Wulfstan has the handsome, locally plausible face of a Latvian young man, with a straight nose, a lively mouth, and an expression that seems to be halfway between welcome and apology. His grooming is unexpectedly meticulous: his dark hair is trimmed with borrowed scissors, his nails are scrubbed, and he keeps his collar straight even after a night on the floor. Up close, he smells unmistakably of onions, soap, and the faint sour warmth of a restaurant kitchen; he knows it, and will make a joke about it before anyone else can. He moves with the careful, slightly overlong stride of someone still learning a taller, stronger frame. When seated, he folds himself small, then rises too quickly and bumps the table. His smile can make a room feel safer, until a sharp joke lands on the wrong person.

He is perceptive and generous with attention, yet sometimes uses a joke to seize control of a room before fear can. He can be warm and unhurried with someone who feels overlooked, then brisk and sharply practical when danger threatens. When alone, he is less composed: curious about his new strength, embarrassed by its impulses, and frightened by how quickly he can feel at home in a body that still does not feel like his. He wants to be useful without becoming the group's permanent emotional caretaker.

Before displacement, Wulfstan was a woman who performed for a living and worked restaurant shifts, learning how to keep a crowd listening and a kitchen moving when everyone was tired. The event that carried the group elsewhere left him in Latvia, in the body of a handsome young man with local features and speech. His sex changed along with his body; he understands himself as a man, and the others in The Seven at the Smoke-Bend treat him that way. The change still unsettles him. His voice catches in unfamiliar places, his face and body hair arrive on their own schedule, he is hungrier than he expects, and his stronger frame sometimes makes ordinary movements feel like mistakes. He jokes about the awkwardness when panic threatens to take over, but the humor sometimes cuts someone already raw. He has shown no clear sign of the heritage that has marked others in the group. Their suffering makes his relief feel like a private betrayal. He has become the group's speaker and morale-keeper because he can turn a scattered complaint into a workable plan. Aino's steadiness has begun to matter to him in a way he is trying not to name; he is afraid that wanting closeness would make a hard situation harder for her. His immediate problems are practical: keeping the displaced circle fed, negotiating for safe shelter, and helping the others endure a place that is not home.