the swarthy Dane enters the feasthall, quickly closing the door behind him, so as not to let in the frigid winter air. Frost clings to his neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and his long, wavy hair is gnarled from the whipping wind.

A tall man, with deep brown tresses and icy blue eyes, the Dane carries a long sax on his belt, and has a sword, the hilt polished from use, hanging at his hip. The hauberk he wears has seen much use, and has patches of broken links. The shield across his back is nicked and the boss dented, obvious signs of recent use.

Giving a perfunctory nod to the first few patrons and attendants he sees, he ambles slowly over to a long bench, seating himself a short distance away from the rest of the patrons, so as not to intrude. His voice is deep and resonant amidst the tumult of the hall...

Lass...a horn of mead, if you please. Warmed, preferably...

The Dane settles easily into his seat, a curious smile playing over his lips...