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Title: Lord Commander of the Stormborne Realm: Shadowmere, Bronze Age frontier of rivers and stone Brother to: High Warlord Taranis and Lore, the Flamebearer
Character Bio:
Drax Stormborne is the iron heart of the Stormborne resistance a battle-scarred warrior whose silence weighs more than words.
Where Taranis commands with the fury of the storm and Lore with the wisdom of the ancients. Drax rules the battlefield with unwavering precision and primal force.
Raised in the shadow of his brother’s exile, Drax carved his loyalty in blood and fire. When the Clawclan advanced on the borders of Caernath. It was Drax who held the line, forging discipline into the ragged ranks of Stormborne fighters.
His realm, Shadowmere, is wild and watchful a land of rivers, woods, and ancient circles. where warriors learn to move like ghosts and strike like thunder.
Clad in furs and iron, adorned with war tattoos and scars that speak of countless battles. Drax is a living symbol of Stormborne resolve. Though his voice is rare, his presence speaks volumes protector, strategist, brother. His loyalty to Taranis is absolute, and his trust in Lore is forged through fire.
Some call him the Wolf of Shadowmere. Others, the Axe of Emberhelm. All know one truth: Drax does not retreat.
The sky over Rykar’s Ridge cracked with a sound like splitting stone.
Pendragon rose first wings stretched wide. Vast as storm sails, his bronze and emerald scales catching the last light of day. He circled high above the valley, a gleaming sovereign watching the armies assemble below.
To the west, the last kin of Stormborne gathered. Taranis stood at the forefront, grey-eyed and grave, flanked by Lore and Drax. The ground at their backs was scorched from the fire of prophecy.
To the east, under curling black clouds, came the dragon of thunder Tairneanach, black as midnight and crowned with sparks. Lightning licked his flanks. His eyes were coals, ancient and furious.
He was the dragon of reckoning, storm-forged and prophecy-bound, the one who watched from the shadows of time.
But this was no duel between beasts alone.
It was the end of an age. And dragons, it was said, chose sides not by blood — but by truth.
Taranis looked to the sky. “They’ve returned,” he said softly.
Drax scoffed. “Or come to see who burns first.”
“Dragons don’t come for sport,” Lore murmured, hand resting on the carved staff of flamewood. “They come when destiny wavers.”
The wind shifted.
Down came Pendragon, his great claws curling into the soil beside Taranis. His gaze fell on the young warlord no longer the exiled child of the woods. But a leader draped in fire-scars and ash-braided hair. Pendragon gave a low, resonant growl. Not a threat. A vow.
And across the field, Tairneanach descended like a storm himself, cracking trees and stone beneath his wingspan. His breath steamed in the air heavy with ozone. Thunder rolled in his chest.
They faced each other now: two titans born before men stood upright. Two dragons of the Stormborne prophecy.
The wind stilled.
And in that silence, Morrigan lifted her howl to the sky a signal from the ridge behind. Boldolph stood beside her in wolfman form, snarling low.
The Clawclan were moving.
“DRAX!” Taranis barked. “Hold the eastern rise!”
Drax nodded, slamming his axe against his shield. “With pleasure.”
“LORE!” he turned, voice like thunder. “Prepare the flame line. If the dragons fall—”
“They won’t,” Lore cut in, eyes glowing faintly. “But I’ll be ready.”
The Clawclan came screaming from the ridge like hornets. Painted in black and red, bone charms rattling, fire arrows loosed high. The first line met Drax’s warriors in a clash of metal, blood, and grit.
Behind them, the Stormborne shield-wall held fast. But the pressure built like a coming flood.
Pendragon roared, rearing high. With one beat of his wings, he swept fire over the Clawclan’s flank .flames so hot they melted shields anoʻd seared the earth itself. Men screamed, scattered, and fell.
But then, a second roar answered.
Tairneanach unleashed his storm.
Lightning struck the centre of the field, ripping through both earth and sky. The power coursed through bones, hearts, even memory. Clawclan warriors staggered but so did some of Stormborne’s own.
The dragons circled each other, neither striking first.
Not yet.
Amid the chaos, a boy barely of age charged toward Taranis blade too large for his arms. Face painted in fear and madness.
Taranis met him not with fury, but with mercy.
He turned the blade aside, struck the hilt, and knocked the boy unconscious.
“There’s no glory in slaying the broken,” he muttered.
A moment later, Boldolph leapt past him slamming into a Clawclan berserker with enough force to crack ribs. Morrigan followed, her white fur streaked with blood and soot, her teeth finding the throat of another.
Still the dragons circled.
Still the battle burned.
And then..
Pendragon dipped low. Not toward Tairneanach, but toward the battlefield.
A new force had emerged from the mists a second wave of Clawclan. armed with net-traps and dragon-piercing spears forged from meteoric ore.
“Cowards,” Lore hissed. “They seek to slay the sacred.”
Tairneanach landed with a thunderous quake.
He did not aid the Clawclan.
He turned against them.
His tail swept wide, sending a dozen spearmen flying. His mouth opened — but instead of lightning, he loosed a scream of pure rage.
Pendragon landed beside him, and for a moment. the two dragons stood back to back defending not sides, but something older.
Stormborne. Balance. Prophecy.
The brothers saw it too.
Taranis, Lore, Drax covered in blood and smoke turned toward the dragons now defending their people.
And Taranis whispered, “It was never a battle between them.”
“No,” said Lore. “It’s a battle for us.”
“For Stormborne,” Drax added, gripping his weapon.
Tairneanach raised his head, and with a final, sky-splitting roar, flew straight into the blackened clouds above. Pendragon followed, spiralling upward.
Together, they vanished into the storm.
And on the ridge below, the Stormborne warriors stood not victorious, but awakened.
The sky split again.
This time, it was not Tairneanach who screamed across the clouds, but Pendragon, rising high and circling above the valley. Beneath him, the Black Clawclan surged ahead like a tide of locusts. War cries rang out. Spears glinted. Shields slammed together in rhythm.
But at the front of the Stormborne line stood Taranis unmoved, massive, his blade held sideways like it weighed nothing.
Beside him, Boldolph roared half-man, half-wolf, his red eyes glowing. He slammed the butt of his axe into the ground and bared his teeth.
Behind them, Lore raised his staff. “Now!” he cried.
The runes carved into the ancient stones shimmered. The hill beneath the enemy’s feet cracked as though the land itself rejected their presence.
Drax, bloodied from an earlier clash, stood on a higher ridge, calling the warriors into formation. “Spears up! Hold the line! If we fall today, the fire dies with us!”
The dragons descended.
Pendragon spiralled downward, a comet of colour and fury. He opened his mouth and from it came not just fire, but a heat so intense it twisted the air. The Clawclan’s front ranks scattered as tents and timber exploded into flame.
From the west, Tairneanach swooped low and screamed. a bolt of lightning leapt from his jaws and struck the enemy catapult, reducing it to smouldering splinters.
“DRAGONS!” a terrified voice cried. “The legends were true!”
The battlefield was chaos.
Taranis leapt into the fray, his sword catching fire as Pendragon soared above. With every swing, a foe fell not just cut down, but shattered. It was as if the storm had learned to walk.
Boldolph tore through the lines like a shadow of vengeance. He moved low and fast, clawing one man across the chest. Slamming another with his shoulder so hard the man flew ten feet.
The brothers fought in unison, their bond forged through exile and pain.
Lore, standing at the sacred cairn, whispered ancient words. Roots erupted from the ground, tangling the Clawclan’s feet. A tree burst through the soil like a spear, skewering a line of advancing warriors.
Still they came.
From the far end of the field rode their leader a brute named Gaedrix. cloaked in bone armour and wielding twin axes carved from dragon tooth.
He bellowed a challenge.
Taranis turned. His sword burned brighter. “This ends now.”
They met in the centre of the field the High Warlord and the Bone King.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The ground cracked beneath their boots. Gaedrix struck wild, savage, unrelenting. But Taranis moved like wind and thunder blocking, dodging, answering with devastating power.
One swing he broke Gaedrix’s left axe.
Another he knocked the warlord to one knee.
The Bone King snarled, blood spraying from his lips. “You should’ve stayed dead, Stormborne.”
Taranis drove his blade into the ground beside him, stepped forward, and cracked Gaedrix across the jaw with his gauntlet.
“I don’t die,” he said.
Then, as the dragons roared overhead and the warriors of Stormborne shouted in unison. Taranis lifted Gaedrix above his head and hurled him toward the burning ridge.
He never rose again.
Silence swept the field.
The remaining Black Claw warriors, seeing their leader defeated, dropped their weapons. Some fled. Others dropped to their knees.
The sky cleared.
Pendragon circled once before landing beside Taranis. The great beast bowed his head, his flank marked by a shallow gash but his eyes burning bright.
Tairneanach landed beside Boldolph, nudging the wolf-man with a low, throaty growl.
Drax limped forward, laughing through the pain. “You’ve always been dramatic.”
Taranis sheathed his sword and looked around at the wreckage, the blood, the fire.
“We were born of storm,” he said. “But we survive through each other.”
Lore joined them, hand resting on the cairn stone. “The old ways live.”
From the cliffs above, children and elders peeked out watching, hoping.
Taranis turned and called, “We are Stormborne! This is your land. Your fire. Your home!”
Cheers broke like thunder across the valley.
Boldolph threw his head back and howled. Morrigan’s answering cry echoed from the woods. The wolves had returned.
Above them, the two dragons fire and storm crossed paths in the sky.
A new age had begun. The prophesy come true. Tairneanach landed near Taranis allowing Taranis to climb his back.
“I’m not the ball I’m the dragon rider ” Taranis smirked chuckling as he swooped up into the sky.
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.
Spun flax with fire and softened seams. Mothers, warriors, whisperers, seers Their names echo across the years.
In caves they sang to unborn stars, In fields they carved the fate of wars. With calloused hands and iron hearts, They held the world while it fell apart.
They bore the weight of every dawn, Raised walls of stone when men were gone.
Healed with roots, and led with grace Stormborne blood, in every place.
Let no tale forget their worth, The quiet queens of ancient earth. For behind the sword and sky and lore, Were women holding open the door.
A vibrant illustration of Boldolph the black wolf howling at the moon. Embodying the mischievous spirit of the character from the poem.
(As sung by the kitchen fires)
Boldolph the black wolf sniffed the stew, His belly growled: “This meat will do!” He tiptoed past the snoring men, And dipped a paw in the broth again.
Morrigan caught him, gave a glare, “You thieving pup, don’t you dare!” But Boldolph smirked with sausage pride, And gobbled half the pot inside.
The cooks awoke to clatter and howl, The stew was gone, the bowl was foul. They found a trail of bones and crumbs, And one big wolf with sleepy gums.
Now every night the guards are warned, “Keep watch on Boldolph, ever adorned. For if you blink or turn your back, He’ll steal your soup and leave no snack!”
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!
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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.
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