Spoken by Taranis – outlaw, folk hero, troublemaker | Dægan’s migraine.
A figure stood beside the fire, broad as a bear, tall as a standing stone. His grey eyes, storm-lit, scanned the dusk beyond the ridge as if expecting trouble to disturb his brothers’ and children’s peace.
A smile spread across his face as he noticed a weary stranger crossing the Staffordshire moors. He took a breath and outstretched his large hand.
“Wanderer,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder,
“you’ve found your way to our camp.”
The flames danced at his back as he opened his arms, the wolf-skin cloak billowing wide.
“Come, warm yourself by the fire. The storm’s passed for now,” he offered graciously. The outlaw recognised something in the stranger, but smiled regardless, offering bread and fish.
“Please, help yourself.”
Behind him stood five others, silent as legends, bright as blades:
Lore the shadow’s tongue, keeper of forgotten truths; monk, wise man, warlock.
Drax the flame-bearer, elder brother, Lord of the Hearthlands; prefect, lawman, first among kin.
Rayne is swift-footed, soul-torn, rider of the river paths.
Draven a stone-born and unbroken, sentinel of the western wilds.
“And I,” he said, placing a hand to his chest,
“I am Taranis the exile, war-born, Stormborne. Your host.”
He stepped aside, gesturing to the stone benches and hanging cauldrons.
“Sit. Eat if you hunger. Speak if you’ve truth. Or say nothing at all. The fire does not judge. Here, you are among kin.”
Thank you for joining me.
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