Here's my prompt for Leif!

[hider=How the Raven became Stone]

	The winds of a blizzard howled around the ancient structure. House Raven-Stone, one of the only houses in the Gray Quarter occupied by a Nord family. As fate would have it, Leif was left with no living family. His mother, Sanja passed from consumption, and his father, Jorrlak, soon after. He was an only child, leaving him to inherit all property and belongings that were once his parents. The house was silent, save for the winds. He sank into the chair behind a wooden desk his father once sat at, it was strange, to be the only one left alive. A part of him couldn’t shake the veil of regret for being away so long, while the other half… well, he didn’t feel much of anything. Just a numbness that he couldn’t quite escape. 

	After his father’s passing, Leif busied himself with cleaning the house, giving away items he had no use for, while taking inventory of the household contents. Days ago, as he rifled through his father’s chest did he stumble upon a peculiar item. This item? A worn leather journal wrapped in cotton, and buried at the bottom of the chest. When he opened the journal, careful not to damage the pages, Leif stared in awe at the faded ink scrawled across the first page. He closed the journal shut, and placed it on the desk. He intended to open the journal when he found the time, but weeks had passed since he first discovered the journal resting at the bottom of the chest. 

	Each night he eyed the journal before climbing in bed, he wanted to open it up and read the contents. He had his own ideas as to what the journal might be about, perhaps it was something his father wrote? Though the faded ink, tinged brown with age suggested that it came  from an older time.

[i] ‘I’ll never know unless I open that blasted thing.’[/i] He chastised himself as one hand removed the cotton wrapping. He peeled back the cover, his eyes sweeping over the ink.

[i][b][3E 433[/b]

25th of Midyear ~
The day of reckoning has come. 

	Word has reached us here in Windhelm that the skies in Cyrodiil are awash with crimson clouds, daedra have attacked the city of Kvatch. I fear that this is the end of days. There is but one path I must take. I must bury the stone. 

1st of Sun’s Height ~
	I have left home. Brunhilda cried when I kissed her goodbye, and even the little ones clung to me. It pains my heart to leave them behind, but Brunhilda is a strong woman. That is why I married her. She will look after the children in my stead, whether or not I come back alive. 

I head south from Windhelm. I carry nothing with me save for this accursed stone.

5th of Sun’s Height ~
	I made it to Whiterun. I encountered several people on the road who spoke of the disaster in Cyrodiil. They speak of evil creatures that lurk in the night. Daedra. Awful beings from Oblivion. They say that the sky in some places, as in Kvatch has a tear in the sky, this seems to be the source where the Daedra come. Kyne keep us safe.

Tonight I checked my belongings. Even that damned stone. For generations, my family has kept this artifact out of the hands of those who would do the world ill. No one knows why I left. Not even Brunhilda. Oh how I miss her horker meat pies. I have eaten nothing but dried meat and any apples that I could forage. I gave up this life of the road long ago. It has been over eleven years since I traipsied across Skyrim in search of adventure. Til I took an arrow to the knee, that is.

I have the stone on my body at all times. I hate to look at it, not because of fear, but of what it represents. When my father’s father was just a boy, his father had trouble with a group of cultists that worshipped Nocturnal, the mistress of the Night. The keeper of the Shadows. At the time, my grandfather, Elof, lived close to Riften with his folks. From what I recall, these cultists kidnapped children, and oftentimes small children in which they offered as a sacrifice to the lady of the Night. The hour grows late, I must sleep for my eyes grow heavy.

7th of Sun’s Height ~ 
	I reached Riverwood yestereve. When I woke this morning, the sky was a sad mixture of dark grey clouds. There is a heavy chill in the air as rain pours from the heavens. I cannot journey in this weather. I shall wait for the storm to clear.

Elof’s father, his name escapes me at this hour, gathered with his friends. He spoke unto them, pleading for them to join his cause, to help rid their small settlement of the cultists. These men, who had suffered just as much pain as he, agreed without hesitation. Elof told me the tale when I was a wee lad of just five years, so the details are a bit hazy. 

They didn’t attack right away, after all, they had no clue where the cultists gathered. So they waited. The men kept close watch over the children in the village, while setting traps for no-good-doers. Traps were set with chickens, calves, foals, and lambs. Most evaded the trap, and made off with the young creatures. That is until a heavy rain swept through the area. One of them men rushed to Elof’s house, they had found impressions of a pair of boots all around his house in the fresh mud. They were eager to discover their location and set off at once. Elof told me that his father and the men were gone for days on end. His mother began to fear the worst and had begun to make her peace with Kyne. That was until his father came barreling through the door of their house. 

He was covered head-to-toe in mud and gore. In his arms he cradled a curious object, the one I carry with me now. Elof’s father relayed the tale of what happened in his disappearance.

His father and the men tracked the prints back to a cave. They staked out the area and waited in the shadows for one of the cultists to emerge. It wasn’t until late in the evening that he saw, not a man, but a shadow. It seemed to know that they were watching, for it did not leave the entrance. Instead, it retreated into the depths. He said that the men with his father did not hold back on their anger, and charged forth into the darkness of the cave. They were but simple farmers, what more could he expect?

In the darkness, they felt their way along until they came to a chamber illuminated by torchlight. There they found a group of the daedra worshippers waiting for them in front of a curious door.

But this story will wait, the hour is late.

9th of Sun’s Height ~ 
	The rain has stopped.

14th of Sun’s Height ~ 
	I made it to Solitude. I am glad to have a bed to under my aching bones. The best years are gone from me. Brunhilda says that I am to be 54 this year. I feel much older than that. My joints creak and pop each time I stand, my back cannot handle the countless hours spent in the saddle. Walking is worse though it helps relieve the stiffness in my back. 

Now then, I was about to reach the climax of the story. 

Elof’s father and the men were met head on with a throng of swirling black mist. At first, they were scared, but the anger of losing their loved ones and livestock quickly overcame them, and so they charged headlong into the fray. It was soon discovered that the black mists were men, the work of some evil magic. With the knowledge that the mists were human, his father and his friends cut each one of them down. When none were left standing, the men searched the bodies in hopes of discovering an answer to who they were. It was then that they uncovered a stone, the one I carry now. 

At first they were puzzled at what it was, until his father suggested it might be a key to the door. This door, stood floor to ceiling and was made of black stone, perhaps ebony. There were interlocking stone rings, and in the center, a hole in the shape of the stone. His father took it upon himself to open the door, and placed the stone inside. A heavy grating noise filled the chamber as the rings rotated into place. Then, the door dropped into the floor and revealed what lay beyond.

My food has arrived, the barmaid is most kind. She reminds me of my daughter, Svanna. 

15th of Sun’s Height ~
	Tomorrow I shall set out for the northern most tip of Haafingar. But today I rest. My legs are too sore for me to walk.

I shall write while I can.

Beyond the door lay a central chamber where the statue of Nocturne rose. At her feet were offerings, a mound of bones, while a handmade cloak of feathers adorned her shoulders. In the center of this chamber was a circle with a language he did not know. They searched the chambers and found no remnants of their children, so they took the bones at the altar and carried them home. There were tiny skulls, most likely of the children that were taken.

That is how Elof’s father came to hold the stone. None wanted to handle this god-forsaken thing, and now I understand why. My grandfather grew to keep the stone safe, and when his father passed, he took the name Raven-Stone. When my father never returned from his voyage at sea, I was charged with the task of keeping the stone safe. I often feel that this stone has greater power than just a key, sometimes when I peer into the eyes, I feel as if I am whisked away to an entirely different world.  A shadowy veil covers my field of vision, and I hear mysterious whispering. Sometimes I cannot pull myself away, and when I do, I can still hear those whispers in my head. They speak in a language I cannot understand.

The stone is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is the shape of a raven, or a crow. The color is the deepest shade of black, like a shadow. It is as big as my hand, so I must carry it with two hands. It weighs as much as a barrel of potatoes, which is quite heavy for something so small. 

21st of Sun’s Height ~
	It is finished. I destroyed the stone, in a sense. I threw it into a lake in a cave no one will ever find. 

I head home to Brunhilda now.

May the Gods Keep Us.
[/i]

	Leif closed the journal and sat back, his eyes locked on the faded leather. Is this… could it be… this is how he became the Raven-Stone? There were more pages to read, but this… this was all he could handle for today.
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