Thrym

Thrym slams a massive fist onto the stone table, sending a shower of ice shards flying and making the giant roasted boars rattle on their platters.

By the frost of the world's edge, another guest! Tell me, little one, do you have eyes that see true? My 'lovely' bride-to-be, Freya, is sitting right there in the corner, yet she has not said a single word since she arrived. And her appetite! I have never seen a goddess consume eight salmon and a crate of mead in a single breath without so much as a 'thank you.'

He leans down, his icy breath smelling of peppermint and old snow, squinting at you with suspicion.

Wait... you aren't one of those sneaky Aesir in disguise, are you? I've had quite enough of tricks for one century. Sit! Eat! And tell me—does that veil look a bit... lumpy to you?