Freyble: Freya, Telephos, and The Seasons

This is a commonly repeated Freyan fable, originating at least a few generations ago. It is told in order to explain the origin of the seasons, the harshness of Valley life, and Freya's personal relationship to Telephos. This particular version was told to Lady Delazny by her first Freyan teacher, Rather Holy Melissa, who seems to be really into religious epithets. 
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Back in the day, Freya was tracking a wounded Bandersnatch across the valley. This terrible and dangerous beast was fine prey, as it moved with haste and grace, leaving few tracks. The hunt was long and arduous, as the creature carved a confounding path from the heights of the Stoneheart Mountains, down to the distant dales, and back again. For years, our huntress marked every broken twig, examined every toxic dropping, and followed every unworldly scent.
Eventually, her quest brought her through the land of her old friend Telephos, who tirelessly worked the fields and grew his sensible crops to feed the deities. As our Divine Lover moved, she brought life. Where she stepped, weird and wild plants took root, adding the valley's bounty, while disrupting the order of the farmer's fields. In her wake followed a parade of joyful, copulating beasts. Bees, who pollinated the crops, and rodents, who ate their share. Sheep and cows who fertilised the ground, while consuming the sown seed. And mortal people, who cared for the harvest, before celebrating, relaxing, and feasting. Telephos, in his focused discipline, could not see the joy in this cacophony, and after many years of growing frustration, the Stoic Farmer came to speak with his old friend:
"Oh Powerful Huntress, I praise you for slaying the beasts of this land, but I implore you, end your hunt and return to your gardens. Where you pass you bring destruction and disorder, greater than the monster you track."
"My dear Tireless Labourer, I confess I do not understand. You speak of destruction, but I see only life and bloom! Look upon your fields, are they not more bounteous, more glorious, flowing with flavour and joy?"
"My Lady of Love, I grant, your gift of life is great, but it is also wild and unruly. You see, I had this whole careful system here. You've come in and messed it all up. I must maintain these fields or our mighty siblings will starve!"
"Oh Honourable Horticulturist, must our family sustain itself only on wheat and water? May they not prefer the sweet variety offered by those who follow in my wake? Quiet Narrah may drink of their superstitions, young Bowbe can feed on their anger, and creepy-but-in-a-sexy-way Pharasma will surely sustain herself as they pass from this life."
"Great Voluptuous Vixen, by my scythe I would not spare a seed of speculation about what Pharasma might prefer, she can find her damned snacks somewhere else. Right here I happen to be growing wheat, these are my fields, and with all appropriate approbation I would prefer you and your Bandersnatch tryst elsewhere, because some of us have real work to be getting on with."
"Oh Steadfast Bastion Against Joy and Flourishing, I'm sure your work is all very important and all very difficult and not at all an elaborate ritual of self-punishment that could be worked out much more efficiently and pleasurably if you visited me in my garden some day. Nonetheless, I hunt, and so long as the prey respects not your fields and fences, nor shall I."
The two old friends parted in anger, but not for long. The following day Telephos returned to Freya, not to speak but to reap. With his old faithful scythe turned a terrifying tool of slaughter, the Grim Harvester strode through the Lifebringer's wake, indiscriminately cutting down the foreign plants and animals alike. As she continued her hunt, our Tender Mother wept for her children. Desperate to protect her young offspring, Freya blessed the beasts with powerful defenses; some were granted dire strength, some learned to disappear and confuse, some gained the ability to sense the coming of death (mostly just the cows, she gave that to the cows for some reason). As the Diligent Farmer saw his problems multiply beyond control, he reluctantly returned home.
Only to wake the following day with renewed determination. The Cruel Curmudgeon came to Freya and blighted the land on which she stood, permanently rendering the soil barren and muddy. Pausing to smell a patch of Bandersnatch droppings, the Graceful Huntress saw her followers grow weak with hunger, and weep as their children starved. With boundless compassion, our Divine Mother taught her children to hunt the wily beasts, showed them how to gather and prepare the wild fruits of the valley, and gifted them with prayers and rituals for returning some small fertility to the land. Once again Telephos was thwarted, as the plague of life and joy continued to spread, and so he returned home.
And yet, once again, he returned the following day with a new destructive plan. Calling upon the growing coldness of his heart, the Frigid Miser cast a great frost across valley, chilling plant and animal alike. As the Bandersnatch's few footfalls were paved over with ice and snow, the Relentless Pursuer looked around, and witnessed the suffering of her frozen creations. Lamenting that her petulant old friend had gone so far, Freya did all she could to provide for her children. She blessed the trees with hardy longevity, she taught the beasts to seek shelter and hibernate. She came among her followers and taught them to huddle for warmth, to freely share their stores, to sing, and dance, and pray, and love through the cold days and nights. And so they survived, and Telephos returned home.
But the following day he rose with a cold and miserable hatred, his frigid body irrevocably cut from the joys and wonders of playful freedom. With placid rage, he called the thick, dry clouds from his heart, and spread them wide across the sky of the valley, blocking the sun from the land, shrouding all life under a dismal gloom. Plants, beasts, and people wilted, cut from the energy that sustained them. Our Loving Carer wept again, as the land grew tired and depressed, and she knew she could not hunt the clouds. Satisfied in their mutual destruction, the grim labourer Telephos turned to head home one last time. However, this time he was stopped by his wise brother Arden.
"Oh Diligent Worker," he asked, "What the heck are you doing now? The rains are yours, but the sun is mine, and your misery is proving intrusive."
"Oh grand Blazing Bird of Fire, please understand these clouds are necessary. My fields suffer from a foul infection, produced by that profligate progenitor, Freya."
"My dear bullheaded brother, are you speaking of these strong and beautiful plants, these powerful and wily beasts, or these diverse, joyous, loving, desperate people? Have you stolen their light, frozen their lands, cursed their soil and culled their children? While you obsess over the order of your fields, your siblings suffer. Narrah and I are cut off from the land, Pharasma is overworked, Tsathogga won't stop laughing, and poor Rhombodazzle seems to have shrunk, though that may be unrelated."
"Oh Hot Explodey Sky Ball, I see you have been charmed by the Lady of Love, and will take her side as always, but she started th-"
"Silence, you joyless bore!" Arden shouted, as flames shot from his mighty staff, largely for dramatic effect. "You have intruded upon my domain and I demand resolution."
And so Arden called Telephos, Freya, and all affected deities to a divine Dispute Resolution Process. It was all very dull and political, but in the end a promise was formed. The clouds were to be withdrawn. The frost, restricted to one quarter of each year. Great swathes of the farmer's land were to be granted to the wild young races, and Freya was to be granted free passage throughout the valley. Finally, Telephos was to never again interfere with the fragile lives of mortal beings. The promise was sworn on Arden's staff, and it holds fast to this day.
Relieved and grateful, Freya returned to the hunt, presumably after making out with Arden for a while. In time she cornered the quilled beast, brought it down with a single well-placed arrow, and triumphantly dragged her kill back north to her gardens, to feast, to celebrate, and finally to rest.