“The sagas tell us that Snaka made us from the mud of the world, moulding us like a potter moulds clay and, when he was pleased with our form, that he breathed his Seiðr-breath into us, giving us life. When we die, it does not take long for us to go back to the ground, to become what we were, once the spark of life has left us. So, I do this to remind me, of where we came from, of where we are headed, and that this life is fleeting. Best to make the most of it. To fight hard and fierce.” He shrugged, pulling the pitted, iron-headed hammer from his belt and hefting it. “It also helps my grip.”
