but it gave me no answer, Just the echo of paws in the frost-bitten heather. I searched for your scent in the whispering rain, Through bones of the hills and the breath of the plain.
We were fire and fang, you and I, Bound by curse, by claw, by sky. You ran ahead white flash through trees While I remained, dragged down by knees.
I saw you in dreams where no man treads, Where wolves wear crowns and ghosts break bread. Morrigan, my moon-heart, do you still roam The hollowed-out places we once called home?
I would trade my strength, my storm-wrought hand, For one more touch, for one command. To run beside you beneath the stars, Free of these chains, these cursed scars.
But if fate is cruel and time is blind, I’ll wait through seasons undefined. For love like ours does not decay It howls, it hunts, it finds a way.
The mists rolled thick across the highland of Staffordshire, curling like ghost fingers over rock and root. Beneath their shifting veil stood a figure that did not belong to the world of men not entirely. He was massive, broad-shouldered, with the raw frame of a warrior and the head of a beast. His fur was obsidian black, streaked with silver scars and ash.
Red eyes burned beneath his brow. His breath came out in steam as if the forge fire lived in his lungs.
Boldolph.
The wolf-man. The cursed one. The guardian of the Stormborne line.
That morning, he had awoken not as man, nor wholly beast, but as something sacred. Taranis had spoken only two words to him before the sunrise: “It begins.”
And now he stood at the edge of Rykar’s Field, muscles tensed, waiting for the signal.
Bronze glinted on the hilltop warriors from the Black Clawclan had gathered in force, armed with spears and teeth alike. Raiders, born of bloodlust, who left villages razed and children buried beneath burnt thatch.
A low growl rumbled in Boldolph’s throat.
Today, they would be stopped.
Below him, the Stormborne forces gathered. Taranis on the ridge with Pendragon and Tairneanach perched behind him.
, Lore chanting beside a fire that would not die. Drax tightening his bracers, muttering curses and prayers as one. Among the warriors stood farmers, hunters, fire-callers, bone-weavers all who had chosen to rise.
But none were like Boldolph.
He crouched low, the carved bronze blade strapped to his back. humming faintly forged by Drax, blessed by Lore, named Ashsplitter. His claws, though not natural, were tipped in obsidian. His howls call Morrigan from the far trees and silence men’s hearts.
And when the horn blew, he moved like a shadow torn free of the dark.
He crashed into the enemy line like a storm of fang and bronze. The first man he struck did not even scream just fell, bones splintered beneath the weight of the blow. Boldolph spun, slashed, roared, tore. Blood hit the grass like spilled wine.
The Black Clawclan were fierce but they were not ready.
“By the ancestors!” one shouted, staring in horror. “A beast walks!”
A spear was hurled. Boldolph caught it midair, snapped the shaft, and flung it back. It pierced armor and flesh. The man fell.
He was not alone.
From the trees came Morrigan white and wraithlike, her eyes alight with moonfire. Together, they circled the enemy, not as humans, not as animals but as something other. Something older.
Across the field, Taranis raised his sword high.
“For every child taken,” he shouted, “for every flame snuffed out WE RISE!”
The Stormborne charged. Bronze clashed with bronze. Flesh tore. Voices sang the old war cries.
Boldolph didn’t hear them. He was lost to instinct now the heartbeat of the land pounding in his ears. His claws met bone. His teeth found leather and neck. He leapt and rolled and dove through fire.
A warrior came at him with twin blades, marked in red clay and hate. Boldolph let him come. At the last second, he dropped low, sprang upward, and slammed both fists into the man’s chest. The impact shattered ribs and silence.
Then came the Champion.
Tall, scarred, wrapped in tattoos of wolf skulls. He grinned as he strode ahead, axe glinting.
“You’re no god,” the Champion sneered. “Just a cursed mutt.”
Boldolph stood, blood dripping from his chin.
“I am neither,” he growled, “but you will kneel before this mutt.”
They clashed.
Steel to fang. Roar to warcry. The battle stilled around them as the two titans fought. Blades rang. Earth shook. Bones cracked.
At last, Boldolph caught the Champion’s axe arm, twisted and snapped it. With a howl, he drove the dagger into the man’s chest.
Silence.
Then the howl.
Long. Ancient. Reverberating through stone, marrow, memory.
After the battle, the field was quiet.
The dead lay in solemn rows, the fires lit to honor their spirits. Taranis stood at the center, cloak torn, eyes fierce. Lore marked the ground with runes of ash. Drax drank in silence.
And Boldolph… sat alone beneath a tree.
His fur was streaked with blood. His eyes no longer burned they watched the stars. Morrigan lay beside him, her white coat stained with battle.
A small child approached. Her face was smudged with soot. Her eyes, wide with awe.
“Are you a monster?” she asked.
Boldolph tilted his head.
“No,” he said softly. “I am what protects you from monsters.”
She sat beside him.
In that moment with the fire crackling, and the dead honored. the Stormborne still alive Boldolph, the cursed wolf-man, found peace.
The fire had long gone out, and the cold crept in like a snake through the underbrush. Taranis sat with his back to a stone outcrop, shivering in silence. His breath came in misted gasps, though he dared not build another fire. Fire drew eyes. And eyes mean death.
He was only nine winters old skin and bones beneath a damp wolf-pelt, alone since exile. Alone… or so he believed.
Until that night.
A low growl rolled from the darkness.
Taranis reached for his stick-spear crude, splintered, tipped with flint and rose to a crouch. The growl came again, closer. Deep. Measured. Not hunger. Not rage. Warning.
The trees parted.
A shadow, massive and black, emerged from the mist.
The wolf.
Not just any wolf this one had eyes like embered blood. A scar down his left side that caught the moonlight. He have snapped Taranis in two.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the wolf circled once, then lay down, his tail wrapping around his legs. He did not blink. He just watched.
Taranis lowered his spear.
“You’re not here to eat me,” he said, voice hoarse from days without speech.
The wolf said nothing, but his ears twitched.
Taranis crept closer, sat back down beside the dying fire pit. He wrapped the pelt tighter and leaned ahead.
“I don’t know why they hate me,” he whispered.
The wolf’s eyes did not move.
“I saved my brother. I didn’t ask for the fire, or the storm. I just… did what I was told.”
Still the wolf said nothing, but his breathing was calm, deliberate like he was listening.
Taranis closed his eyes.
In the morning, he woke to warmth. Not from a fire, but from the wolf curled around him, sheltering him from the frost.
From that day onward, Boldolph never left his side.
He didn’t need to speak. His presence was enough. His strength, a shield. His silence, a vow.
Taranis never asked him why.
But deep down, he knew.
Boldolph had seen something in him not just a boy, not just a fire-starter. Something ancient. Something kin.
And Taranis, though still just a child, reached out and rested a hand on the wolf’s thick fur.
A vibrant illustration of a dragon, embodying the whimsical spirit of the story ‘A Ballad of Bronze-Age Bouncing’.
(A Ballad of Bronze-Age Bouncing)
The dragon smirked and gave a wink, Then launched him skyward in a blink. A loop-de-loop, a spiral twirl Drax flailed like a dizzy girl.
“I’ve got this!” he cried, “I’m born to fly!” Pendragon laughed and rolled the sky. Down he tumbled, flapping fast Till Tairneanach caught him at last.
Oh mighty Drax, with sword so wide, Declared, “It’s time for me to ride!” He climbed Pendragon’s scaly back, And shouted loud, “Let’s hit the track!”
The dragons chuckled, playing catch, With Drax the ball in every match. He swore and shouted, “Put me down!” While Taranis watched with half a frown.
“Next time,” said Lore with knowing grin, “Just stick to marching less of a spin.” But Drax just grinned and gave a cheer, “Best flight I’ve had all flaming year!
A colorful thank you note encouraging readers to engage with the content.
The sun dipped low over the hills, turning the sky the colour of old bronze. A warm wind blew across the half-built hillfort, stirring the campfire embers and the occasional ego.
Out from the shadow of the forge strutted Drax, shoulders broad, beard wild, and eyes gleaming with mischief.
“I’m riding Pendragon,” he announced to no one and everyone. “You can’t be the only rider, runt.”
Taranis, seated by the fire with a hunk of roasted meat in hand, didn’t even flinch. He just raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure Pendragon will love that.”
From the ridge above, the mighty dragon shifted. Pendragon, ancient and noble, snorted in what can only be described as pre-emptive disappointment.
Next to him, Tairneanach. The younger storm dragon, lowered his head as if already bracing for whatever chaos was about to unfold.
Drax clapped his hands. “Let’s fly, beasts!”
“Hey Pendragon, Tairneach,” Taranis called, struggling not to laugh. “Drax thinks he’s got wings.”
With an exaggerated swagger. Drax tried to climb up Pendragon’s massive side promptly slipping and landing flat on his back with a grunt.
Pendragon groaned like a disgruntled horse and used his wing like a shovel. As he started lifting Drax back onto the saddle with a firm thwap.
“Thank you!” Drax wheezed, trying to sit upright. “See? We’re bonding!”
Pendragon gave Tairneanach a long look. The younger dragon’s eyes gleamed. The mischief had begun.
With a mighty roar, the dragons launched into the sky, wings tearing through the clouds. At first, it was majestic. Drax whooped with delight, arms raised, his braids flying.
“This is incredible!” he bellowed. “I am one with the storm!”
And then Pendragon did a barrel roll.
Drax did not.
He flew off the saddle like a sack of meat and bellowed curses all the way down.
“OH YOU BLOODY SCALY!”
Before he could hit the ground. Tairneanach swooped in like a feathered bolt of lightning. Catching Drax by the back of his tunic with a precise claw.
“Thanks!” Drax wheezed again, now dangling like a trussed boar over a bonfire.
But the game wasn’t over.
Pendragon arced around and opened his claws mid-air. Tairneanach, with a playful screech, tossed Drax into the air like a sack of barley.
“WHAT IN THE STONE-FORSAKEN” Drax spun mid-air.
Pendragon caught him.
Then tossed him again.
Taranis stood below, hands on hips, watching the two dragons play catch with his brother.
“This is fine,” he muttered. “Completely normal.”
The wolves Boldolph and Morrigan lay nearby watching with what only be described as smug amusement. Morrigan even wagged her tail once.
Up above, Drax was shouting at both dragons.
“NOT THE EARS! I NEED THOSE! I’M A COMMANDER, DAMMIT!”
Eventually, they deposited him gently but with zero dignity onto a hay bale just outside the fort walls. He rolled off, dizzy, covered in ash, and missing one boot.
Taranis walked over and offered him a hand.
“Still think you’re a rider?”
Drax groaned. “I think… I’ll stick to walking.”
As Taranis helped him up. Pendragon landed behind them with a smug puff of smoke. while Tairneanach gave a playful chuff and nudged Drax’s remaining boot onto his head.
The hillfort rose like a scar upon the earth raw, unfinished, powerful in its promise.
Stones clattered as men worked shoulder to shoulder. Logs were rolled into place, lashed with thick rope and secured by wedges of bone and bronze. Children ran between the scaffolds, delivering water or watching with wide eyes as their future took shape.
It was a day like no other.
The sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden sheen across the half-built wall. Birds circled above, uneasy. The animals in the nearby woods had gone silent.
Sir Gael, the oldest warrior among the fort’s guardians, paused to wipe sweat from his brow. His grey-streaked beard was heavy with dust. He glanced upward, his hand stilled mid-motion.
“Commander Drax,” he said, his voice strangely calm. “Look.”
Drax turned his shoulders broad, his eyes as sharp as the spear he carried.
Above them, the sky split.
A roar echoed across the valley not of wind, nor beast, but something far older. The builders dropped their tools. The children froze. Heads tilted toward the heavens.
The clouds churned as if afraid. And from them, something vast and terrible descended.
A dragon.
Wings wide as the river’s span. Scales that shimmered with green, gold, and a glint of crimson. Pendragon, King of the Sky. A creature from legend — spoken of in firelit whispers and dream-songs passed down by the Flamekeepers.
And on his back rode a man.
Tall. Armoured in blackened bronze. A red cloak fluttered behind him like a banner of blood and flame. His grey eyes gleamed with the fury of storms.
Taranis Stormborne.
The exiled boy. The returning myth. The High Warlord.
Sir Gael dropped to one knee. The others followed not out of fear, but reverence.
“Is it truly him?” someone whispered.
A small girl tugged at her father’s tunic. “Daddy… is he the one the Seer spoke of?”
Her father a scarred builder named Halvor looked to Drax for guidance.
Drax did not speak at first.
He simply nodded.
“It’s possible, young one.”
The dragon roared again. Pendragon spiralled downward, his wings churning the air so fiercely that dust clouds rose from the hilltop. Yet the High Warlord stood unshaken upon his back, one hand on the saddlehorn, the other raised in greeting.
He did not fall.
Not once.
He rode the wind like it was his birthright.
When Pendragon finally landed upon the high ridge, silence followed. Even the wind dared not move.
Taranis slid down with the ease of a seasoned warrior. His boots hit the ground with a thud like thunder. Behind him, the dragon crouched, its golden eyes watching all with quiet fire.
Drax stepped forward.
“Taranis,” he said, voice cracking. “You’ve returned.”
Taranis nodded. “And you’ve begun.”
He looked past his brother to the rising fort, half-finished but brimming with hope.
“Stone and sweat,” he said. “It’s a good beginning.”
Lore emerged next from the shadows, staff in hand. “The prophecy breathes,” he said.
“It was written: When sky and fire meet the hill. The son shall return to shape the land with storm and blood.”
A murmur passed through the gathering crowd.
Taranis took a slow breath, then turned to the workers.
“I am no king,” he said, voice deep and sure. “I do not bring crowns or glory. I bring a future. A place for the broken and the brave. A shield for our young. A fire for our old.”
He lifted his sword.
“This land this fort will stand not just for the Stormborne. It will stand for all who remember. For those cast out. For those who bled. We rise not to conquer, but to endure.”
Cheers broke across the hilltop.
Some wept. Others simply stared, mouths open, unsure if they stood in a dream or waking world.
The children gathered near the dragon’s feet, staring up in awe. Pendragon blinked slowly and lowered his head so they touch his scaled snout.
The girl from before her name was Marla reached out, fingers trembling.
“He’s warm,” she whispered.
Sir Gael stood beside Drax, smiling through his years.
“I thought the stories were just that,” he said. “Stories.”
“Some stories,” Lore said, “are simply waiting for the right time.”
That night, fires were lit along the hilltop. The beginnings of the wall gleamed in the torchlight, casting long shadows over the land. Meat was roasted. Bread was broken.
At the centre sat the brothers Stormborne Taranis, Drax, and Lore their heads bent together, planning the days to come.
Boldolph and Morrigan, the sacred wolves, lay on either side of the war table. Watchful. Silent.
Above them, high in the sky, Pendragon remained perched. His wings wrapped around the star-streaked air like a guardian angel of old. Next to the dragon was a black dragon
“They fought with us and now they returned “
“I’m staying as long as needed ” taranis knelt to the children “this beast us pendragon and that ones Tiarneach “
Taranis stood on the ridge, his cloak torn by the storm, his hair streaked with soot. Below, the valley rippled with new life: tents being stitched, stones lifted, timber lashed. The war was over but the next battle had begun.
“We build not just for defence,” Lore said, tracing runes into the soil, “but for memory.”
The three surviving brothers had gathered their remnants warriors, widows, strays, and seers. They chose high ground, surrounded by forest and stone.
Drax named it Emberhelm, for the fire that had not died. It would become the first Stormborne stronghold.
Taranis trained them in the mornings sword drills, spear throws, endurance across misty hills. Drax oversaw the walls, carving old sigils into oak gates. Lore built the central hearth and lit it from the embers of their victory fire.
That night, the people gathered.
Flames danced. A feast was laid. Meat sizzled on firestones. Barley bread warmed the hands of children.
At the centre of it all stood Taranis, not as an outcast or storm-child. But as High Warlord of the Stormborne.
PART II: The Founders’ Feast – A Bronze Age Meal
The First Meal of Emberhelm was a warm, smoky, filling. A tribute to survival.
They came in mist, in blood-wrought rage, Across the vale, like beasts uncaged. But we stood where thunder walked, Where dragons soared,
and stormwinds talked.
My blade was not of iron born, But forged in exile, grief, and scorn. Each swing a vow, each cry a flame, Each drop of blood a brother’s name.
The wolves ran silent, swift, and black, With fire and frost upon their track. Boldolph’s howl split sky from bone, While Morrigan’s eyes turned hearts to stone.
And high above, the storm unfurled, Two dragons circled round the world. Pendragon roared with fire’s breath, While Tairneanach sang deathless death.
Lore called the old names from the flame, And Drax, my blood, carved through the shame.
Together we storm’s chosen three Unleashed the wrath no foe flee.
Yet still I asked, mid blade and cry, “Must kin be lost so we rise?” But fate gave silence, not reply And storms don’t pause to question why.
Now all is still. The earth, it weeps. Our fallen sleep in warrior’s sleep. The skies remember what we gave. The Stormborne rose and stormed the grave.
The fire cracked and spat, its glow painting the blood-stained earth in amber and shadow. Smoke curled into the sky, mixing with the iron-rich scent of blood, sweat, and scorched heather. Around the blaze, three brothers sat warriors of old blood, each marked by time, loss, and prophecy.
Taranis sat with his legs folded, sword across his lap. His great frame bent slightly ahead as if burdened by ghosts. At eighteen, he already bore the presence of a myth. His grey eyes, like the storm itself, reflected both silence and fury. He had not returned as a boy. He had returned as legend.
Beside him sat Drax, once the fiercest of the elder siblings. His frame scarred but unbowed, his voice deeper and darker than memory allowed. Across from them was Lore, the quietest of the three thinner. More thoughtful his staff carved with runes from the old tongue. His breath rose in the chill air like whispered scripture.
Drax poked the fire absently with a stick.
“Draven went missing,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “So did Rayne. Last we heard, a group of blackclaw warriors was seen not far from their camp. We hope they’re still alive.”
Taranis looked up sharply. “And Father?”
“Fever and war,” Drax answered, voice low. “Three winters past. But he saw the sky darken before he died. He knew the storm was waking. He knew you would return.”
Taranis stared into the fire, jaw clenched. “He died thinking I was a curse.”
Lore leaned ahead. “He died knowing you were the key. He just didn’t live long enough to see the lock.”
The wind passed softly through the broken trees around them, carrying the scent of rain and ash. The brothers sat in silence for a while longer. No one had the heart to speak of the others they’d buried. Too many names. Too few fires.
Drax rose slowly and raised his drinking horn to the stars.
“Now we step into a new age,” he said. “Brothers bow to the true leader of the Stormborne clan.”
Taranis blinked. “What?”
“You’re the High Warlord now,” Lore said, smiling faintly. “I stay the Flame keeper. Drax… he commands the Blood bound. These aren’t boasts. They’re burdens.”
Taranis stood, slowly, as if weighed down by every step. The firelight cast monstrous shadows behind him.
“Is there anyone left?” he asked.
Drax nodded. “Some. Hiding in the Wychbury caverns. Scattered through the old marshes. A few loyal to the name. Most think we’re dead.”
Lore lifted his staff and traced the air. Sparks flickered from the fire. “You carry the name now. You carry us all.”
Taranis exhaled. “Fights are breaking out around us. Tribes testing borders. Raiders from across the sea. This wasn’t my first battle since exile.”
Drax frowned. “What do you mean?”
Taranis smirked. “Did you ever hear of the boy who walked out of a siege. Leaving only one man alive to tell the tale?”
Lore narrowed his eyes. “That was you?”
“I was ten,” Taranis said. “Found myself in Pict lands. A village took me in bark bread and bone broth, but they gave freely. Raiders came. Painted in bone ash. Serpent fangs. I stood between them and the fire.”
“And you fought?”
“I didn’t just fight,” Taranis said quietly. “I became something else. They called me ghost. One man I spared to carry the tale. Word of a storm-child spread fast. I moved on before the dead were buried.”
“You fought like a god out there today,” Drax said, his voice softer now. “The storm moved with you. Boldolph and Morrigan at your side. Pendragon and Tairneanach overhead. You were prophecy.”
“I was survival,” Taranis replied. “I fought because I had no choice. The gods didn’t give me power. They gave me fire and asked me to burn for it.”
Lore’s eyes flicked upward. “And burn you did.”
Taranis nodded. “But now… now I need more than fire. I need people. A clan. A home.”
Drax drank deeply from his horn. “Then let’s build one. Three brothers. Three lands. One name.”
Taranis looked between them. “Where?”
“Where we once stood,” Lore said. “But different. You, in the east on the high hills of Malvern, where the sky remembers you. Drax, in the west near the marshes, to guard the old trails. I will hold the centre, near the stone circle. The fire will not die.”
Taranis slowly nodded. “Then we rebuild. Not as children of the stone but as fathers of the bronze.”
Lore smiled. “The Neolithic dies with tonight’s embers. From now, we shape flame and forge blade.”
“We become what they feared we would be,” Drax said. “Stormborne. Eternal.”
Taranis reached out and grasped their arms one brother to each hand. “We lead together.”
The fire roared.
Part II: The Storm Remembers Later, as the night deepened, Taranis sat with his back to a tree. Boldolph rested his head on Taranis’s leg. The great black wolf was still and watchful, his red eyes scanning the shadows. Morrigan curled near the fire, pale as snowfall, her ears twitching at every distant noise.
“Do you think they’re truly gone?” Taranis whispered.
Lore didn’t answer at first. He simply watched the flames. “No one is ever truly gone. Not in our line. Some names survive in flesh. Others in fire.”
“And the enemy?” Drax asked.
“Still out there,” Lore said. “Still watching. The Saxons come. The Romans return. But we… we will be ready.”
Taranis stared into the night. “I never wanted to be leader.”
“That’s exactly why you should be,” Drax said. “Those who crave the crown often destroy the land they wear it on.”
“We carve new paths,” Lore said. “Not in stone. Not in blood. But in memory and meaning.”
Morning light rose over the battlefield. The dead were buried, their names sung into the mist. Taranis, Drax, and Lore stood before the hill where they would build their future.
Three brothers.
Three keeps.
One storm.
“I’ll raise warriors,” Taranis said. “Not just fighters but those who stand for the forgotten.”
“I’ll raise shields,” Drax replied. “Those who know honour and vengeance.”
“I’ll raise stories,” Lore said. “And through them, we will never be lost again.”
Boldolph howled once deep and mournful. Morrigan joined in, her voice carrying across the valley like wind through bone.
Above them, high in the clouds, Pendragon and Tairneanach circled not as beasts of war, but guardians of legend.
And so, the Bronze Age of the Stormborne began. Not with kings or crowns, but around a fire, carved in blood and rebuilt in hope.
StormborneLore 