“Excuse me, ole father-of-men?” Olga was shocked to hear Odin speak so horribly about his little brother. The one-eyed god was drunk, though, that was obvious, so maybe it was forgivable.
“Nevermind Olga, my problems are not meant for little people’s ears.”
Odin was not only drunk. He looked downright despondent. And she knew why.
The party was going in its typical nightly fashion. Someone had set fire to the table, and a few hundred warriors were engaged in a food fight that usually turned deadly as the mead and ale flowed. The hall stunk like piss and shit, and whatever else lined the insides of a person’s stomach, who has limitless supplies of food and inebriates.
Olga was just there to serve, clear, and stay out of the way, but she hated it in Odin’s hall. Everyone on staff at Vahalla did.
“Just look at this rabble. Every night the same unrelenting chaos, and what does my brother do?”
Maybe the question is rhetoric, but Olga’s mind conjures up an answer anyway, and she replies, “They sit and read and have even sided debates about life, and it’s intimate meaning.”
“Exactly. And here I am with a new crop of tools on top of the old every night. Remember the plankers from a few years ago. God, I was happy when they all challenged each other and fell off the side of the world tree.”
He sighs, and the sound breaks Olga’s heart. “What can I do Father of all Magical Songs?” she asks hoping he’ll say nothing and let her leave, there was a play happening in Nido’s hall and she wanted to watch a bit of it before the Gods snapped and made her reset the hall for a new day.
“Nothing Olga just venting.”
And she hurries away happy to be able to escape.