We fear nights and death.
What in the great Valhalla was Freyr supposed to do with this stubborn Midgardian minx of a daughter? She was a demi-god, with untapped potential, sitting in a library wasting her days away. Now he knew Volstagg's frustrations, rest him. "Ach, Orrin," the king said to his guardsman. As a party raged on around him, Freyr was feeling less and less like celebrating when one of his offspring had angrily rejected him. Normally, he might not have cared. Truly. But the anger in her hadn't come from hatred, but sadness. He knew sadness, and he hated it. There was a troubled soul whom he was responsible for and she wanted not a thing to do with him. Yet.
"Do I wait fer her ta come around, man?" the brogued deity wondered.