You, sir, are a fish.

Perhaps he's more on edge than usual. The impending birth of his wife's first litter. The kidnapping of his adoptive daughter. The woman that had shown up on his doorstep, broken, in such a way that only the gods had put her there? Víðarr was emotionally raw, volatile. Unsure of exactly what to think, what to feel, but... fuck. Fuck, he still has a job to do. His head noisy, the weight of it heavy around his chest. Yes, the task at hand.

He can smell the trespasser on the shifting breeze around the same time as the call comes. Familiar, but he doesn't place it until staring down the barrel of the puffed up, brown, scrawny thing. Víðarr fixed him with a curious stare, approaching at a light jog. In no way concealing his approach, but waiting an uncomfortably long time before speaking. No, it's not until he comes to a stop and looks the boy up and down for a moment. A deep furrow in his brows, viewing the panicked creature.

"Fishboy?" When he finally speaks, it's not altogether unkind. If he was about to be more of a dad, maybe he's everyone's dad.

"Víðarr"