Magic
Seiðr is a thing of scorn in Asgard. It is fitting only for women and old men, and both are seen as lower than hale, hearty men in most cases. Daggerwork has the same connotation.
I am master of both.
And presently, I need the former to provide me a bartering item, so that I will be able to buy a measly drink without ending this dubiously luxurious period of anonymyty.
A paltry skill for a paltry reason. How… fitting.
Sighing, I squat down and, coating my hands in a layer of protective working, scoop up some sand for my little project. The sand grains are rough, hot and dry against my skin, but they will do for what I have in mind. Their colour is pretty enough, at least.
Hidden in my cupped hands and fed continuously by trickles of my seiðr, I can feel the sand slowly coming together, morphing, hardening, shaping up by my will alone.
This “trick” is one of the basics of seiðrwork, mastered by children before they can advance further in their training. The only ingredients are controlled trickles of one’s seiðr, will, and firm, detailed visualisation.
And, shortly, I have my bartering item.