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"Galmar!" Ulfric's unmistakable voice thunders through the palace and Jorleif flinches at the tone. It sounds as if the Jarl is once again in one of his dark moods and when Ulfric Stormcloak is upset, bad things follow. He presses himself against the wall in a futile attempt to melt into it and make himself invisible and across the room he sees Yrsarald, one of the Stormcloak commanders stationed in Windhelm, do the same with the chair he is sitting in.
The footsteps grow louder until the Jarl of Windhelm stomps down the stairs from his private quarters, still bellowing for his housecarl, who, when he finally shows up, is probably the only person in the keep who appears completely unconcerned at his lord's outburst. They meet in the war-room, chest to chest, and a contest of stares takes place and if Stormcloak's eyes could kill like his Voice, Galmar would be reduced to a smoking pie of ashes on the spot.
Eventually the Jarl moves again and Jorleif cranes his neck because he can only see him holding up something big, brown and scraggy. In the next moment Yrsarald gets up and, with a hand clamped over his mouth and nose, quickly stumbles out of the room, gagging. The steward does not tear his eyes away from the scene when the soldier approaches at a brisk jog to join him.
They all hear Ulfric's accentuated question, for even when he attempts being quiet, that man's voice carries. "What. Is. THAT?"
He sounds calm now, deceptively so.
"It's a gift," Galmar replies evenly and without a trace of worry or understanding of what he did wrong. "I thought you might like it." A small, hurt frown appears on the aging veteran's brow at his sovereign's displeasure.
"It stinks!" Ulfric says, shaking the-pelt-Jorleif sees now that he has an unobstructed view of the arguing pair.
Galmar nods his head, runs his fingers thoughtfully through his beard and calmly states, "That's because it's dead. And fresh."
Indeed, the animal does look like it might still benefit from some restoration magic.
"Can you explain to me, you horker-brained cretin, why a hairy carcass in my bed is something you believe I would enjoy!?" the Jarl bellows and a few soldiers shift nervously.
Jorleif and Yrsarald too share a look of mutual bewilderment. Both men stand hidden in the shadows behind the throne of Ysgramor and hopefully the solid stone will protect them both should their leader lose his infamous temper and unleash one of his Shouts.
"It will make you look imposing," the housecarl argues, blithe and hopeful, trying to convince his old friend of the brilliance of his idea. "Threatening."
"The only threatening thing about it is its smell." Ulfric Stormcloak does not need anything to make him intimidating. He tosses the pelt at his housecarl and crosses his arms in defiance.
Galmar shakes himself briefly, pulls the fur off and holding it up in one paw he reaches out to his friend.
"Look– "
"Don't come any closer," Ulfric warns with one hand lifted and Galmar falters mid-step and stops. They all can feel it, the pressure underlying the Jarl's words, the crackling power of his Thu'um and Jorleif and Yrsa both duck at the same time. But the attack never comes and instead of decking his lord in the cadaver, Galmar slings it over his own shoulders.
Yrsa chokes out a disgusted bleh and Ulfric takes a step back while his housecarl spreads his arms and turns around once, showing off. "If the Imperials can make it work, so can I," he declares.
"If you wanted to look like an Imperial I would have bought you a skirt," Ulfric mutters with something akin to morbid fascination.
"But now I look like a commander!" Galmar says, obviously enthralled with his new garb judging by his happy grin.
Yrsarald hopes that he won't press for an order for all of them to follow his lead. He believes in the Stormcloak cause, but there is such a thing as taking things too far. A skirt doesn't sound that bad, come to think of it.
The Jarl shakes his head slowly, while disbelief and disgust wage a war for the more prominent expression across his face. "You look like you got ambushed in the woods and now that – thing – is eating your head!"
"It's a bear," Galmar states proudly. "It's your sigil, on your banners and coat of arms. You should wear it with pride."
"Kyne save me," Ulfric breathes and rubs the bridge of his crooked nose.
"Hehe," Galmar chuckles, holding his gut. "When I get one of them Goldskins I'll make myself one to match."
"If you like it so much," Ulfric retorts tiredly "You can keep it. And next time you feel like doing me a favor, please resist."
Galmar roars with laughter at his Jarl's disgruntled glare and words and the bear's head shakes as well, ears trembling. Ulfric slowly raises a hand in defeat and slaps its snout shut, effectively muffling the other Nord's guffaws. When then the whole thing tilts downwards, over his housecarl's face, he turns on his heel and sweeps out of the war room whilst his dignity is still intact. When his floundering friend is torn between freeing himself and following his Jarl, he runs straight into the wall.
Next to Jorleif Yrsarald dissolves into fits of laughter and the steward pulls hard at his moustache to keep from doing the same, because Ulfric's gaze fixes on the two of them on his way out. The Stormcloak officer looks troubled for a brief moment, but then Ulfric's expression softens, eyes crinkling with mirth and his lips twitch in well-concealed amusement. He lays a finger across them with a nod towards the man who now stands waving his arms wildly in an attempt to keep the pelt from suffocating him.
"Somebody, aid my valiant housecarl in his struggle," Ulfric Stormcloak says with a pointed look in their direction.
They both scatter as quickly as they can.
'Moments like these,' Jorleif thinks while hiding with Sifnar in the kitchens, waiting out the storm, 'Are why he wouldn't want to work anywhere but Windhelm'.