Seidr was (or is, some would say) the feminine magic practiced by the Northern women called Volva. Some men practiced it, often the sons of Volvas, but this was considered “ergi” (unmanly).

It was a craft of intuition and will, a way of shaping what could not be seen.

The sagas tell of vǫlur (as you can see above, I call them Volvas in Talismans), wandering seeresses who carried staffs and knew songs that brought the unseen to light. They were welcomed into halls but also shunned, their presence both revered and feared.

Freya, goddess of love, magic and plenty, as well as goddess of war, is said to have taught Seidr to Odin and, through him, to humankind. Her gift turned insight into influence and made the invisible a force that could be harnessed.

An example of Seidr practice that we are fortunate to know of is Galdr, spoken spells and songs used to connect with the unreachable. It could be used to curse as well as bless.

The word Seidr may come from “cord” or “snare,” which fits a magic built on weaving. It was about tying the threads of destiny, not breaking them, and guiding the pattern toward what should be.

What we know now is only fragments, written by a different culture long after the women themselves were gone. But the feeling of it endures. Seidr was the bridge connecting humanity to the unknown.

In Talismans of Desire, Seidr, in addition to prophecy, is the magic of enchanting items.

Kilda is a Volva, albeit still an inexperienced one. She will meet Ylvin, an initiated Volva willing to teach Kilda the ways.

Ellie, avatar of Freya, is both a brilliant editor and a complete distraction.

Freya and her Cats

Freya, the Valar goddess of love, magic and war, rides in a chariot pulled by two cats.
The old poems do not name them or describe their color, but the image has lasted for a thousand years.

Cats suit her. They are graceful and observant. Gorgeous yet untamed. They belong by the fire but keep their wild side, slipping between affection and distance as they please.

In Freya’s company, they become symbols of a gentler form of strength. Not loud or forceful, but self-assured and unbound. They remind us that softness and power can live in the same body.

Freya’s cats carry her across the sky, but they also carry a truth that reaches beyond myth. That power of a woman does not only need to roar. Sometimes it moves quietly, with elegance, as certain as Freya herself.

(Scholarship writes “Freyja” which is considered the correct Norse spelling. Here in Norway we say “Frøya”.
I personally prefer “Freya” and use it in Talismans.)