Northmen is a tale of pre-Medievals who were ill-mannered and woefully unkempt even by the standards of the time. A shoe in for an Academy if Best War-cry was a category (though the wolf-howls emitted from the drooling lips of wide-eyed and soiled faces was quite impressive, too). The swords were sharp and swung with much contempt for the target, with a motivation for revenge, blood-lust, or alleviation from the TV-less boredom that pervaded the stone-age populace. If you noted no mention of intrigue and embraceable qualities among the characters in my description, then you'd be on to something.
When the protagonist was close to the possibility of fulfilling the plot; garnishing a simple and much needed admiration, he waded into the precipice of annihilation among his foes with a regard for safety that would cause a simple-minded toddler to blush, and left the weary viewer wondering what form of theatrical device would deliver him from complete doom, and deliver the viewer from watching the painful existence of those who had yet to discover the invention of hair shampoo and eating utensils.