The young Breton mage was the first to introduce herself to the group, which seemed almost contradictory to her timid demeanor. The blacksmith wondered what caused her to be so apprehensive, but he finally realized the origin of her concern as she mentioned her origins. [i]The College of Winterhold.[/i] In its prime, the college was a hub of activity, where all races would seek to sharpen their minds and learn a variety of magics. Even the Nords, a race so opposed to sorcery, supported the college, travelling from distant lands to have their gear enchanted by the master wizards there. But after the Great Collapse, the Nords shunned the college, believing the mages within were the ones responsible for the almost total destruction of the city below, leaving the college to rot. Whether the college was responsible for the Great Collapse or not, Brynjar did not know, but he was one of the few Nords who did not feel a deep-rooted hatred for all things magic. His wife, Faiela, had been a Nordic healer, trained in the arts of restoration and alteration, and he always admired her for pursuing such a noble profession. However, he understood that the Breton before him, Yuriah, was not familiar with him yet, assuming him to be another prejudicial Nord, and one who would take her into battle no less. He gave the girl a smile and a nod to ease her fears before the next member of their party spoke up.

The next speaker was the armored Argonian, who introduced himself as Kalien. Brynjar was still surprised to see an Argonian among their ranks, especially one from Windhelm, knowing all too well how poorly the race was treated by the Nords working in the docks. What intrigued Brynjar even more was the beautifully crafted ebony sword that hung from the Argonian’s belt. The blacksmith had worked with the material on several occasions, forging swords and armor for wealthy nobles who rarely used them, and hardened treasure hunters who relied on the gear with their lives. Brynjar never owned anything made from ebony himself though, as it was much too expensive, even with his pension from the legion. The black ingots were a true challenge to forge. It refused to alloy with other metals, and it had to be worked with heated or the ebony would shatter into pieces. Once the volcanic ash was melded into the desired shape, however, it was almost indestructible. Indeed, as he looked over his finished craft, Brynjar knew he had created something both beautiful and reliable. However, the blacksmith also knew that a strong blade or sturdy armor did not make a man; it was up to the wielder to get the most out of their weapon. Many times, he witnessed inexperienced nobles charge into battle with the finest equipment in all of Skyrim, only to be cut down by a seasoned warrior wielding a crude iron shortsword in leather armor. However, Brynjar was aware that Argonians were savage and admirable fighters, for he lacked an eye because of their keen abilities. He hoped that Kalien would be just as capable of a warrior as those he fought on the border of Morrowind. The Argonian stood at attention like soldiers he commanded during his time in the Empire, and wondered if he had served in the Emperor’s army like himself. 

“Sir… Now there’s a title I haven’t heard in many years. In the Legion, you may have to grovel before officers, but here we are all equal, so there’s no need to call me sir, just Brynjar my friend,” the blacksmith replied . It made him a little uneasy as he recalled the years of service for the Empire, and all the men who fought and died under his command. “We’re all Brothers and Sisters of Skyrim here. Heh, you and me, we practically [i]are[/i] brothers, being from Windhelm.” Brynjar chuckled, but mention of his home brought a flicker of pain and longing that flashed through his face, if only for a moment. 

The elf in their party introduced himself last, the one which piqued Brynjar’’s interest the most. His name was Gladron, a native of the Summerset Isles, and a former subject of the Thalmor. Brynjar laughed deeply as the elf mentioned this relationship was no longer, pleased that someone in the group had a sense of humor, albeit a slightly dark one. He wondered what had driven the Altmer away from his comrades in the Thalmor. It was obvious the man was not a spy, for the Dominion almost exclusively left this task to other races due to the Nord’s inherent mistrust in elves. Perhaps Gladron’s allies betrayed him, and he now felt a burning desire for revenge. Brynjar knew how powerful revenge could be; in his youth, the blacksmith was practically drunk with it as he sought to avenge his sister, lost to him during the Great War. He also knew that seeking retribution in battle brought with it unnecessary risks, for anger clouded the mind, and the only thought present was who to cut down next. Brynjar bore many scars on his body attributed to his lust for bloody justice. Unfortunately, if Gladron did have a burning desire for revenge, it didn’t burn warm enough to stave off the freezing winds of Skyrim. He could tell from the Altmer’s quivering body that he was unaccustomed to the frigid region, and his winter attire didn't seem to help much. Brynjar sympathized with the man, knowing what it was like being in an alien land with a drastically different climate. When the Nord fought the Dominion in the burning deserts of Hammerfell, sweat poured down his face and into his eyes, rolling down his body and pooling in his boots. The steel armor itself burned like a boiling cauldron, and Brynjar felt as if he were being cooked alive before even reaching the battle. Many of the Nords who sought to continue fighting the Dominion in Hammerfell died from the intense heat as they journeyed into the country. Upon their arrival, the Redguards quickly re-equipped the Nords with light leather armor and flowing robes to protect them from the harsh sun, but even then it was hotter than a burning forge to Brynjar. 

The Nord greeted his new Altmer companion before turning to Yuriah, the Breton, who raised an important question. Why were the four of them chosen to carry out this mission? Galmar had informed the blacksmith that the group was not random, but chosen with extreme caution. The Altmer quickly replied before he had a chance to answer, stating that the Stormcloak’s resources were running thin. Brynjar chuckled at Gladron’s statement, as it was quite contrary to reality. “Gladron, you have half of it right. We [i]will[/i] retrieve the crown,” the Nord said. “But each of you were handpicked by Stone-Fist to make a group that could slip through Imperial lines unnoticed. Each of your skills cover for what others lack, so we can crush anything in our way,” Brynjar answered. “This crown,” he continued, "is more important than you might think, and Ulfric wants to make sure he gets it. I don’t expect any of you to know why, though, but I’ll tell you on our way. Right now, it's best we get moving and meet up with the final member of our little army down the road,” Brynjar finished, and motioned for the others to follow.
“We’ll travel off the roads so we don’t run into any Imperials,” Brynjar said as they walked away from their camp, "but we’ll keep close to them. Should a blizzard pick up, its best to walk with stone beneath our feet, rather than risk getting lost. If anyone stops us, we’re just a group of adventurers travelling to Winterhold seeking work."