Most Vislae have quirks. Would say “all”, but nothing works in absolutes. Mom could squeeze blood out of stones. Father, he had a sense of symmetry, of sorts.
I stack stones.
Not magic; they aren’t suspended; I have a perfect sense of balance for stacking.
Any item, I just prefer stones. Mom raised me close to the earth. Brick walls, clay dishware, dirt floor. My nails have been brown with grit since before. My toy growing up was a “rockman”, snowman made of stones, drawn on in blood-red clay. I would carry it’s parts around in a bag with me, then stack them up whenever I got bored. Being a child, clumsy and heavy movements would knock it over, but easy to stack up again.
I use this quirk of mine for work. Art. And magic. I make a living with it. There’s a me out there who never got this sandy Orb, and didn’t make this such a part of himself, but I don’t care much. This is this, and that is that. I like my life.
I stacked the bricks of my house, few are as stable. Made my furniture this way; polished concrete slab on stacked legs, kept stable by it’s weight. Cushions on flat, stacked river stones. My bed is not made of stones. It’s clay; smoothed, curved red ceramic altar of soft blankets and downy pillows. My aunt made that bed for me, it’s nice.
There are stacks of books. Not unusual, lots of bestiaries. Some have called them “precarious”, but they only fall when knocked over. The librarians in the Hall don’t care for my stacking. The stacking isn’t intentional. I just stack things. My dishes stack, my bed sheets stack, my clothes, my chalk, shoes even; small stack of two outside my door everyday.
Everything I own is in perfectly balanced stacks.