Wulfric strode into the crowded hall, wary eyes scanning the crowd. They were all annoyingly almost as he was, with only a few exceptions among the women. These southerners are still narrow, though- they don’t have nearly as much muscle as his kin. Tall, slender, most of them. 

Wulfric had no dress clothes, and his people didn’t have parties. There were celebrations, but those were more like great drinking contests, gathering around to laugh with friends while eating freshly fired venison or boar. This sort of celebration- filled with fancy clothing and esquisite dancing- was quite outside his realm of experience.

On his head sat his helmet- caribou antlers rising up higher than anyone else in the crowd. The open-faced design of it allowed him to wear it casually, and for that he was greatful. His belek-fur cloak drew admiring stares and envious glances, no matter where he went, but no one paid much attention to his clothing. They were as fine as he had- a simple brown tunic, and his leather leggings (which had extra padding on the inside of his thighs, for riding animals). His leather boots were everpresent, and he had removed all his steel plating for the occasion. What does one do at a party? These people talked lower, more subdued than his kin.

His clothing was as far as he was willing to go with his concessions to the local culture- he still wore all his knives, and his throwing axes. His hair still spilled down from his chin, and from beneath the bottom of his helm. 

It did not take long before a scantily clad woman, tall, slender, pale, and redheaded, approached him, a similarly built and appearing man at her shoulder. They were the first of several who wanted to hear his northerner stories.

Ten minutes passed, finding Wulfric to be the center of a dozen or so revelers. He was telling the tale of Brunnhilde, the Valkyrie that lost her status and was cast into a pit of direwolves. His audience? Enraptured, as he told the take with his voice and body.