People don't like to think about death! Makaria chided herself, angry and embarrassed at how she was making this whole visit go. It was so easy for her to slip into conversations about death. Her mother was the Dread Queen, her father the ruler of the dead, her sister the goddess of ghosts: family dinners always ended up turning to death and it was so normal. But other people, actually normal people, didn't find that so appealing.
It didn't help that the few dear friends she'd made among gods were like her: Thanatos who brought death and was so kind to her. Qebhet, not of her pantheon but still a funeral director and guide to the dead. They were people who understood her (or, at least, her position among the souls of the departed).
But Freyr was a god of life and abundance and light. Those things were so very far from the place she had always resided. (Though they were both blessed gods, weren't they? She of blessed death and he of blessed life. It was something, at least. Though perhaps not enough.)
"I usually play black," Makaria said, trying to brush away her thoughts. "Though I don't really mind which. I just sort of picked when we first played."