Beyond the Pale

Storm Under the Cloak

As he was—rather rudely—shoved ahead towards Ulfric Stormcloak just dismounting his palfrey, Castorius' sense of worry gained momentum. The leader of the rebellion did not look like he was having a good day, and it was starting to look like the alleged spy soon wouldn't be either.

The sun beamed down with blinding brightness, still high up but already falling towards the west. The air had turned crisp and dry, and despite a fresh gust of wind there was a profuse smell of sweat hovering about.

The Stormcloak camp wasn't much larger than Torygg's throne room had been: a collection of six tents made of hides scattered in the midst of evergreens, a smithy to the side, a fireplace around the middle with a cooking spit and a skinned skeever carcass skewered on it, next to it a boiling pot of meager looking stew. Perhaps all together a score of Stormcloaks were positioned here and there, looking more soldierly than Castorius might have expected based on his earlier observations. This Hans fellow being the one possible exception.

Ulfric barked some orders to a pair of soldiers, who saluted and scurried away in haste. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if the Stormcloaks were already preparing for war.

Hans waddled to his disgruntled leader, muttered something in his ear while gesturing towards Castorius. Stormcloak's frown gained a couple of extra furrows as his eyes met with the prisoner's. He nodded, and waved a hand. Hans promptly retreated. Or as promptly as was possible for him.

Castorius swallowed. Ulfric Stormcloak was not the kind of man whose habitus called one to lie to his face. He gave you a sense that he would never himself be dishonest with you—and that he would likely beat you to death with your own severed arms if he caught you being dishonest with him.

An honest man, Castorius thought with disdain. He'd known a few of those. Lying bastards every single one of them.

Ulfric had proud features in his unassuming man-of-the-people sort of way. A strong, prominent nose under slanted gray eyes. The eyes had a slight natural droop to them, and this gave them a certain air of sadness. That impression was further amplified by the world-weary quality in their gaze, which Castorius took for practiced. After all, the man was just barely into his early thirties—how much could there really be to be wary of? Or perhaps the look owed its origin to whatever had left those deep scars in the man's red-bearded cheek.

The most remarkable feature of Ulfric's eyes, though, was the way they gave you the acute sense of a sharp mind working behind them. There was that discerning watchfulness in the man's stare, like he without exception noticed and took note of everything you might do your damnedest to hide from him. Castorius supposed that was an actual feature of the man, and would indeed be hard to fake—though he also suspected Ulfric had a way of over-emphasizing it for dramatic effect. Either way, that look was the most prominent thing in the man making him seem so dangerous. That, and his calm, which appeared to hide behind it a highly tempestuous nature you wanted to do your best not to provoke.

Perhaps that's why they called him Stormcloak in the first place—because the man you saw on the outside hid away the storm within.

Or perhaps that was just silly.

As Ulfric approached him, Castorius—both his head and his heart pounding now—tried to hastily line up the back-story in his head. The details felt utterly lost to him, and the more he tried to fish for them, the worse they got dispersed. The stern look on the rebel-leader's face served to dispel all logical though from the head, leaving but the instinct to survive.

But instinct alone was not enough. It simply told him to run or fight, and neither of those was an option. Why had he ever agreed to this? He shoved back the all too obvious answer.