It is rare that one may hearken to the sounds of the wild. Rarer still that one may understand such sounds. I suppose I was lucky to be born amid the trees of my native Skyrim, raised there by my father, Lykýr Wolfstride, my brothers, and my father’s pack. I spent my childhood stalking, hunting, fighting, surviving far enough from people as to not become attached, but close enough to know of their cities. I never felt comfortable there, though, I must admit, I felt something for those that welcomed me: my friends, my countrymen, my kin.
But all that is gone now. Naught remains but ruin, shadow, and my wood. And it is there that I, Wulfgrim Shadowmane, feel most welcome: among the shadows of the trees and breath of the forest and all that call her home.
The time draws near in which I will have dealings with those that dwell in the city and for a time they will be my family and friends, for we fight for the same thing. Protection of our home from masses of unsavory enemies driven by a power that we cannot comprehend.
The slaves and demons of Molag Bal approach, and the howl on the wind promises us a good fight.