Beyond the Pale

Ever the Charmer

If the contest between the two factions had come down to the quality of weaving in the ropes they used, the score would have been just about even. Both of them had proven themselves quite disagreeable around Castorius' wrists. Perhaps that was the whole idea?

His jaw was still sore where the Stormcloak brute had landed his blow, and he had a headache from taking a boot to the head. His requests for a healing potion had been met with mute scorn, as on the whole his presentation to the camp had fallen somewhat short of warm embrace. Despite his vehement assurance that he was not a spy, there appeared to be no second opinion on the matter that he was precisely that. "If I were a spy," he'd tried. "do you think I'd be as stupid as to dress up like this and come walking openly in your turf?"

Yes indeed, would he? They seemed to largely agree that he would. The only thing Castorius hated more than people holding a low opinion of him was when they were correct to do so.

"We'll let Ulfric decide what to do with you, once he arrives," they'd said. And by the looks on their faces, they had a pretty clear idea of what exactly that would be. Doubtless nothing Castorius himself would enjoy too much.

That last bit hardly needed adding.

Castorius worried he might be left with an ugly bruise, a scar even. Growing up, he'd never entertained the idea of being particularly pretty, but then at some point started to hear that from people—admiringly from women, with disdain from men—and slowly had started to believe it himself. Sooner than he'd realized, then, it had become a genuine concern of his that something might happen to diminish the agreeable nature of his visage. At points he'd even wondered if his appearance might be his one redeeming quality, without which it would be revealed what a reprehensible toad he truly was.

The prospect was chilling, and one he'd learned to sweep aside with steadfast resoluteness. So that's what he did now, too.

He was sitting on a wolf pelt—so something good came out of the foul beasts—inside one of the tents at the camp, hands tied behind his back and ankles together. And to make sure he would not swiftly and surreptitiously hobble away out of the middle of a military camp swarming with Stormcloaks, they'd also left behind a guard. He should have felt flattered. Flattened was more like it.

It had to be said, however, that the one thing in which the Stormcloaks one-upped the Imperials was their selection of sentry. A blond woman of stern yet alluring features stood besides a brazier, warming her hands in the orange glow. A tuft of wheat-blond hair stuck out from under her iron helmet, and, under a furrowed brow, blue eyes stared at the sizzling coals like they were part of some tough-to-break riddle she was just on the brink of solving. She had her face sideways to Castorius, offering him a good view of her nose. It was prominent and slightly hooked at the tip, the kind Castorius—being from Cyrodiil, the native land of handsome beaks—had a strange weakness for.

The woman took no notice of him staring at her.

Castorius cleared his throat to get the woman's attention, but to no avail. He tried again, slightly louder this time, saying, "So, lovely weather we're having."

Not the winning commencement, perhaps.

And, true enough, the woman simply kept staring at the brazier. But the cheek-muscles did clench a trifle under her pale skin.

"Though, I don't suppose it, uh, changes much around here."

The tick of expanding metal, the faint hiss of the coals. Other than that, silence. Castorius drew breath to say something else, playing his role entirely by ear.

"Do not speak to me!" the woman snapped, still not deigning to look at him. Castorius' line, what ever it might had been, died on his lips.

He did not, of course, take the first setback for a defeat. Pretending she'd never said anything at all, he continued, "You seem very confident. Like you really know what you're doing."