The currency in this AU is strictly silver-based and goes like this: 1 penin = 1 silver piece, a square-shaped coin; 1 eyrir = 10 penin, a round coin; 1 mark = 10 eyrir, a triangular coin. Those are the coins that the people use. The next level of the currency doesn't have actual coins to go with the titles, the titles rather refer to clusters of coins. 1 gloe = 30 marks, a, "log," so to say of money, earned its name because most people would come delivering these payments in penins or eyrirs carried in wooden boxes, since the common man doesn't own very many marks; 1 poque = 70 gloe, equivalent to a thousand dollars, is a bag of money. A loaf of bread would cost around 5 eyrirs, a good chunk of meat about 5 marks, an article of clothing from 10-20 mark, housing ranging from 5,000 to 50,000 poque - depending on home quality. Most items cost 5 eyrir and above. Cheap items starting prices would be 3 eyrir to 4 mark. The average items from 5-19 marks. Fine items from 20 marks to any number of gloe. A truly expensive item is at the least 1 poque. Services such as a seamstress sewing an article of clothing is anywhere from 5-8 eyrirs to 20 marks. The success of the seamstress and her skill level drives up the prices. Our main female character is a shitty seamstress with few customers so she charges cheaper (6 eyrir) per article of clothing. If she sews an average of 5 articles a day she'd earn 30 eyrir, or 3 marks, a day. She lives on the poor side. A slave's wage is seen as 2 eyrir a day or lower, since that wouldn't even buy a cheap loaf of bread. The average wage is 5-14 marks a day. To be paid well is 15-25 marks a day. To be paid excellently is 1 gloe and above.

Chapter 1

The air tingled with the residue of magic. Its essence was soaked in blood and reeked of carnage. Loki's face twisted with disgust as he looked down at the ogre at his feet, its body addled with arrows and burnt by magical fire. He bent down and plucked a dagger from its jugular. Thor sidled up next to him, dripping with sweat and dirt and breathing heavily. A wide grin broke across his face and Loki wiped his dagger clean of black blood without looking up.

"What is it?"

"This was a good battle. We should celebrate."

"Only a battle, Thor, not the end of the war. No," Loki said, placing the dagger into his belt alongside the others he'd been retrieving. He began walking away from Thor.

"Come on. It will be a grand time!" Thor declared, trotting alongside Loki's quick pace. Loki rolled his eyes and said nothing.

Lady Sif and the Warriors Three fell upon the two the moment they were spotted. Loki halted with his brother to chat. He hung back, away from the group. Chatting after a battle never suited him. What suited him after a battle was bathing the blood and mud caked to him away. Perhaps enjoying a private drink and private affair with whoever struck his fancy that night. Yet the rest of them badgered on, cheering and whooping and talking about how shitfaced they were going to get later on. Loki bit his inner cheek and huffed.

"Well, I'll be getting on my way," he announced and turned to depart.

"No, you have to come out for a drink with us, Loke!" Fandral protested, using the annoying nickname that made his friends titter. Loki pivoted to face them, their bright red faces holding back louder laughs. He gave an annoyed groan at their behavior.

"I really don't wish to go out tonight," he asserted.

"Truly? Not for one drink?" Thor asked.

"Or to get laid?" Lady Sif supplied casually. Thor and the Warriors Three gave her some looks. "What? Am I not allowed to know that sex is a thing?" She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Frandral threw his hands up in surrender, Volstagg took a step back with a defeated shake of his head, and Hogun wore a small amused smile at the antics. She turned back to Loki. "Listen, victory and battle make people...excited. It's not a crime to want to...share the euphoria."

"Listening to you try to explain this is hilarious," Volstagg laughed.

"Well, sorry I don't go out and do this sort of thing every other night and thus am not as familiar with it as you clearly are!" Sif snapped. "Loki, do you want to go out and bed a woman or not?"

"Or a man. You don't know what he prefers," Frandral interjected.

"Listen, Frandral," Loki began, hands twined over his chest and a pitied look in his eye. "I'm flattered but-"

The group's booming laughter cut him off. Even Frandral laughed in between the poison glares he gave. Loki relished in the laughter. One of the greatest power trips was in telling an excellent joke and knowing the whole group laughed because of your doing.

"One drink," Loki consented as the laughter died down. A unanimous whoop and then Loki's shoulders were draped by his brother's thick arm dragging him from the battlefield. He smirked. One drink, and maybe he would take Sif's advice and, "share the euphoria," as she'd so eloquently put it.

The woman bounced the basket of laundry on her hip bone. Grass tickled her bare feet as she walked to her cottage. She cursed herself for buying a home at the top of a hill. It had been all she could afford at the time. Her mind's eye remembered what life had been like previously, when things were so bad and she slept on the cobblestone streets rather than a bed. Now, thin and underfed flesh had gained weight and strength; her empty coinpurse jostled with the light coin she earned; her once filthy hands were clean but also callous from work. A happy smile graced her features. In this new village things were beginning to turn around.

When she entered through the door she flipped the sign hanging from it to indicate her practice was open. She walked in, shutting the door behind her and lighting a candle with her magic. It reminded her that she needed to repair her wand.

"Later," she spoke to herself, dropping the basket of clothing on her work table.

The cottage had one bedroom, a tiny little kitchen, no indoor bathroom, and a quaint area that made for a living room. An outhouse served for her waste needs and a large wooden barrel in the corner of her living room made for a tub. In her living room there was a fireplace for cold winter nights with a loveseat, armchair, and poorly-made rug she'd sewn herself. Three small alters were set on her bookshelf. One for Sif, the courageous warrior woman her mother had taught her to worship. She remembered her mother spending long nights praying to the warrior goddess for strength to flow into her child. Another for Frigga, whom her old teacher had taught her the virtues of. The patience and kindness of the All-Mother had truly shown in her childhood instructor, but she doubted it ran in her. The harsh world had made her too cynical to be able to give kindness freely. Her last alter was for Loki, the Trickster God. She'd chosen him to worship for herself, needing a character she could relate to. Loki was more than a trickster, she knew he must be. Nobody was a simple archetype to her, there was always something lurking deeper. She liked to believe that something that lurked deep in him was the same thing that lurked deep in her. The last piece of her living room was her work table.

She sat at the table, pulling up the hard wooden stool. She plucked a torn shirt from the basket and inspected it.

"Hm. Needs a patch," she declared. She reached under the table for her box of scrap fabric. Its weight made the table creak when she dropped it down. She began fishing through it, searching for the same fabric in the same pale pink color. When she found it she plucked it from the rest and got to stitching.

She wasn't a talented seamstress by any means, but she had a few loyal customers. The rest of the village went to Berit Gautrdottir. The other, much more talented seamstress was making a killing while our girl here struggled to eat some weeks. On weeks like those, her loyal customers would bring her extra clothes to sew together that always looked purposefully ripped. She hated their pity but needed their money, so she never complained.

"Shit!" She swore, clutching her pricked finger. "Damned needles."

There was a knock on her door. Sucking her wounded finger, she rose to answer it.

"Who is it?" She asked through the wood.

"My name is Weland Ottarson. Would you open the door please?"

Her eyes grew wide, wondering if this was about that spoiled peach she'd thrown at Berit the other day. She gnawed on her lip but pulled open the door.

"Eydis Norfadottir, correct?"

She hadn't even had time to get her bearings and find the short man that stood on her steps before he spoke. His hair was burnt red, thinning, and slicked back. He had a nose that looked like the gods had punched it into his face and his protruding, squinty eyes made him look suspicious. By the well-cut glasses he wore and his well-fitted suit Eydis could tell he was an important man.

"Um, yes," she answered uncertainly.

"You may not have heard through the door. I'm Weland Ottarson," he insisted.

Eydis stared blankly at him a moment longer, eyebrows knit together in confusion. Then it struck her.

"You're the richest man in town," she said coolly, realization and then distrust drawing on her face.

"Indeed. I've come with a proposition for you, Mistress Norfadottir. May I come in?"

"No," she barked defensively, pulling her door closer around her body, leaving no room to look in. Weland sighed.

"Well, I suppose speaking out here in the heat will just have to do."

"Yes, it will."

"Mistress Norfadottir, I've noticed your struggling little seamstress business here. I have come to offer relief from that pressure," he said smoothly. Eydis squinted at him suspiciously. "I would like to buy up your business and your shop. Let me remodel and bring in new people to truly make the place blossom," he finished with a sweet grin.

"You would have me give you all I have, give you my home, so that you could steal my business? So that you could turn it around and make tons of silver through the hands of women you would pay a slave's wage?" Eydis questioned dangerously.

"Um, dear, slaves don't get wages," Weland laughed gently.

"That would be point of the phrase," Eydis remarked, her tone condescending as she explained, "They may as well not be paid because it's so terrible. There's no way in the name of Hela I would allow this."

"Oh, but I think you have to," Weland said with a condescending nod of his head. "Because what with the way this place is going it won't be long until you starve to death."

"I'll turn it around," Eydis declared in determination.

"Right, well, when that fails I'll be here. My offer is three poque. Act fast, or the price goes down," Weland turned around and began trekking down the slope of her hill.

Eydis slammed the door shut and rested her back against it. She thumped her head against the door. Her home hadn't even cost that much money, being so tiny and cheap. But her business was her world. This tiny cottage, this steadily growing village, and all the difficulty of her failing business was everything to her. A tear slipped down her cheek. But he's right. At this rate I'm going to starve to death. She shivered at the idea of returning to the brittle-boned woman she once was, doing things her father would disown her for if he were alive just so that she could buy a cheap loaf of bread to eat that night.

Eydis moved to her alters, feeling like she was floating on her numbs legs. She collapsed before her gods, face to the floor and on her knees.

"All-Mother, I have come to a difficult decision. I don't wish to abandon the life I've only just begun to build, yet if I don't take this money I may very well starve once again. Please, grant me wisdom in this decision. Better yet, All-Mother, please deliver a sign," Eydis prayed. When she was finished she stood and lit incense and placed a bread offering in Frigga's alter. She knelt down once more before Sif's alter.

"Lady Sif, I have made a new enemy. A man named Weland Ottarson wishes to destroy every progress I've made in reclaiming my life and my dignity. Please, give me the strength to fight against a rich man who tramples over women like me, to negotiate with a shit like him, and to defend others he tries to abuse. Also, if it isn't much trouble, if you could please grant me the opportunity to punch him in his repulsive face. Thank you," Eydis finished, standing once more. She lit her incense and grabbed the pair of scissors she kept near the alter. She carefully chopped an inch off of a lock of her hair, careful to pick one that wouldn't be seen, and dropped the hairs in Sif's alter. Eydis came to her final alter and bowed deeply.

"Loki, I beg, if you please, that you would put a few tricks up my sleeve," she said shortly. Eydis got up and lit Loki's incense, then poured a small dose of wine into the bowl she kept nearby and placed that in Loki's alter.

Eydis sighed, only mildly comforted by her gods. She took a hard swig of the cheap wine, flicking her head back and squeezing her eyes shut. Oh, now that did comfort her. Her lips released the bottle and she fell back over her loveseat, draping herself over it unceremoniously. Another swig. And another, and another, and another.