Beyond the Pale

Lost Cause

"Gods-damned incompetent fool, " Castorius muttered. The sad fact was, though, that while he was certain of that particular assessment being right on the money, he didn't know whether it applied more to Falk Firebeard or to himself.

As it was, the spot marked "Stormcloak camp" on the map given to him by Firebeard told him that right at the moment he should be standing in the middle of the said encampment, having a pleasant conversation with old Ulfric himself. But instead, the briefest of consultations with the actual situation conveyed a sorry vision of a cold, wet, and deeply unhappy Imperial soldier, lost in the middle of shrubs, rocks, and evergreens—ankle-deep in sludge and slush, and rehashing the storage of available curses in his mental repositories.

In his other hand he held the reins of his horse, who showed absolutely no sign of caring one way or another about his concerns.

"That untrustworthy little motherf—"

Castorius' analysis was cut short, as he thought he heard a howling among the trees.

Just the wind.

Oblivion can take the wind!

If there was anything positive to be said, it was that his retreat from Alva's place had been a relatively painless one—despite the fervent attempts of the woman to hinder him, practically begging on her knees for him to find a way of staying the night. And though he generally held in contempt any notion of a person degrading themselves in front of anyone else, he was hard pressed to deny that Alva's beseeching had touched favorably upon his somewhat dented sense of self-worth.

The only way for him to earn his retreat had ultimately been to promise his swift return, and that at that time he'd spend the night, or even several.

It now looked as though it would be completely impossible for him to return to that house again, and indeed he would have to stay as far away from Morthal as he possibly could. It was too bad, for he had really enjoyed Alva's cookery. Among other things.

But life, as they said, went on. Presumably, at least.

Having then put aside any thoughts of his possible demise looming in the near future, Castorius had been in quite a lighthearted mood upon arriving at The Pale. He'd even deviated from his usual ways and whistled a few notes, so much promise had the day thus far shown. Certainly it was a sign of some sort. His attitude had been correct, and he'd set up his intentions in such way that he'd come out of all this a winner. It looked obvious that the fates had great things reserved for a man of his abilities and ambitions. The world was malleable, and would only reward those who set themselves up for success, and would without fail recognize those worthy of its gifts and blessing. Man made, Castorius had been fairly sure, his own destiny.

Well, shit on that, it seemed!

He cursed again. All around him he saw nothing but woods—tree upon tree upon stinking tree! Not the surroundings of his making, to be sure. Certainly not the surroundings of his choice. And not at all how it was supposed to be! He'd turned off the path exactly where the map had indicated he should. He was as sure as he'd ever been of anything that this was the exact spot where the map claimed the Stormcloaks should be found. He was perhaps not the most soldierly of soldiers at the best of times, but he did pride himself on account of his impeccable sense of direction, and on his ability to find any place, no matter how strange the surroundings. If it had only been properly marked on a map accurately drawn.

So the fault was obviously Falk's, Castorius was sure of it. It had to be. The map was of the standard kind, so it was not like to be mistaken. That should have perhaps made him feel better, but it didn't. How was it possible the High King had for a second hand someone so utterly clueless about such a basic matter? Surely Ulfric stood a chance if this was the best kind of help Torygg had to go by.