My uncles and father stood within the sacred ring of fire. The smoke curling into the twilight sky as the elders sat in silence. Each wore the furs of their lineage, feathers braided with bone and bark, their eyes sharpened by decades of judgement. The fire crackled with unease not just heat, but the energy of something unseen, something stirring.
Father stood tall, one hand resting on the haft of his ceremonial spear. He was prepared not just as a warrior, or chief, but as a father. A father standing between his blood and the storm.
“Your son broke the sacred law,” spat Elder Bran, his voice like dry bark in winter. “He entered the hut of an ostracised man without escort. That law is older than your title, Chief Conan.”
“He must be punished,” added Elder Tarn, slamming his staff into the scorched earth. “Compassion does not absolve disobedience. Rules are not bent for favoured blood.”
A silence fell taut as a bowstring before Drax stepped ahead. Gaunt, but no longer wild, his words rang with clarity.
“He saved my life.”
Gasps and murmurs broke across the council. Even those who had long abandoned hope for Drax looked at him now with flickers of wonder, or wariness.
“I would be dead if not for him,” Drax continued. “I felt it something leave me. A darkness burned away. I am… clear.”
Lore moved to stand beside our father. “He is barely one year old,” he said. “Yet he speaks in tongues, walks like a hunter, and heals the broken with words no one taught him.”
“This is what troubles us!” snapped Elder Ysra, rising in her many-layered cloak of ash and iron charms. “Power like this does not come without price. The last child marked by the storm brought famine, flood, and war.”
“We do not know what mark he carries,” my father replied, eyes level. “But I will not see my son punished for compassion.”
Ysra stepped ahead, face drawn like flint. “It was not just compassion. It was prophecy in motion. And prophecy unguarded is wildfire in a dry forest.”
Behind them, Morrigan and Boldolph stood watch just beyond the fire’s reach. The black wolf growled low, a rumble of warning. while Morrigan’s gaze stayed fixed on the chief’s hut where Taranis slept, gripped by fever.
The fire hissed and popped. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird called.
Elder Bran raised his staff. “The child shall remain under close watch, isolated from others but housed within the chief’s care. He will be marked not as cursed, but as unknown. No more unsanctioned visits. If he breaches this again”
“We will not exile a babe,” my father growled.
“No,” said Ysra coldly. “But we may exile what grows inside him.”
The flames danced higher, wind tugging at the circle as if the fire spirits themselves had stirred.
Lore bowed his head slowly. “Then we shall walk the knife’s edge between reverence and fear. But mark my words if you turn on him too soon, you lose more than trust. You lose the only light left.”
As the council slowly dispersed, dusk settled like a shroud. The camp held its breath. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet steps of retreating warriors broke the silence.
Later, beneath the stars, young Nyx turned to our father. “So what happens now, Father?”
“Isolation. No one speaks to him unless permitted. He’ll be watched not as punishment, but out of fear. They don’t understand what he is. And people fear what they do not understand.”
“If we don’t talk to him… won’t that break him?”
Conan’s voice was low. “That is what I fear most.”
Just then, the elders returned with the boy. His fever had broken. Taranis walked unaided into the firelight, eyes drowsy but glowing faintly.
“What is going on?” Conan asked, rising quickly.
“He entered the eternal sleep,” Elder Ysra whispered. “But then… he came back.”
Even the fire seemed to pause.
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Taranis stood before Drax, his bare feet silent on the cold earth. A soft golden light shimmered around his small hand as he reached up and gently placed it on Drax’s forehead. His voice was quiet, yet steady words none had taught him falling like raindrops from his lips.
“The dragon and the wolves told me,” he said, eyes glowing faintly with an ancient knowing.
Lore stepped forward, startled. “The dragons? You mean a tribe, little one?”
But Taranis did not answer. Instead, Drax stirred, groaning as colour returned to his face. His eyes fluttered open lucid for the first time in moons and the golden glow around Taranis vanished. The boy collapsed into Lore’s arms, suddenly limp but breathing.
Lore caught him, heart pounding. He looked back at Drax, who now sat up slowly, blinking into the firelight.
“What were they doing to you, Drax?” Lore asked, still holding his youngest brother close.
Drax’s voice was hoarse, but calm. “Cleansing the darkness. They say I must walk the coals soon burn the madness away.”
Lore frowned, tightening his grip on the child. “Well… this little stormborn saved your life. Whatever you believe, that’s truth.”
Just then, Conan their father, the chief appeared in the doorway, drawn by the strange stillness and the fading light.
Taranis stirred, his head against Lore’s chest. “My fault, Father,” he murmured in a drowsy voice. “He was hurting… so I fixed it.”
Father stepped ahead slowly, kneeling before them. His eyes flicking from the barely conscious Drax to the sleeping child in Lore’s arms. His voice was heavy.
“He’s only one year old… and he’s healing the broken?”
Lore nodded. “He called it the gift of wolves and dragons.”
Conan exhaled, rubbing his weathered jaw. “Then we’d best prepare. Whatever storms are coming, they’ll start with him.”
“You calling the council father?” Drax asked “I will be punished he’s just a child “
“You have many matters to deal with Drax. little Taranis actions his disobedience to rules not to come here and what ever he did to you will be dealt with in due course a water cleansing, more gathering to keep him from wandering “
“How do you feel brother?’ Lore asked
“Clear minded, like what ever was heavy in me is gone. I feel love for the little one shame for wanting him dead. I’m not expecting you to trust me”
“Trust is earned, ” father said and looked to two men ran. “let him out but no contact with the others no binds this time. I see his food is low let him gather but watch.”
The men nodded no one other a selected group of tribal elders. Had been permitted to talk to my brother for months. Now the discipline was slowly lifting. The men moved their heads indicating for him to move out still not a word broke.
“Now ostracism starts he outside being watched and we can see him but he can’t interact with us?” Nyx asked
“Yes if he talks to us or the tribe he will receive harsher punishment. One of which was decided to remove his tongue As I’m not killing my own kin. He either follows the council and gets well or he will remain how he is until he dies” father said with a heavy heart “this is the first time I’ve seen him in months and your mothers not seeing him like that a once big strong man now skin and bones this isn’t just punishment for him but for us “
I never thought of it like that the cheif and his wife punished for their sons actions. A powerful man within our tribe powerless to protect his son against the elder councils decisions. After a while we carried the little one out and to home. The largest hut of them placing him on his bed.
That night a meeting was called the elders had demanded with my father. But little Tanaris was still sleeping crying in his sleep and burning up.
I walked to the edge of our camp “BOLDOLPH WHERE ARE YOU” Lore shouted seeing a giant of a wolf beautiful black like the nights sky with a gold five pointed star and red fiery moon on his chest and red fiery eyes
Boldolph strode over putting his head in mine nudging it
“You’re upset young one” Boldolph said his mind connection with mine
“I am my friend, your the tribes sacred ally. Your wiser than you know but did you tell my brother Taranis how to heal?” Lore asked the wolf
“I did ” a small grey wolf lowered his front half as if bowing to Boldolph. “I’m sorry sire, I heard the bright one crying and sought to help him. He missed Drax “
“He hardly knows Drax, father forbade any meeting between them unless Drax was bound and flanked by men. You had no right to interfere silver ” Lore replied
“He ran straight in to the condemned mans hut. Pure disobedience when I called him to stop. Drax could have killed him but my brother used the chant Drax said its like a heavy weight was lifted. Now Taranis is sick with fever .
“Your father?” Boldolph asked glancing angry ar the white wolf
“The tribal elders have called council I’m worried this weakens fathers position. If they lose trust in father, if they consider my baby brother ” Lores voice dropped as he looked to the earth
Boldolph launched at silver growling and teeth bared ready to rip the older wolf apart but a pure white wolf red five pointed star and gold sun on her chest
“STOP THIS ” she snapped at the other wolves parted
“Morrigan it’s an honor to see you again “Conan said kneeling to her level “Boldolph let’s wait for council if my family and I find ourselves displaced then kill silver by all means if it makes you happy”
The mystical bond between the black and white wolves, symbolizing the intertwined fates of Boldolph and Morrigan.
Boldolph’s people wept for him and Morrigan.
As the cursed pair fled the stone cave. Their new forms heavy with shame and grief, they knew the truth they would yet be hunted. Death would almost be kinder than living on, watching their people unravel from the shadows.
From the tree line, they watched.
The enchantress Whitehair was dragged to the punishment stones. Her mouth forced open as the chieftain stepped forward.
“Bring me my grandchildren,” he commanded.
A line of children stood before him. The oldest, a thirteen-year-old girl, stared straight ahead as the wind lifted her dark hair.
“Gwyn,” the chieftain said, “you are the eldest of my blood. This honour is yours. Remove her tongue and nose.”
Without a word, the girl obeyed. She carried out the sentence without question her hand steady. Her eyes blank while Boldolph and Morrigan looked on from the trees.
“The youngest three,” the chieftain continued, “shall be raised among us. Spared. But the oldest, Ryn…”
A fourteen-year-old boy was dragged forward.
“…He will be cast out.”
“No! Please…” Ryn cried. “I was hungry she hadn’t fed me in weeks…”
“You’re old enough to hunt,” his father barked. “Old enough to fish. Old enough to gather. You chose to steal.”
As the blade was drawn, Morrigan gave a sharp growl.
Boldolph stepped from the trees not attacking, but shielding the boy with his massive black form.
“Morrigan? Boldolph?” the chieftain asked, surprised but calm. “Do you understand what is happening here?”
Boldolph gave a single nod.
“Do you agree with this judgment?” another tribesman called out.
Morrigan whimpered, then moved beside Boldolph, gently nosing Ryn toward the tree line.
“Boy,” the chieftain said, “how can we speak to the wolves?”
“My father knows a chant, sir,” Ryn answered softly. “I’ve heard him whisper it to the earth spirits.”
A moment later, the chant rose in the air low and trembling. The spirits stirred.
“It is done,” the seer confirmed. “The wolves may not speak through mouths, but they will speak through minds. A bond has been made between Boldolph and the tribe’s spirit.”
“Father,” Boldolph said in thought alone, “let the boy live. Morrigan wishes no harm.”
“If she could poison her own people, she may have cursed him too,” someone muttered.
But Morrigan white as snow, her eyes full of sorrow pressed her head into the chieftain’s hand.
“He has always seemed… touched by something,” she said. “Not cursed. But not untouched either. Let him go. For me.”
The chieftain knelt.
“Boy,” he said, “do you understand what this means?”
“No, sir.”
“It means my grandfather will spare your life,” Gwyn said, stepping forward. “But you must leave, Ryn. And never return. You will walk with the cursed wolves. And you will not bear a name. Not in any tribe. You will be the boy who walks in exile. The boy of silence.”
Ryn’s father added, “You will walk until you sleep. And when you sleep, you will not wake.”
Tears welled in Ryn’s eyes. “Can I say goodbye to my brothers and sisters?”
“Five minutes,” the chieftain said. “Then the exile begins. You’ll be given a spear, a stone knife. One day’s food for you. A week’s for my son and his mate.”
The children nodded.
The chieftain’s hand rested on Morrigan’s head, then Boldolph’s.
“You are not forgotten,” he whispered.
Boldolph’s mother stepped from the crowd, her eyes wet with love and regret.
“Boldolph,” she said, “you are always welcome at our fire.”
And with that, the wolves turned toward the deep forest and the cursed child walked beside them.
A short ceremonial-style verse, spoken by a tribal Seer during the naming.
Before the first cry, the fire already knew. Before the first mark, the sky already wrote. Before the first breath, the wind had already whispered:
He is not like the others. He is flame clothed in skin. He is silence that will shout. He is shadow that will shield. He is Taranis. And the storm has given him breath.
The moon hung low over the marshlands of Cymru, a pale and silent witness to all that stirred beneath. Mist curled along the ground like ghost-breath. Threading through reeds and thorns, cloaking the land in a hush that even time dared not break.
Morrigan stood at the water’s edge, her white fur shimmering with silver dew. The red pentagram upon her brow pulsed faintly with memory not magic, not prophecy, but something older still loss.
She remembered the laughter of her children, once. Their small feet dancing on stone, their breath warm against her skin when she had a face and a name.
That was long before the curse had sealed her fate. A punishment for defying death, for choosing the path of protector instead of prey.
She had not been seen in her human form by another soul in centuries.
The wind carried the scent of heather, salt, and far off fire. It shifted, and she turned her head sharply. From the west, a presence stirred. Not prey. Not predator. Something… remembered.
Her mate, Boldolph, emerged from the shadows. A black wolf with eyes like fire and a gold sigil carved into the fur of his brow. The mark of the king of wolves. He towered beside her, but even he did not speak.
Boldolph, the king of wolves, with glowing red eyes and a mystical sigil on his brow.
They not speak.
They had not touched in human form since the binding.
And still, their silence said more than words ever.
A sudden cry pierced the stillness not a howl, but the breathless whimper of cubs. Morrigan turned. Nestled in the hollow of a fallen tree, her children stirred, sensing the shift in the wind. She padded over, nose to fur, and breathed them back into slumber.
Her heart, once burned hollow by grief, beat now for them.
But the forest would not rest.
Tonight, something ancient woke.
Chapter 1
The Scent of a Storm.
The first rain came softly a warning more than a downpour. Tapping gently against the heather and bracken as dusk bled into the marshes. Morrigan crouched low on a rise of dry stone, her pale red eyes scanning the windswept valley below.
Somewhere to the north, a herd of deer was shifting. Their hooves left trembles in the ground. Their scent curled up through the fog.
But Morrigan wasn’t hunting tonight.
She was waiting.
Beneath her, in the hollowed belly of a mossy yew, three wolf cubs whimpered and stirred. Her children not the kind born of curse or storm, but of blood and memory. The youngest one, all white save for a copper ear, squeaked for her warmth. Morrigan tucked her body closer, curling like a shield around them.
Above her, the clouds began to crackle with unnatural colour. A shade of light not seen since…
Not since the last time the veil split.
The Shape of the Wind A sudden gust brought a foreign scent.
Not prey.
Not predator.
Something old.
Something… broken.
Her hackles rose.
Across the ridge. Boldolph stood, silhouetted against the sky like a god of the old wilds. His black fur glistening with rain, red eyes aflame with alertness. He hadn’t seen her in human form for hundreds of years. Neither had she seen him. The curse did not allow it.
But she felt him now that familiar gravity, that fierce ache of loyalty and loss.
“Do you feel it?” her voice stirred the wind, though no one else hear it.
He gave no answer, only turned his head westward toward the forests. Vasts woodlands of what would one day be called Cannock Chase.
Chapter 2
The boy in the trees
They saw him before he saw them.
A shadow moving through the trees. Too small to be a warrior. Too slow to be a deer.
He was staggering. Starving. But the flame in his eyes refused to die.
Morrigan stepped ahead, paws silent on the stone. The cubs whimpered behind her. Boldolph moved to block her path, lips curled, teeth bared but not at her.
At fate.
At what it meant.
At what it would cost.
Another child. Another risk. Another ache that never leave.
She looked again.
Not a warrior. Not yet.
Just a boy.
But storms followed him.
She turned back to her cubs. Nestled, safe for now. She licked each one gently, then closed the hollow with fallen bark. The marsh would protect them. She whispered an old name into the soil to guard them a name she hadn’t used in centuries.
Then, she stepped into the mist.
Boldolph growled low, a warning.
She brushed against him as she passed her head beneath her head beneath his muzzle, a gesture older than language. Boldolph did not move, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Just for a moment. Enough.
The storm scent was growing stronger.
Morrigan slipped into the trees, her paws silent against the mulch of leaf and root. Branches clawed at her fur like hands from a forgotten dream, but she did not flinch. She knew these woods. She had bled in them. Breathed in them. Hidden in them.
The boy was not far.
She found him collapsed beside a fallen trunk. his arms wrapped around his ribs as though trying to hold himself together. Dirt and blood streaked his face. His feet were bare, blistered, and blue with cold. He had a stick in one hand sharpened crudely, but not recently used.
Even in sleep, his jaw was clenched. Even in pain, his spirit did not bend.
Morrigan circled him in the shadows, one silent loop, then two. She tilted her head. A vision stirred fleeting and broken of a campfire once lit in the hollows of men’s hearts. A voice crying in a tongue lost to fire and flood.
A name.
Taranis.
It did not belong to this boy yet.
But it would.
She drew closer.
The Unseen Form had she still worn her human face, she have wept. But wolves did not weep. They watched. They endured.
Still, some griefs slipped through the fur.
She lowered herself beside the boy, her body a wall against the wind. Carefully, she placed her muzzle against his shoulder. His skin was fever-hot, but beneath it pulsed a stubborn rhythm.
He lived.
From the trees behind, Boldolph appeared, silent as the dusk. He said nothing, but his stare asked everything.
“What are you doing?”
She answered without words.
What we once promised what the old ways demand.
Another life. Another orphan. Another soul cast out by fear and ignorance.
The forest whispered around them voices of old gods and buried secrets. Morrigan raised her head and howled, low and haunting, a call only the wild would understand. It wasn’t a summoning.
It was a vow.
For three days, they watched over the boy.
She hunted while Boldolph guarded. He fetched water from the shallows, carried in his great jaws. She chewed softened bark and nettle, placing it near the boy’s lips. He drank in his fever-dreams, whispering names not yet earned, warnings not yet understood.
On the second night, he opened his eyes.
Just a sliver.
And saw her.
Not as a wolf. Not as a monster.
But as something else.
He reached a hand out. Weak. Trembling.
She did not pull away.
On the third morning, he stood.
Not steady. Not tall. But standing, nonetheless.
And behind him, the sky split with light.
Stormborne
He walked between them then between Boldolph and Morrigan as though he had always belonged.
The name passed once more through Morrigan’s mind like a wind returning home:
Taranis.
Storm-born. Marked. A child of prophecy and exile.
She didn’t yet know the shape of his story. Only that it would be vast. Only that it had begun.
And that somewhere in its ending, her curse would find its purpose.
The bond between Taranis and Morrigan, symbolizing the awakening of ancient legacies in ‘StormborneLore’.
Diolch am ddarllen. Os gwnaeth y stori hon eich cyffwrdd, eich ysbrydoli, neu aros fel sibrwd yn y coed ystyriwch hoffi, rhannu, neu danysgrifio i ddilyn y daith.
💬 Got thoughts, theories, or echoes of your own? Drop a comment and join the legend.
🌩️ The storm remembers every soul who listens.
A moment of connection between Tanaris and two mystical wolves under a full moon, symbolizing a bond forged by destiny.
Authors note: Unfortunately I needed to use Google Translate for the Welsh so appologise if I got any of it wrong.
A painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape with trees and a sun, contrasting the eerie atmosphere of the forest.
The air was wrong.
Callum Hargreaves opened his eyes to silence so deep it pressed against his chest. No engines in the distance. No birdsong. No radio crackle.
Only the trees. And the damp earth beneath him.
He sat up slowly, wincing. His body felt heavier, like the atmosphere itself had thickened. The forest wasn’t just quiet it was ancient. The trunks were massive, rough with moss and lichen, and the undergrowth twisted in ways he didn’t remember. Even the colours seemed muted. More… real. Older.
His phone was dead. No signal. Not even a flicker of battery life.
The feather was still in his hand.
White. Burnt at the edge.
He stood, breath visible in the still air. The mist clung low to the ground, like it was trying to hide something.
The stone was gone. The path was gone.
He turned full circle. No trails. No signs. Just forest. Endless.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Get your bearings. Pick a direction. Stay calm.”
But as he moved ahead, he noticed something.
There were no footprints. Not his. Not animals. No trash. No broken branches. Nothing that said people had ever been here.
Except one thing.
A shape in the clearing ahead barely visible in the haze.
It was another stone. Taller. Deeper carved. The same symbol as before a spiral, or a horn, or… something.
At its base, a small pile of bones. Clean. Arranged in a ring. And at the centre, an ash-blackened tooth.
A vibrant painted stone featuring a spiral design, symbolizing mystery and connection to nature.
Callum backed up a step.
A low growl rippled through the silence.
His eyes snapped up.
A wolf stood across the clearing.
It wasn’t moving. Just watching.
Eyes like molten gold. Fur dark and matted. Muscles tensed, but not ready to strike.
Behind it… a second figure. Not a wolf.
Human.
Massive. Silent. Cloaked in furs. A silhouette against the trees.
Callum couldn’t breathe.
He blinked. And they were gone.
Just trees again. Just mist.
But the whispering had changed.
Not words anymore.
A name.
One he didn’t know. One he couldn’t pronounce.
But it curled in his head like smoke: Taranis.
To be continued…
From the Author
I grew up visiting the Chase, walking the woods and hearing the stories. Have you experienced anything unusual in woods? The whispers among the trees?
The fire crackled low, licking the belly of a fresh kill. A young deer brought down by patience and precision. Its scent mingled with pine resin, wood smoke, and the dry musk of wolf-fur.
Taranis sat cross-legged near the embers, his gray eyes fixed on nothing.
He had not spoken aloud in days. The wolves Boldolph, silent and alert. Morrigan, fierce-eyed and restless watched him as they always did, as if tethered not by duty, but by knowing.
He tore the meat with his fingers, chewing slowly, not tasting. Hunger had long become a ghost he ignored, like the grief that gnawed behind his ribs.
Then came the rustle. Too light for bear. Too soft for storm.
He didn’t move. But the wolves did.
A man emerged from the trees, thin, mud-streaked, crouching low not with confidence, but desperation. He made for the meat as if pulled by instinct stronger than fear. But the moment his hand reached toward the platter of bark and stone…
A low growl stopped him.
Morrigan’s teeth shone like bone in firelight. Boldolph blocked his retreat. And Taranis finally looked up.
Their eyes met. One pair hollowed by loss, the other by starvation.
“I thought you would kill me,” the stranger whispered.
“I have,” Taranis replied, “for less.”
He stood slowly, towering over the man a figure carved by exile, his face painted with ash and time. But there was no rage in him now. Only silence. And a slow understanding.
He broke the meat in half. Handed the larger piece to the thief.
The man hesitated, then took it with shaking hands.
“What’s your name?” Taranis asked.
The man blinked. “Rhonan.”
“No longer a thief,” Taranis said, sitting again. “Tonight, you eat with me. Tomorrow, you hunt beside me. And if you run…” He glanced to Morrigan. “You’ll not outrun the black one.”
Rhonan gave a breath that was a laugh, or a sob.
And for the first time in many moons, Taranis chewed his meat and tasted it.
From the author:
This story bridges two truths: that hunger drives desperation, and that mercy can be stronger than fear. Taranis’s decision not to punish the man reflects a deeper shift. one from raw survival to the beginnings of community, yet small.
If you’ve ever chosen kindness when the world expected cruelty this story is for you.
A painted stone representing fire hitting the earth near standing stones – abstract art.
The Fire That Ran from the Sky.
Long before the clans gathered,
beneath the Roaches ridge, before the stones were marked with names, the sky itself betrayed the earth.
It began as a night without stars. A quiet so deep the wind dared not breathe.
Then flames tore across the heavens.
The elders called it the Fire That Ran from the Sky. A burning serpent of light and death that raced faster than the eyes follow.
From the hills near what the future would call Staffordshire,. the clans watched in horror as the blazing serpent descended, striking the land with a terrible force. Trees exploded into firestorms; rivers steamed and boiled.
Smoke curled upward, blotting out the moon.
When the fire touched the great wood, the earth shook and cracked. A great chasm opened, swallowing whole herds and warriors alike.
In the days that followed, the sky rained ash. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and ancient sorrow.
But from the ruins, life stirred anew.
The clans, scattered and broken, gathered under a new oath to honor the fire that had destroyed and forged them.
They built great stone altars on the hills. Each year they held a vigil, lighting fires that mirrored the serpent’s dance across the sky.
It was said that those who dared to look into the flames see the fire’s spirit a fierce. ever-burning heart that chose the worthy and cursed the false.
And so, the Fire That Ran from the Sky became legend, a warning, and a blessing.
A story whispered by those who survived the night. Those who vowed never to forget the power of the storm that shapes all things.
When the fire’s fury faded, the world was silent and broken.
The great wood once thick with ancient oaks and whispering leaves lay scorched and blackened, its heart beaten by flame.
Smoke still curled from the ground, and the air tasted of ash and sorrow.
The clans that survived wandered through the ruin, their footsteps heavy on the brittle earth.
Marak Storm Eye, then a young warrior, knelt beside a fallen tree stump. Its bark cracked and bleeding resin like tears.
“We must live,” he said, voice raw but fierce. “This fire has taken much, but it has not taken our will.” he said looking to his people.
Those around gathered roots and herbs. As they began learning which plants heal scorched flesh and which cleanse the bitter smoke from their lungs.
Around him, others nodded, their faces grim. From the ashes, they hunted the beasts that had fled or died.
At night, they huddled close to small, careful fires. The warmth giving comfort. While their new altars whispering prayers to the sky and earth, asking for mercy and strength.
It was in this time of hardship that the first whispers of the Thunder Child were born. For some said the fire had marked the land, and the clans, with destiny.
And so, from ruin, the storm-wrapped promise of a new age began to stir.
Colorful hand-painted stones depicting various abstract and natural scenes.
After Taranis’s Exile
The wind mourns,
through the ancient trees, Whispering tales of broken kin, A son cast out beyond the flame, Where shadows dwell and wild beasts grin.
The fire we built,
Now cold and dim, The bond once strong,
now stretched and torn. I sent you forth, my blood and bone, To face the night, alone, forlorn.
Yet in the stars, your name still burns, A flicker bright against the dark. Though exiled from the hearth’s warm heart, You carry still our family’s mark.
Run swift, my son, through storm and stone, May strength be yours when paths grow rough. The wolf still howls within your blood, And I, your father, watch from dusk.
One day the earth may shift again, And bring you back where you belong. Until that time, beneath the sky, I sing this lonely, bitter song.
StormborneLore 