Palace of the Kings, Windhelm
In the palace of the kings, the great hall stood barren. The table used for feasting was gone, leaving an open area. At one end of the hall was a throne, sitting on a platform, which three wide steps lead up to. In the throne sat a man, with broad shoulders, a lean body, and a noble bearing. The mans hair was black, and descended to the base of his neck. His skin was pale, with a greyish tinge to it, and his eyes were a pale, ice blue, that held a penetrating gaze that would have made even a battle hardened warrior pause. He wore a tunic of dark blue material, with shining chainmail over it. His hands rested on the arms of his throne, the fingers tapping out a rhythm on the wood.
At intervals at either side of the hall stood men, bedecked in dark grey steel plate armour, with a white surcoat over it. They were the knights of the brotherhood. The man in the throne, known only as Azeraile, lord of the north, was their leader. And the founder of the Whitescars. The Whitescars were the few that still held the beleifs of Ulfric close to their hearts. They alone would force the elves and lizards and cats and Imperials out of Skyrim. And those Nords that were too cowardly or faithless to join with them, well, they'd be dealt with appropriately.
These thoughts pleased Azeraile, but not as much as they could have. There were still those that resisted the brotherhoods purpose. A purpose to reunite Skyrim after Ulfrics death. After his assassination. Betrayed by those he'd trusted, if the remainder of the Stormcloak forces were to be believed.
Azeraile had returned to Windhelm, with his likeminded brothers behind him the whole way. It took the brotherhood and entire week to deliver justice to the Imperial garrisson, the Argonians, and Dark elves. By the time it was all over, the Argonians and Dark elves were either dead or enslaved. And Windhelm was back in the hands of true Nords. That had been two months ago. Since then, Azeraile had sent out a call for all Nords to return to Windhelm and prepare to take the North, and then the rest of Skyrim from their enemies. Hundreds had answered his call, and dozens more came in every week.
His thoughts strayed to his...condition. Though from a distance, the unique colouration of his skin was not noticeable from a distance, anyone close to him was sure to notice it. And the skin was only the beginning. His skin was cold to the touch, and capable of withering flesh at will. However, he was not a vampire, or some other creature of undeath. He was something...trapped in between the realms of the living and the dead. Not that he was ungrateful, of course. He'd been brought back from the edge of death, after he'd been nearly killed by a prisoner at one of the Stormcloak forts near Dawnstar.
He was shake out of his reverie by the approach of a robed human. Glancing over at the Imperial, he kept a disdainful sneer in check. He didn't have much respect for mages, or magic users, but Jorn Blackstone had proven valuable. He had brought soldiers loyal to him, as well as other magic users, something that the brotherhood had sorely lacked before then. And the same force that had repaired his body had sent Jorn to him, or at least, so the mage claimed. "What is it, Blackstone?"
The mage, the tattoos on his face seeming to move of their own volition, smiled. "They are coming.I have seen it during my morning meditations." Azeraile didn't bother asking who they were. The mage was purposefully vague, which was, in short, rather irritating. But, knowing that someone had finally taken notice of the brotherhoods activities in the north was a clear sign that the time to retake Skyrim was close now. " We will be ready. And we will triumph. The master demands it" he said, using the only title the mysterious power that had brought about his current state of existence had given him. The mage inclined his head once more, obscuring the tattoos from view, turned, and shuffled away.