmic shhh-shhh of steel on whetstone filling the silence. Anoriath was reading a heavily annotated tome, and R’Jahn was seemingly asleep, curled up on the bench like a large housecat, though his ears twitched constantly.
The door creaked open, admitting a blast of frigid air, and Dathyril returned. The Dunmer was no longer wearing his armor; he was wrapped in a thick, dark cloak, and his face seemed softer, less defensive. He walked straight to their table, a subtle humility in his posture.
“Forgive my earlier intrusion,” Dathyril said, his voice quiet enough not to wake the innkeeper. “My anger has many years of Windhelm cold fueling it. Your arguments… they demand more thought than a simple dismissal. You three have convinced me that the Stormcloak cause is a political calculus, not just a racist tantrum.”
He paused, then added, “But I must ask one final thing before the sun rises. You spoke only of the Empire’s compromises, its weakness, and its betrayal of Talos. To be truly balanced, you must recognize the good. Tell me, honestly, what do you three, who fight so hard to tear it down, believe the Empire has done right? What is the virtue you are throwing away?”
Ragnar put his whetstone down, the silence amplifying the question. He poured Dathyril a fresh, warm mug of cider from a thermos he carried.
“The Empire, Dathyril, was the backbone of Tamriel for two thousand years,” Ragnar said, accepting the premise without hesitation. “To deny its greatness is to deny history. Sit. Let us give the devil its due.”
Dathyril took the mug and sat.
“The Empire’s greatest virtue, the virtue we Nords once prized above all others, was unity. It created a common law and a unified defense that held nine provinces together. It was the great bulwark against chaos. I am not old enough to remember the Oblivion Crisis, but my grandfather was. The only reason any of us are sitting here, and not serving Daedric masters, is because the Imperial Legions—Redguards, Nords, Imperials, and Mer—fought together under the banners of the Empire. When the world was falling apart, the Empire was the only structure strong enough to hold back the tide.
“It provided a vast, safe road network. It built the great academies, the administrative centers, and the framework of civil society. It took what had once been a collection of warring kingdoms and tribal fiefdoms and gave them a common identity as Tamrielians. We Nords are proud and independent, yet prone to infighting. The Empire ended the Age of the Ebonarmies and the small, pointless wars of aggression. It gave us peace, and peace is the fertile soil where all other good things—art, knowledge, and prosperity—grow.
“When Ulfric yells about freedom, part of me remembers the Imperial Captains I met—men and women who genuinely believe in the ideals of peace, stability, and law. They are good people, fighting for a good idea. The Empire is the single greatest secular human achievement in Tamrielic history. It is the concept of a multi-cultural superpower protecting the vulnerable.”
Ragnar sighed, his focus shifting. “But that is the Empire of Tiber Septim, the Empire that stood its ground. The Empire we fight is a ghost of that. It traded stability for survival and unity for compliance. It threw away its soul—the divine right of Talos—to buy a decade of quiet. We fight the current Empire, Dathyril, not the ideal. The ideal was perfect, but the reality is compromised beyond repair.”
Anoriath cleared his throat, setting his book aside. “Ragnar speaks of structure, but I will talk of doctrine and cosmopolitanism. The genius of the Empire, especially during the Third and early Fourth Eras, was that it offered a legal and cultural umbrella that protected diversity, even if imperfectly.
“My people, the Altmer, are generally xenophobic. The Empire forced us to deal with other races under a unified code of law—not perfect, but consistent. It valued merit, allowing a High Elf scholar from Summerset to rise just as high as a Breton merchant in High Rock. The Empire fostered the great Mages Guilds and Fighters Guilds, organizations that transcended borders and provincial biases. It was a melting pot, a grand experiment in nine distinct cultures coexisting under one set of rules.
“Crucially, the Imperial legal structure—the very bureaucracy I now curse—was designed to be impartial. It separated law from local custom, meaning that while a Nord Jarl might hate a Dunmer, Imperial law, theoretically, protected the Dunmer's property rights and contracts across provincial lines. This allowed for unprecedented trade and the exchange of ideas. I am who I am—a widely educated, free-thinking Altmer—because the Empire made that possible. My ancestors benefited from its open universities and its acceptance of diverse arcane practices.
“We are tearing down a great piece of clockwork, Dathyril—a machine built for justice and order. But the problem is that this machine has been corrupted. The Thalmor, who despise diversity of both blood and opinions, are now using the Empire’s own levers of power—its military courts, its legal clauses—to target and eliminate dissent systematically. The beautiful, unified, cosmopolitan structure of the Empire is now being operated by the very people who wish to dismantle all creation.
“We are not rejecting the rule of law. We are rejecting the legal fiction that the Imperial peace is worth the slavery of the spirit. We must break the corrupted machine and rebuild a clean one, even if we are forced to use crude tools and deal with the resulting mess of independent states.”
R’Jahn uncurled slowly, his amber eyes blinking sleepily, but his mind clearly sharp. He addressed Dathyril with a soft purr.
“Ragnar speaks of defense, Anoriath speaks of law. R’Jahn speaks of coin and roads. The Empire built the infrastructure of civilization. Without the unified Imperial authority, trade routes are bandits’ havens. Without the standardized coinage and common tax treaties, a Khajiit caravan would need to change currencies and pay tariffs at every Hold border. It would make large-scale trade impossible. The Empire made every province safe for business, which is the lifeblood of R’Jahn’s people.”
He stretched, his long tail twitching once. “The greatest good of the Empire was reliability. You knew the coin was good. You knew Legionaries would patrol the roads. You knew your caravan could reach Cyrodiil and be met with a predictable set of laws and taxes. That predictability is worth millions to the Khajiit, whose livelihoods are inherently risky.”
“And what is the result of that predictability? Prosperity for the Common Man. For a thousand years, a common farmer in the Jerall Mountains knew that his son would not be drafted into a local land war, and his grain would be safe to sell at the nearest city market. The Empire raised the average living standard of millions by simply keeping the world stable enough for them to work their fields in peace.”
R’Jahn lowered his voice, the purr fading to a serious growl. “But Dathyril, what good is a perfect, predictable road if the road leads to a cage? The Imperial customs houses R’Jahn once praised are now staffed by Thalmor agents disguised as inspectors, checking for Talos amulets and harassing legitimate traders. The Imperial gold we rely on is now used to fund the very Justiciars who threaten to destabilize all of Elsweyr. The system of reliability has been weaponized against the very people it was meant to protect.
“R’Jahn believes in infrastructure. R’Jahn believes in commerce. But R’Jahn believes more in being alive and free to trade. We need to destroy the current roads because they lead to a controlled destiny, and build new, harder paths where we can at least choose our own destination. We do not throw away the Empire's good, Dathyril. We recognize that the Empire has thrown away its own good by prioritizing its survival over its founding principles.”
Dathyril sat back, his gaze moving between the three of them—the Nord, the Altmer, and the Khajiit—all of them articulating a deep, painful respect for the institution they were dedicated to dismantling.
“So you all admit the Empire provided stability, law, cosmopolitanism, and prosperity,” Dathyril summarized, his tone contemplative. “And yet, you are still rebels, fighting for a man who embodies the prejudice the Empire, at its best, sought to suppress. It seems you see the Empire as a perfect ship, perfectly built, that has simply chosen the wrong course. Why not mutiny? Why not join the Legionnaires who still believe in the old ideals and try to steer the ship back?”
Ragnar shook his head slowly. “Because the command structure is compromised, Dathyril. The Captains are not the Admirals. General Tullius is a good man, I won't lie, but he is fundamentally bound by Imperial decree. He cannot openly defy the Concordat or the Thalmor. To fight within the Empire is to fight with one hand tied behind your back, under the watchful, malevolent eye of the Justiciars. You cannot win the war against the Thalmor while remaining legally subservient to them.”
Anoriath added, “The moment a Legionnaire openly worships Talos, they are subject to arrest under Imperial law. They are literally enforcing the terms of their own spiritual demise. The Stormcloaks are the only faction that has broken the law and declared, unequivocally: ‘We will fight outside your rules.’ That breaking of the law is necessary because the law itself has become unjust. You cannot reform the Empire from within because the enemy has codified its presence into the highest law of the land.”
R’Jahn tilted his head, his eyes focusing on the Dunmer. “The Empire, by signing the White-Gold Concordat, effectively told all of us: ‘Your freedom and your gods are less important than our peace.’ The Stormcloak rebellion is the only force capable of delivering the counter-message: ‘No peace is worth our soul.’ We are the necessary schism, Dathyril. We are not just tearing down a bad government; we are carving out a new, uncompromised territory that can serve as the headquarters for the next great Empire, once the Dominion has been truly defeated.”
Dathyril stared into the depths of his cider, finally understanding the depth of their commitment. It wasn't simple xenophobia or youthful rebellion; it was a deeply reasoned, agonizing choice between short-term stability under a creeping tyranny, and long-term sovereignty purchased through immediate chaos and bloodshed.
“I see the desperation of your calculus,” Dathyril admitted, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I have seen the Empire’s flaws through the eyes of the oppressed; you have seen them through the eyes of the idealist. Both views lead to the same conclusion: the current path is untenable. My hatred for Ulfric’s local failures has blinded me to the necessity of his global resistance.”
He pushed the mug back across the table, half-finished. “I am Dathyril. I am a Dunmer who has lived with the consequences of men’s broken promises for a hundred years. I still cannot love Ulfric or the Nords who spit on my face when I walk the streets. But I can respect the terrifying choice you have made. You fight for a greater, though terribly risky, good.”
Dathyril stood up, gathering his cloak tightly around himself. “May Talos, or Azura, or the moons themselves, give you the strength to win this war, Dragonborn. And may you all survive long enough to fight the greater battle—the one against prejudice—after the Legion is gone. If that day comes, know that I, and perhaps many of the Gray Quarter, will remember this debate.”
He nodded again, a respectful acknowledgment this time, and disappeared into the shadowed cold.
Ragnar looked at his two companions, the High Elf and the Khajiit, his expression heavy.
“A terrible necessity,” Ragnar murmured, picking up his whetstone again. The rhythmic shhh-shhh of steel resumed, sounding less like sharpening a blade and more like the inevitable, grinding work of building a new, fiercely independent future on the cold, hard stone of Skyrim.
Chapter 3: Confrontation at the Gray Quarter
Notes:
So I decided to carry out the story of the Gray Host. Their quest for a free and just Skyrim starts here, with a confrontation with a rather prejudiced Nord.
To let everyone know, however, this isn't me jumping up and down on a soapbox. This isn't me inserting social commentary on anything. I'm just exploring a bit and seeing how a scenario like this would play out.
Chapter Text
A few days later, the promises made over cider and mead were put to a brutal, immediate test.
It was late afternoon, and the frigid air of Windhelm felt thick and heavy with the scent of coal smoke and stale meat. The Gray Quarter was, as always, a wretched spectacle—a collection of cramped, poorly maintained stone buildings huddled against the main city wall, perpetually shadowed and cold.
Dathyril, cloaked and weary, was returning to his family’s cramped lodgings after a fruitless day looking for honest work outside the city gates. His young son, Velis, a boy of perhaps ten years whose slight frame belied a fiery, inherited pride, walked a few paces ahead, kicking a loose pebble that rattled sadly across the flagstones.
As Velis neared the main thoroughfare, a hulking shadow fell over him. Rolff Stone-fist, a brute infamous for his drunken xenophobia and loud mouth, was leaning against a wall, his face red from cheap mead and resentment, accompanied by a few nodding associates. Rolff was the personification of the very narrow-minded, ugly bias that Ulfric did little to discourage.
“Well, well,” Rolff slurred, pushing himself off the wall to block the boy’s path. “Look what we have here. A little ash-licker enjoying the fresh Nord air.”
Velis froze, clutching his worn tunic.
“You’re lost, boy,” Rolff continued, his voice heavy with menace. “The Gray Quarter is for the filth, not the open streets. Come closer, let’s see if that dark skin of yours rubs off. Filthy Mer.”
“Leave him alone, Nord,” Dathyril’s voice cut in, sharp and desperate, as he hurried forward.
Rolff laughed, a grating sound like stones grinding. “Look at that! The mother hen comes running. Still got that Imperial stink on your boots, Dunmer? This is a Nord city now, fought and bled for by Nords. And we don’t need your kind teaching our children your disgusting ways.”
Dathyril stepped between Rolff and Velis, instinctively putting his body, lean but hardened by years of labor, in front of his son. “He is doing nothing wrong. Move aside, Rolff.”
“Oh, I know you,” Rolff sneered, recognizing the Dunmer from his loud argument at the Candlehearth. “One of the ones cozying up to the Dragonborn traitor. Think that gives you a free pass to swagger? Let me show you what real power is.”
Rolff’s hand shot out, not striking, but shoving Dathyril hard in the chest. Dathyril, caught off balance and expecting a punch, stumbled back onto the grimy street, his head impacting the rough stone with a sickening thud. Velis screamed, rushing to his father's side.
Rolff merely chuckled, dusting his hands. “Know your place, alien. Before I decide to clean up this quarter myself.”
A small crowd of Dunmer had started to gather, faces peering from doorways, but none dared approach the drunken Nord. They were helpless victims of this ingrained bigotry, a testament to the shame Dathyril had cast upon Ragnar’s cause days earlier.
It was at that moment, cutting across the market square and turning into the mouth of the Gray Quarter, that the "Gray Host" arrived. Ragnar, Anoriath, and R’Jahn had been finalizing supply routes and were returning to the inn. They saw the knot of Nords, Rolff standing triumphant, and Dathyril crumpled on the ground with a terrified child clinging to him.
Ragnar stopped dead. The change in his demeanor was instantaneous and absolute. The weary diplomat vanished, replaced by the Dragonborn—a force of nature. His eyes, usually deep-set and shadowed, seemed to focus with terrifying clarity.
He walked forward, his stride measured and heavy, forcing the growing crowd of onlookers to part around him.
“Rolff.” Ragnar’s voice was low, devoid of shouting, but it carried the chilling resonance of an avalanche starting. “Step away from the child and his father.”
Rolff, buoyed by mead and the presence of his fellows, straightened up, puffing out his chest. “Oh, look, the big hero comes to protect his little Mer friends. You think that shiny sword of yours makes you a King in Windhelm, traitor? This is our city. And these rats need to be taught their manners.”
Ragnar ignored the insult. He simply looked at Dathyril, then at Velis, ensuring they were not grievously harmed. He then turned his full, quiet attention back to Rolff.
“You have used your strength against a child and an unarmed man in the heart of the city that our people are dying to free,” Ragnar stated, his voice now dropping to a guttural whisper that seemed to pull the breath from the cold air. “You are the kind of Nord weakness the Thalmor rely on. You do not fight for freedom; you fight to feel important, and you choose the weak to prove it. That is cowardice.”
Rolff raised his hands defensively. “Cowardice? You think you can talk to me like that, Dragonborn? I’m a true Son of Skyrim! I’m loyal to Ulfric!”
“Ulfric’s loyalty is tested by steel, not by bullying children,” Ragnar countered, taking one slow, deliberate step forward. “I offer you one chance to walk away, to go back to the inn, and to sober up before you find out what happens when a true Son of Skyrim decides to enforce the ideals of self-determination. The war is fought to liberate men from tyranny, Rolff, not to give men like you permission to become petty tyrants. Leave. Now.” The last word had a dragon-like growl behind it, as if the dragon soul within him was ready to be unleashed.
As Rolff hesitated, torn between his fear of the Dragonborn and his drunken pride, Anoriath stepped up to Ragnar’s side. The High Elf’s presence, usually a point of Nordic disgust, now radiated cold, intellectual fury.
“You appeal to the principles of this city, Nord,” Anoriath began, his voice ringing with aristocratic disdain. “You claim loyalty to High King Ulfric. Do you know what you are doing? You are confirming every accusation the Imperial propagandists level against us. You are undermining the very cause you claim to serve. You are making the Gray Quarter a battlefield of bigotry instead of a proving ground for the new Skyrim. We are fighting to tell the Empire that we are better than them, that we can govern ourselves honorably. And here you stand, disgracing the bear banner, acting as a free agent of hatred. Your actions are treasonous to the ideal of a free Skyrim!”
Rolff gaped. “A high elf telling me about treason? Shut your mouth, Mer!”
“I will not,” Anoriath snapped, stepping closer, utterly fearless. “The Empire provided a unified, if flawed, system of law. Our rebellion promises justice without compromise. And what is your justice? Pushing a child’s father onto the stone? If we win this war and leave this kind of rotten prejudice festering, then Ragnar and I, and R’Jahn, will have shed our blood to replace Imperial compromise with Nord tyranny. You, Rolff Stone-fist, are the disease we swore to cure. You are a cancer on the heart of the resistance.”
As Rolff raised his fist at the cutting verbal assault from the Elf, R’Jahn moved. The Khajiit, silent until now, did not step between them. Instead, he simply walked past Rolff’s associate, his movement a blur of grace and feline precision. He crouched by Dathyril and Velis, checking Dathyril’s head for injury with soft, practiced hands.
But as he crouched, R’Jahn’s eyes, amber and sharp, locked onto the bulging veins in the back of Rolff’s neck. Rolff suddenly felt a small, hard pressure against his lower back—the subtle, unseen prick of R’Jahn’s curved dagger, hidden beneath the Khajiit’s cloak.
The purr emanating from R’Jahn was no longer melodic; it was a low, resonant growl, vibrating through the cold air. It spoke of coiled muscle and instant, lethal violence.
“The great beast Rolff is very loud,” R’Jahn murmured, his voice too quiet for anyone but Rolff to hear distinctly. “But R’Jahn sees what the beast does not. The Dragonborn has steel. The Altmer has the ear of the King. And the Khajiit is watching your spine. You continue this, and you will not see the sun rise. Go now. Or face the consequence of insulting the Gray Host’s allies.”
The combination—Ragnar’s overwhelming, quiet threat; Anoriath’s scathing moral indictment, and R’Jahn’s immediate, deadly proximity—shattered Rolff’s bravado. He realized he was surrounded by three people who, despite wearing the bear hide, were prepared to kill a fellow Nord for a Dunmer, and who had the power and the political cover to do it without consequence.
Rolff’s face went from angry red to sickly pale. He pushed past his stupefied associates, muttering threats that dissolved into the sound of his own heavy footsteps as he retreated, hurrying out of the Gray Quarter and back toward the safety of the city's main gates.
Ragnar watched Rolff go, not with triumph, but with grim dissatisfaction. He then knelt beside Dathyril, who was sitting up, hand pressed to his bleeding head, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
“Dathyril. Are you hurt badly?” Ragnar asked.
Dathyril barely registered the Nord’s concern. He looked from Ragnar, the Dragonborn, to Anoriath, the proud Altmer scholar, and finally to R’Jahn, the swift Khajiit, who was already wrapping a clean strip of cloth around Dathyril's wound. Velis, the boy, simply clung to R’Jahn’s tunic, silent tears streaming down his face.
The Dunmer watching from the doorways now emerged, a small, tentative gathering. They saw the great hero of the Nords, his High Elf advisor, and the marginalized Khajiit, all tending to one of their own against one of Windhelm’s worst bullies.
“Why?” Dathyril whispered, finally finding his voice. He wasn't asking why Rolff did it, but why they came.
Ragnar stood, looking at the silent, watching faces of the Dunmer community. He spoke clearly, his voice resonating against the cold stone walls.
“We argued days ago, Dathyril, that the Stormcloak cause is built on a difficult, painful gamble,” Ragnar said. “The gamble is that the moment we have freedom from the Thalmor, we will use that freedom to root out the rot in our own house. I told you that we would fix this later. I was wrong. We must fix this now. Rolff Stone-fist and his friends are not true Nords. They are cowards using our freedom as an excuse for their cruelty. They are the enemy within the walls.”
Anoriath, standing tall despite the cold, addressed the crowd of Dunmer. “We cannot ask you to fight a war for freedom while you remain slaves to fear in your own home. The struggle for a free Skyrim must include the struggle for a just Skyrim. Go forth and tell your people what you saw here. The Gray Host—the Dragonborn, the Altmer, and the Khajiit—will not stand for this hatred. We fight for all free peoples of Skyrim, not just the Nords who choose to oppress you.”
R’Jahn, having secured Dathyril’s bandage, rose and offered the stunned Dunmer a small, genuine smile. “The economic leverage of the Khajiit and the political leverage of the Mer and the strength of the Dragonborn—all for the cause of fairness. This is what we promised. This is why we fight for the bear.”
Dathyril struggled to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his head. He looked at Ragnar, his eyes no longer filled with suspicion, but with a profound, terrifying hope. He saw not a Nord warrior, but a protector...and a friend.
“The price of your promise was steep,” Dathyril managed, his voice thick with emotion. “But you have paid it in front of witnesses. If this is the new Skyrim you are forging, then my son… my son and I will live to see it built. Thank you, Dragonborn. Thank you, Anoriath. Thank you, R’Jahn.”
Ragnar simply placed a reassuring hand on the Dunmer’s shoulder. “The debate is over, Dathyril. The work begins now.”
The three members of the Gray Host then turned and walked away from the Gray Quarter, their boots crunching on the icy ground, leaving behind a neighborhood that felt, for the first time in years, a little warmer, a little safer, and a little less hopeless. The true battle for the soul of Skyrim had just begun, and it was being fought in the dirty back alleys of Windhelm, not on the field of war.
Chapter 4: Ulfric's Reckoning
Notes:
Well, we're back with the Gray Host again. This time, they're taking their concerns to Ulfric Stormcloak himself, as well as Galmar, Rolff's brother. Given Ulfric's character (a flawed but interesting one), it doesn't seem likely that he'll let go of his prejudices at the drop of a hat; those things take a little time.
Chapter Text
The Gray Host wasted no time. Before the hour was out, Ragnar strode into the cold, vaulted Hall of the Kings, Anoriath and R’Jahn flanking him. They walked past the hushed guards, past the ancient, silent Nord heroes carved into the stone, straight toward the Jarl’s throne.
Ulfric Stormcloak was seated, every inch the rebel king, his posture rigid. At his side stood Galmar Stone-fist, his battle-hardened Lieutenant and Rolff's brother, looking perpetually on edge. The room was the heart of the rebellion, a place of grand strategy, but the air was now charged with a very local, very ugly problem.
“Dragonborn. You return quickly,” Ulfric said, his voice deep but wary, his eyes flickering toward Anoriath and R’Jahn, a clear indication that this was no ordinary war council. “I trust the supply run was successful.”
Ragnar stopped at the base of the dais, his towering presence demanding attention. He did not bow.
“The run was successful, my Jarl,” Ragnar stated, his voice flat and hard. “But there was a problem with the delivery. A problem that threatens the entire operation.”
Galmar grunted, shifting his weight. “Speak plainly, Ragnar. We have fronts to manage.”
“The problem is named Rolff Stone-fist,” Ragnar replied, his gaze locked on Ulfric. He then laid out the details of the incident: the harassment of Dathyril’s son, the assault on Dathyril, and the intervention of the Gray Host, all witnessed by the entire Gray Quarter. He finished not with a plea for justice, but with a political hammer blow.
“We spent days arguing the necessity of this rebellion, Jarl Ulfric. We convinced a staunch critic, Dathyril, that this fight is not merely for Nord supremacy, but for the principle of self-determination against the Thalmor. We risked our lives for that principle in the heart of the Gray Quarter. Rolff Stone-fist, a drunk and a bully, single-handedly negated that work. He made us look like the very tyrants we fight to overthrow. He confirmed every piece of Imperial and Thalmor propaganda about us. His actions were a strategic betrayal of the Stormcloak cause.”
Ulfric’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, but the fury was evident in the barely contained tremor in his hands. He looked at Galmar, who simply stroked his beard, his face a mask of weary pragmatism.
“Rolff is a loudmouth fool, Dragonborn,” Ulfric said dismissively, though his tone held a defensive edge. “I will have him tossed in the dungeon for a few days to sober up, but he is a true Nord. These things happen in wartime—”
“These things happen in tyranny, Jarl Ulfric,” Anoriath interrupted sharply, stepping forward. He spoke with the clear, cutting authority of a political theorist. “Rolff did not break a window; he broke the faith of an entire community that we need to trust us. I have argued that your cause is the necessary means to the end of a free Skyrim. But a free Skyrim cannot be built on oppression and unchecked hatred. When we win, we need miners, craftsmen, traders, and intelligence. The Dunmer provide all of that. The Khajiit provide the trade routes R’Jahn spoke of. The Argonians staff our docks. If Rolff’s actions are met with a mere ‘sober him up,’ you tell every non-Nord in Windhelm that the real law of the city is Nord superiority, not justice. You make us, the Gray Host, look like fools who died for a lie.”
Galmar finally spoke, his gruff voice cutting through the tension. “The Altmer has a point, Ulfric. A painful, irritating point, but a point nonetheless. The Dragonborn’s crew is our key to the economic and logistical stability of a free Skyrim. Ragnar and the cat have secured crucial supplies through dangerous territory. The High Elf knows more about the Dominion's machinations than any ten spies we have. They are our proof to Tamriel that this is not just a racist uprising. If we treat their allies like dirt, we risk losing the Gray Host’s loyalty—and their resources.”
Ulfric stood, his bulk filling the space before his throne. He paced the stone floor, his hands clasped behind his back, his heavy boots echoing loudly.
“Do not mistake this for weakness,” Ulfric growled, looking at all three, but resting his gaze longest on Ragnar. “My fight is for the heart of Skyrim. I do not harbor deep affection for the Dunmer—they took our land once, and they flood our city, demanding our resources. But I am a Jarl of the people, and Rolff Stone-fist’s actions create weakness where we need strength. A divided city is an easily conquered city. The perception of injustice is as damaging as injustice itself.”
He paused, making his decision, the political reality of the situation weighing heavily against his personal biases.
“Fine,” Ulfric decreed, his voice regaining its kingly command. “Galmar, send the guard immediately. Rolff Stone-fist is to be arrested, not for simple drunken brawling, but for assault and incitement to sedition. He has caused a public disturbance and damaged the morale and loyalty of a key demographic of Windhelm’s citizenry during wartime. His sentence is three weeks in the dungeons, no fine, and public shaming upon release. Let his disgrace be known among the rabble.”
Galmar nodded, approving the severity of the punishment. “Aye, my Jarl. That sends a clear message.”
Ulfric then turned back to the Gray Host, addressing their broader, foundational complaints.
“The Rolff incident is a symptom, not the disease,” Ulfric continued, now adopting the tone of a reluctant politician. “I have heard your arguments, Ragnar, Anoriath, and R’Jahn. You demand a Windhelm worthy of the name ‘freedom.’ Very well. We are fighting a revolution. Revolutions demand change.
“We need the Dunmer for skilled labor, and we need their allegiance for the peace. We need the Khajiit for their trade, and the Argonians for their work on the docks, however much I might wish otherwise. They are the essential hands and feet of our economy. If their misery allows the Empire to sow dissent in the very city we defend, then their misery must end.”
He issued his final, momentous decree.
“First: Justice in the Gray Quarter. I am establishing a dedicated City Guard detail—four men, led by a seasoned veteran—to patrol the Gray Quarter twenty-four hours a day. Their duty is not to harass the Dunmer, but to uphold the law against any aggression—Nord or Mer. The next Nord caught assaulting a Dunmer, harassing a child, or stealing property in that quarter will be treated as an enemy of the city and will face justice under martial law. Let the Dunmer see their safety is now guaranteed by the King.”
“Second: Economic Recognition and Access. R’Jahn, you were correct. We need your trade. I hereby decree that Khajiit Caravans are to be afforded full protection by the city watch within the market district and along the approach roads. Furthermore, Argonians working the docks—the Argonian Assemblage—will now be protected by a rotating guard patrol at all times. Any guard who uses racial slurs or fails to provide protection will be disciplined immediately. While full city residency must wait until the war is won and the city's capacity assessed, the safety and security of all non-Nord workers and merchants is now an enforceable policy of this Jarlship.”
Ulfric looked at Anoriath. “We are fighting a war against tyranny, Altmer. That starts with preventing petty tyranny in our own home. Tell your allies—Mer and Khajiit—that this is not an empty promise. It is a necessary strategic policy. The Nords fought to free Skyrim. But the Dunmer, Khajiit, and Argonians will fight to keep it free, now that we have offered them a true stake in our victory.”
Ragnar nodded, satisfied. This was not the sudden spiritual conversion of Ulfric Stormcloak, but the necessary, hard-won political compromise of a reluctant leader. It was far more reliable than any sudden change of heart.
“The Gray Host thanks you, Jarl Ulfric,” Ragnar said. “You have placed the needs of the rebellion above the prejudice of the tavern. That is a sign of a true King, and it is a battle won for the heart of Skyrim.”
Galmar, the tough old soldier, clapped his hands together once, relieved. “Now, can we please get back to the logistics of the Pale Pass, Jarl? The snows are coming, and we need to move those supplies.”
Ulfric waved a hand, dismissing the Gray Host. “Go. Let the Dunmer see Rolff in the dungeons. Let the word of this policy spread quickly. We need true sons and daughters of Skyrim - like the Gray Host - fighting the Empire, not the local bullies.”
The three turned and left the hall, the weight of their long debate and their risky intervention finally paying off. They had not just won a skirmish; they had leveraged their position to shift the very foundations of the Stormcloak capital, forcing Ulfric to begin the work of building a new, more inclusive Skyrim, years before the last Imperial ever fled the province. The true fight for freedom—the fight against hatred—had just been mandated by the very man who once symbolized its worst failings.
Al3ssio97 on Chapter 4 Fri 12 Dec 2025 08:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mary (Guest) on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 04:20PM UTC
Comment Actions