Bulfrek busied himself by sweeping the stone floor, though his movements were sluggish, more out of habit than intent. His eyes stayed low, tracing the worn cracks beneath his feet, as if hoping they might swallow him whole. A faint tremor escaped his hand as he adjusted his grip on the worn broomstick, the cold of the hall sinking deep into his bones.

With a slow breath, Bulfrek straightened just slightly, rubbing a calloused hand across the back of his neck. Without looking up fully, he muttered, “Oh… hello.” His voice was flat, tinged with exhaustion as he stares at the boots of the stranger. He finally turned, lifting a heavy arm to lazily gesture across the hall toward the Jarl seated at his throne. “The Jarl’s… over there.”

Bulfrek’s shoulders sagged as soon as the words left his lips, eyes already darting away, as if expecting a sharp word or a thrown tankard. Around him, the faint echo of laughter still clung to the walls—memories of mockery and spilled stew staining his tunic. For a fleeting moment, there was a spark of longing behind his gaze, as though his mind drifted far from Dawnstar’s gray walls to battlefields and banners. To ride along side his Nord brethren, for Skyrim.

But then the dull weight of servitude settled back over the man. Another quiet sigh escaped as he stared blankly at the floor, oblivious to the fact that he was speaking to the Dragonborn, Skyrim’s would-be hero. To Bulfrek, it was just another stranger in a hall where no one cared to remember his name. He soon starts sweeping that stone floor again, stepping away from the stranger…