In one version of his story Óðr was a foundling taken in after Njörðr accidentally slew his mother in the form of a bear; in another, he was the son of Óðinn and a noblewoman of the Fair Elves raised at the Vanic court; in a third, he was a mortal prince whose uncle slew his father and married his mother, and the woman Óðr loved went insane while he only pretended to; in the fourth Óðr was a child of incomparable beauty who drowned, plunging his sisters into unfathomable grief; in the sixth he was a pious teen raised by a witch in the woods who taught Óðr magic songs and how to work with all kinds of plants and poisons; in the seventh he was a wolf who became leader of the pack and fell in love with Máni and later was translated to the stars; in the eighth he was a serf who died fat, bald and old among his many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren but whose name and deeds were completely forgot by the time the youngest’s grandchildren had grandchildren of their own. And then there was the ninth – but that story must wait, for I have others to tell first.