Gladron was sure he had never been so grateful to have a fire in front of him. Any closer and his clothes would have been set ablaze and at the moment he felt it would have been a happy accident. He would have been warm at least. The heavy cloak the Altmer had picked up had done little to stave off the icy wind but such was the life of a mercenary. Fight for who ever was paying most and so long as the Stormcloaks kept the septims rolling, he would continue to aid them in their struggle. It was as loyal as he would allow himself to be, especially after his years of isolation. As indicated, Gladron leaned in to hear about their latest assignment. Get to Korvanjund, get the crown and bring it back in one piece. It sounded easy enough if not for the fact Korvanjund was a nordic ruin and would no doubt hold legions of drauger. Gladron hated the creatures, they reminded him too much of himself in the past years.

It seemed too soon that Brynjar, the leader of their little band, kicked snow over the fire. Gladron felt almost ready to weep in disappointment as the cold set in. His hood was quickly pulled over his head and front of his cloak pulled tightly together as he stood. He felt the eyes of the others on him and knew they had a deep distrust because of his race. He sent a chilling glare toward the lot of them as he listened to their introductions.

"Gladron, raise on the Isles and loyal servant of the Thalmor." He said evenly, "But evidently, not anymore."

That would put them on edge, he thought with a sly smile. He did not care if they distrusted his intentions, it was his abilities they would need to learn to lean on.

As for the question of 'why them,' Gladron decided to take a stab at the answer as it was painfully obvious, "We were all they could scrape together apparently. But Ulfric will have his crown."