Wulfric cantered towards the city gates easily and fluidly. There was a small collection of guards standing at the entrance, but he expected little resistance from them; he had been told by those that had returned from Jormundyr’s path that almost no southern settlements refused visitors. Nonetheless, he did expect to be an oddity, as a northlander. For the most part, northlanders tended to look down on the softer southerners. 

He was dressed for cold travel. Leather armor made up most of his outfit, from leggings, tunic, armguards, grieves, and boots. However, he did have finely crafted steel armor to cover his shoulders, to act as the outer piece on his armguards and grieves, and on either hip, hanging from the belt that also carried his two throwing axes. No one would be able to strike forearm, shoulder, or hip- places that he might use more often than the rest of his body. On top of his head sat a steel helm, with a fur and leather cap underneath to keep his head warm. The helmet was open-faced, and sat snugly. On top, the recently shed antlers of his caribou mount were worked into the helm, giving him two tall, 2-foot-long 7-point antlers to stick out of his head like some sort of nature spirit. All of it was layered, rather than one giant piece, so that it absorbed the most it could, while not being overly thick or suffocating. 

The final part of his ensemble was his cloak- alternatively steel-grey and black, it was the fur of one of the fierciest predators in the north- the belek. The hood was made from the head of the beast, the clasp from its ivory teeth. Anyone who saw the cloak, or the three belek-claw scars on his left cheek, knew that he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

The antlers had been shaved down from their original size- caribou antlers were too massive to have sitting on your head. The original antlers had been well over five feet long when they finally were shed.

His throwing axes were esquisite, a water-like pattern of slightly blued steel making up the surface of the entire blade on each. Godsteel, it was called, and it was stronger than any southerner steel by a fair margin. Rare, and only found in the mountains- which was why his greatsword, the extra-long double-handed longsword that was sheathed on his back, was only regular northerner steel. His hunting knife was also godsteel, sheathed next to one of his throwing axes on his hip, and he had several more knives hidden on him, stuck inside his boot or the like. Northerners never went anywhere without being armed to the teeth.

His caribou mount was Erling, one of the finest specimens in the northern calvary. At 18 hands (6 feet) tall, he stood a slight bit taller than any large horse, and as big as a warhorse. Because spring had only recently arrived, and caribou shed their antlers in the winter months, there were only stubs on his head. Nonetheless, his black-and-brown coloring made him slightly unique, as did the great white section that rose from the base of his neck all the way up to his ears. It was a coloring and strength that was bred, and something that Wulfric was proud to own.

Trotting up to the guard, he inclined his head to the oldest of them.

[color=burlywood]“Wolfric Norvegr. I’m-”[/color]

The guard sergeant waved his hand, interrupting him. “Save it, Northlander. You can head on in.”

Wulfric frowned at him, but nonetheless kicked Erling, cantering on past and through the gate, perturbed. They didn’t care, really? Ah, well.

Once he passed thorugh the gates, the size of Erling became nothing. There were crowds in the main street, their reason obvious because of the market stalls that were set up on either side, leading straight through the city to the keep in the middle. Ah, the keep- just what he was looking for. Maybe introduce himself to the local ruler, see if there was anything to be gained here. 

He dismounted, and took Erling’s reins by hand, leading his friend through the throng. People cursed or muttered angrily at being pushed aside by the northlander, but those mutters ceased when they turned and saw the fiercesome, attractive northlander face peering at them curiously. The weapon on his back and the size of his pack denoting that he was a man of strength and endurance- more than enough to cause any anger to wash away into sudden forgiveness.

Wulfric wasn’t too terribly impressed by these people, but was nonetheless fascinated by all this… culture. He could pick out so many little things- foods he’d never seen, patterns and designs for weapons, clothing, that he’d never be able to imagine. It was a very different land, Wulfric knew, and he was determined to see anything it had to offer him. 

He was busy striding through the throng when someone caught his eye- a pretty young woman with hair red as flame. Standing behind a stall of her own, she beamed and waved him over. Intrigued, he dutifully strode over, and she began introducing to him- in their strange southern accent- of all the treats she had to offer! He hadn’t heard of any of it, of course, but it… sounded nice?

[color=burlywood]“I’ve no coin, merchant.”[/color]

He felt… kinda bad about the way her face fell, but there was nothing to be done. He turned to walk away, and instead bumped into a raven-haired lady tugging along what must be her sister. The woman immediately began apologizing- but the sister, and her mouth…

[color=burlywood]“HAHA! You have spirit, girl, something many of these people seem to lack! Do not apologize, and be on your way. You are forgiven!”[/color]

He stared after the two of them as they hurried away, the somewhat odd encounter replaying in his mind.

He wasn’t that ugly, was he? Spirit was good and all, but he thought his nose rather suited his face…

[hr]

An hour’s wandering had found him at an inn. Trading a bundle of wolf hides to a tanner, he had earned himself enough money to afford an inn. His Path mentor had told him about inns and taverns- they gave you alcohol, lodging, and usually stew for low prices. So, he settled into a room, got himself a bath, a bowl of stew, and a bit of mead. Having refreshed himself, a stableboy took care of his caribou- which had to be calmed, because not just anyone could handle a northlander’s steed- and he made his way towards the keep. 

He had discarded his greatsword and heavy pack, but he kept his axes, knives, and cloak. Needed to look good for the ruler, after all.

He marched into the keep as if he owned the place, surveying it for defensibility and practicality. It was certainly well-furnished- perhaps the ruler would rather have a palace- but there was a strength and solidity to its walls that appealed to the northern warrior. 

A guard blocked his path just inside the first courtyard from the gate. The other guards hadn’t given him any trouble, but this one seemed determined to set him straight.

“A Northlander, then? You all look so… barbaric. Alright, I guess you want to meet with King Montemshaven. Or First, as you northerners call him. Every time, I have to deal with you people…”

The guard- mid-thirties, mayhaps, with paler skin than those outside, and wearing his armor and sword as if they were a great burden to the world, waved him towards the oak double doors on the other side of the courtyard.

“My Lord’s not busy at the moment, and accepting visitors. Straight through there will gain you an audience.”

Wulfric nodded his thanks, and strode past the man to the doorway. Shoving his way through, he strode into a large, long throne room- with the man himself sitting on a chair, up on a dais about four steps above the rest of the floor. As it was, the man probably wasn’t that impressive, but at least he had a strong jawline and stare.

[color=burlywood]“Wulfric Sundberg, I am, from the settlement Norvegr. I come as a pilgrim on the Path of Jormundyr.”[/color]