Bran threw the scraper to one side. It had been fourteen earth-turns since he had begun his quest. Now it was complete, without help and equipped only with determination and sense of purpose he had made a hole large enough to pass Aena’s daughter’s son through the greystone. He would be protected from all ills by the power of Freyin, controller of the winds, bringer of light, governor of the storm. Bran had heard the tales of other such holy stones, far to the West and over the dark sea. Each one had rained glory upon the head of it’s creator and power to the clan. Now he would be able to enjoy the rewards of his labours. The greystone would become a sacred site of reverence, offerings would be made and wealth would fall upon his and his son’s heads. Bran was pleased. He looked through the stone and in a state of reverie imagined his future as overseer of all the land in his sight.
Poetic perspiration
When the pen takes control. · Fun with rhyme, events of interest, submission calls, nothing too serious.
When the pen takes control. 
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