Last Speech of the Witch-Queen

Harken, brothers and sisters of the north, sons and daughters of Shor! I, Jsashe Fox-Sworn, stand before you today, as Jarl by right of birth, having served Whiterun Hold as my father before me, and his brother before him. I stand before you as Jarl by right of honour, having led our people most valiantly in the Snowhawk War. I stand before you as Jarl by right of Divine Will, chosen by our Gods, in the way of our people, since the Ashen Hart rejected the Alessian Heresies. Jhunal’s riddles I passed, and I weathered the fury of Kyne atop Snow-Throat for three days and nights. My love for you, dearest citizens, over whom I have ruled these past 20 years, earned me the blessings of Mara, and our soldiers' mercy and might in the conquest of Snowhawk granted me the smiles of the brothers Stuhn and Tsun. Our temple, brothers and sisters, runs red with the blood of our sacrifices to Our Enemies Three, and my lifelong worship to Shor has blessed our land with our Lord’s favour. But hear this, children of Skyrim; our way, the old way, the way of Ysgramor, is dying.

Already the Empire brands me Heretic, already Ocato the Elf turns his venomous gaze northward. For our people’s honour, love and worship of Shor, the Cyrodiils brand me Witch-Queen, brand me Priestess of Lorkhan, the elves' pale imitation of the Fallen God and His Glory. Our brothers in Bruma spread whispers of betrayal, rumours that the Potentate sends his dirty Legions to our walls to bury us and our true worship; to stifle the last fires of the Old Gods. See, already, how the Nordic ways have fallen! Solitude, those spineless dogs, has outlawed our ways, worshipping instead those Milk-Drinker Gods from the Imperial Province, venerating the Time Dragon instead of cowering from His Great and Terrible wrath. The other Holds follow suit, forgetting Kyne for Kynareth, and Stuhn for Stendarr. Even Windhelm wavers, close to forgetting Shor himself. O, how far our once proud and devout land has fallen!

When Ocato’s Inquisition arrives, as the Alessians did before them, we shall stand our ground. When the Cyrodiils demand we worship their false gods, we will not obey. When our own walls come falling down upon our very bodies, we will not die, but be raised to Sovngarde by Shor himself!

(The rest of the speech was drowned out by the rapturous applause from the citizens in attendance.)