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.
The sun broke through the bruised clouds, casting shafts of gold over the bloodied field. Smoke curled from the remnants of fires, and bodies friend and foe lay strewn like broken oaths across the grass. The storm had passed, but silence hung thick as grief.
Taranis stood still, sword lowered, his chest heaving. Blood streaked his arms, his face, even his hair but none of it slowed him. His eyes, grey as thunderclouds, scanned the chaos. Not for more enemies, but for the ones who had once called him brother.
A shape moved through the mist. Then another.
Lore came first tall, limping, one eye swollen shut. His armor was scorched, his left arm dripping crimson. But his voice was whole when he said, “You came back, little storm.”
Taranis didn’t speak. His jaw clenched as he looked at Lore, then at the shadow beside him. Drax emerged next, sword still slick with blood. A gash crossed his temple, but his stance was steady. They looked older. Harder. But not strangers.
“I thought you were dead,” Taranis said at last.
Drax shrugged. “We thought the same of you. For a long time.”
Lore stepped closer. “The others… they didn’t make it. The sickness. The blades. The fire.”
Taranis’s voice cracked. “None of them?”
Lore shook his head. “Only us.”
A long silence passed, broken only by the wind rustling the torn banners on the hill.
Taranis turned, scanning the field again. “I need to see them.”
Drax put a hand on his shoulder. “They’ve been gone a long time, Taranis. But you weren’t forgotten. Even when the tribe cursed you, some of us still believed.”
Lore added quietly, “Mother asked about you. Before the fever took her. She said… if the wind howled in the right way, she still hear your voice in the trees.”
Taranis closed his eyes. The wolves at his side sat in silence. Above, the dragons had vanished, leaving only smoke trails where the storm had passed.
Then, slowly, he knelt.
He didn’t weep. But he placed his blade flat against the soil and whispered words. Only the wind would carry a farewell, a promise, a mourning for all he had lost.
Lore and Drax stood beside him, the last of the Stormborne bloodline. No longer divided. No longer boys.
The mist churned with the heavy breath of the earth. It was a blanket of silence, thick as the sorrow that weighed on the air. The warriors stood, unsure whether to kneel or fight to greet their kin, or strike at their curse. There had been no warning, no word of Taranis’s return. He had simply appeared the shadows parting to reveal him like a storm-born god.
Taranis stood tall in the heart of them, his broad shoulders cut against the rolling mist. The wolves at his side. Boldolph, his red-eyed companion, a shadow of night itself, prowled silently beside him.
Morrigan, a beautiful white wolf, ever the ghost, her eyes glittering like twin embers. Moved with the grace of wind, barely disturbing the earth beneath her paws.
Above them, the storm was waiting watching. Tairneanach and Pendragon, the dragons, were not of this earth. But they lingered in the skies, their wings beating the air like the rhythm of war itself.
He did not call for battle. He did not raise a spear. He simply let the storm guide his steps. The weight of his presence alone seemed to shift the land. The earth trembling as though it too remembered what the boy now a man had become.
The warriors of his homeland, who had once been his brothers. Now looked upon him with a mixture of awe, fear, and guilt. Lore, his older brother, stood before him, his face shadowed with grief and anger. There was no joy in his eyes, only the harsh weight of lost years and lost family.
“You return, Taranis. But what have you come back to?” Lore’s voice cut through the stillness. There was no warmth in his tone. Only a coldness that ran deep, a layer of resentment that not be overlooked.
Taranis’s voice, nonetheless, was steady as thunder in the distance, resonating with the storm that had followed him for years. “I return for blood,” he said. “Not just for yours, but for mine.”
A wave of motion the clash of steel, the growl of beasts. But it wasn’t just the tribe who sought war. From the far ridge, a war band of strangers approached, their figures shrouded in shadow. They were not just raiders.
These men had come for something more like. They had heard the legends of the boy who had been cast out. The one who had walked through the storm. They had come to test the power of the Stormborne bloodline.
Taranis didn’t wait. He swept ahead, his blade gleaming like the edge of the storm, glowing with fury. Boldolph leapt alongside him, his jaws snapping at the air. A creature of black shadow and red fire, creature of his own making. Morrigan, ever the shadow, darted forward like a streak of vengeance. her white fur glowing as if the moon itself had poured through her.
The first strike landed. Taranis’s blade cut through the flesh of his nearest foe with the ease of wind through the trees. Blood sprayed from the wound, but it wasn’t just mortal men he was fighting. The storm answered him, the air vibrating as if the heavens themselves would break apart.
The Storm Unleashed Taranis fought as though he was the very storm itself. Each swing of his blade cutting through flesh like lightning raking the sky. His movements were fluid, practiced not from years of training, but from something older. He had become the storm, the blade in his hand merely an extension of his fury.
Boldolph was a black shadow beside him. His jaws closing around an enemy’s throat, tearing through flesh like a force of nature. Morrigan struck with the elegance of wind, swift and deadly, cutting through men. As though they were nothing more than smoke in the air.
Her eyes burned with the same fire that danced in Taranis’s chest. Morrigans presence was a reminder of the wildness that had shaped him.
The warriors of the rival tribe faltered under the weight of the storm that followed Taranis. The mist, which had once cloaked them in mystery. As it began to burn away, replaced by a swirling cloud of rage and prophecy. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the clash of steel mingling with the roar of dragons in the sky.
Above them, the dragons spiraled, their forms flickering in and out of the thunderclouds. Pendragon, the King of Dragons, seemed to grow in size with each heartbeat of battle. His wings tearing through the air like the flaps of fate itself.
Tairneanach, the storm dragon, called down bolts of lightning, sending the enemy scattering in terror. He was not of the world below. But his power filled it with such force that even the mightiest warriors. were little more than ants beneath his gaze.
Lore, still standing firm at the edge of the battlefield, shouted over the chaos, his voice tinged with fear,.
“Taranis! This battle is ours to win, but not with blood alone. The storm has a price.”
Taranis glanced at his brother, the bond between them still intact despite the years of separation. Lore’s face was etched with worry, and Taranis saw the doubt in his eyes. They had fought together once, long ago. But the battlefield was different now, and so were they.
Taranis nodded, raising his sword to the sky. Pendragon roared, and the ground trembled beneath them. The clash of steel and the roar of dragons echoed across the hills as the battle raged on.
The Turning Point Taranis had always fought for survival, but now he fought for something more his legacy. This battle was more than a struggle for land or tribe. It was a struggle for what would stay of the Stormborne name. The tribe, his family, and the ancient bond of blood and storm were all tied to this moment.
Drax, his brother, caught sight of him in the thick of the battle. Their eyes met across the chaos. Drax had once been the fierce, unrelenting warrior, the protector. But now, his eyes were full of something else hesitation.
Taranis fought his way toward him, cutting through the enemy like a force of nature. When he reached Drax, there was a moment of stillness the battlefield paused, the winds held their breath.
“You fight as a man, Taranis,” Drax said, his voice rough with emotion, his sword slick with blood. “But you’ve never known the price of victory.”
Taranis’s eyes flashed with a fire of their own. “Victory isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”
Drax, understanding in that moment what Taranis meant, raised his sword. “Then let us give,” he said, and together they turned. Fighting back to back, cutting through the enemy ranks with a power born of blood, storm, and flame.
The End of the Storm
The battle raged on for what felt like eternity, but slowly, the enemy forces began to break. The storm that had followed Taranis, fierce and untamed, began to recede as the last of the rival warriors fell.
The sky cleared, the clouds parted, and the first rays of sunlight broke through. casting a strange glow over the blood-soaked earth.
Taranis stood midst the chaos, bloodied but unbroken, his sword raised to the heavens. Pendragon and Tairneanach circled above, their forms still haunting the skies as their presence faded with the storm.
Lore and Drax stood beside him, their faces full of silent grief and reluctant pride. The cost had been great, and the blood of their brothers stained the earth beneath them.
But the Stormborne bloodline had endured. Taranis had returned and with him, the legacy of the Stormborne would live on. No longer a whispered legend, but a truth written in blood, storm, and flame.
A vibrant abstract artwork featuring a bold central pattern surrounded by colorful concentric lines.
They say the sky cracked open the morning he returned.
A low thunder rolled across the hills, though no lightning had yet touched the earth. The mist lay thick upon Malvern Hill, curling over the stones like the breath of ancient spirits. Somewhere between the bracken and the stormclouds, a shape emerged not quite man, not quite myth.
A fierce black wolf howls against a vibrant blue background, embodying the spirit of Taranis Stormborne’s journey in ‘The Return of Stormfire.’
Taranis Stormborne had come home.
He walked as one who had been reforged, each footstep heavy with memory and fire. Ten winters had passed since he’d been cast out as a cursed boy. But now he stood seven feet tall, shoulders broad as yew trunks. his eyes glinting with the steel-grey of a storm’s eye. His breath steamed in the cool dawn, yet he wore no furs. He needed none.
To his right padded Boldolph, the black wolf, massive and scarred, his red eyes burning like coals.
To his left prowled Morrigan, white as frost, her gaze sharp as carved bone.
An eye-catching illustration of a dragon intertwined with vibrant foliage, showcasing the magical essence of StormborneLore.
Above them circled the watchers of the sky two dragons cloaked in storm. Tairneanach, the spirit of thunder, and Pendragon, King of Flame. Their wings stirred the clouds. Their roars were hidden in the rumble overhead.
No trumpet called. No banner flew. But the mountain knew.
So did the tribe.
The watchmen were first to see him — one dropped his spear, the other fled into the trees. Word spread like fire through dry grass: “The Stormborne has returned.”
By the time Taranis reached the outer ridge, a ring of warriors had formed. Men he once called brothers. Men who remembered the boy and now beheld the storm.
His father was gone. His mother, buried in silence.
But Lore was there the eldest, proud and sorrow-worn.
So was Drax once cruel, now haunted.
And others less forgiving.
They stepped ahead, hands on stone blades, fury in their eyes. The past had not been buried with the bones of the dead.
Beneath the hollow tree he bled, With wolves for kin and stone for bed. The fire was not in hearth or hand It roared within, a storm unmanned.
He trained where no man dared to tread
On roots of yew and rivers red. His blade was bone, his shield was will, His foes were silence, hunger, chill.
Each sunrise found his form anew, A breath of frost, a bruise of blue. He carved his strength on bark and skin, And learned the rage that sleeps within.
He watched the hawk, he stalked the deer.
He danced with ghosts that others fear. His feet grew swift, his arms like oak, His breath break a hunter’s yoke.
No tribe remained to call him son, No elder crowned what he’d become. Yet mountains bowed, and storms would still .
For he had shaped the world by will.
The wolves ran wide, the skies grew torn.
And from the storm, the blade was born. A boy no more. No child of scorn. By fire and shadow… The warrior was born.
Served after illness, childbirth, or exhaustion when the spirit needed warmth.
A nourishing bowl of nettle and hazelnut soup, symbolizing healing and warmth.
Nettles have been used since the Stone Age for medicine and food. High in iron and vitamins, they were one of the first wild greens to appear after winter. Hazelnuts, foraged in autumn and stored carefully, added fat and flavour. Together, they formed a healing brew simple, sacred, and powerful.
This soup was often made by elders or midwives and shared with the tribe’s wounded or recovering members. In StormborneLore, it’s the first meal given to a tribe member returning from exile.
A close-up of crushed hazelnuts surrounded by fresh nettle leaves, essential ingredients for a traditional healing soup.
🧾 Ingredients (Modern Adaptation) Ingredient Qty Est. Cost (UK) Fresh nettle leaves (or spinach) 100g £0.00–£1.00 (free if foraged) Hazelnuts (crushed or ground) 50g £0.50–£1.00 Onion (or wild leek) ½ small £0.10 Water or light stock 500ml ~£0.10 Salt (optional) to taste <£0.05 Oil or fat (optional) 1 tsp £0.05
Estimated total cost: £0.80 – £2.30 (Serves 2 — approx. £0.40–£1.15 per bowl)
Fresh ingredients for a healing nettle soup, including hazelnuts, onion, and green herbs.
Boil water with foraged nettles, leeks, and crushed hazelnuts in a clay pot over fire.
Stir with a carved stick until it thickens.
Serve hot with flatbread or root mash.
Modern method:
Wash nettles (use gloves!) or spinach.
Sauté onion in oil until soft.
Add water/stock, nettles, and crushed hazelnuts.
Simmer 10–15 minutes. Blend for smoothness or serve rustic.
Season lightly. Optional: add oat milk or cream for richness.
📖 Suggested Story Pairing Serve with: “The Fire Within the Child” moments of recovery and resilience.
This is a soup of healing, strength, and memory. One bowl could mark the difference between fading and fighting. One fire-lit meal could carry the spirit through another night.
StormborneLore 