my nose they maimed, For secrets whispered and magic named.
They feared the truth,
that dripped like rain, That power born in pain brings flame.
I bore no sword, I cast no stone, Yet still they cast me out alone. Bound and blind, I crossed the moor, With curses trailing like wolves at the door.
“Let the thirteenth child suffer my fate,” I spat through blood at the village gate. “Let every line remember me, When thunder walks and wolves run free.”
But still I mourn, though wrath was mine The babes I lost, the bloodline’s line. I gave the curse to stars and skies, Yet I too break when a child cries.
and fire for breath, He walks between day and the deepening night, A child of healing, a whisper of death.
They called him cursed, they called him flame, Yet none could deny the spark in his palm. He bore no weapon, he sought no fame But the winds bent low to kiss his calm.
When Drax lay broken, minds turned black, Taranis reached, and thunder wept. The fever fled, the soul came back And the child collapsed, as the forest slept.
Now they watch him with fearful eyes, This babe who speaks in ancient tongue.
Yet storms do not ask if the fire should rise… They rise because the world’s begun.
Colorful thank you note encouraging readers to like and subscribe, featuring a sunny landscape.
The punishment was isolation not exile, not quite. Taranis, though still only a babe by the tribe’s reckoning, was watched but not spoken to. No brothers played with him. No mother’s lullaby wrapped him in comfort. He was to be observed, not nurtured. Fed, but not spoken to. Cared for, but not loved.
It was said the elders feared what he would become. A child with glowing hands who healed a broken mind just as easily break others, they whispered.
And so, silence fell over him like a second skin.
But the boy the boy did not stop being hungry.
On the third day of his confinement, Taranis wandered just beyond the shadow of the chief’s hut. He was old enough to walk, too young to know danger. And he was hungry.
He saw berries.
They gleamed with dew, small and red like droplets of blood upon the brambles. They looked like the ones Nyx used to give him in summer. He plucked them, popped one in his mouth, and smiled.
Within minutes, the world tilted.
Taranis clutched his belly, his body shaking. His legs gave way as a cry tore from his throat not of pain alone, but of betrayal.
The world blurred. The air thickened. He vomited violently and collapsed into the underbrush.
From the edge of the village, Nyx saw the fall.
“FATHER!” she screamed, racing ahead before any guards stop her. “Taranis! Taranis!”
Conan came running, as did Lore and Boldolph, the great black wolf. Lore scooped the child into his arms, his skin already burning with fever again, his lips pale and trembling.
“What’s he done?” Lore cried.
“Berries,” said Morrigan softly from the tree line. “The bitter kind. Poisonous to children.”
Nyx was sobbing now, her hands over her mouth. “He didn’t know. He was hungry. He was hungry and no one fed him.”
Father turned to the elders, fury flashing in his eyes.
The elders said nothing.
That night, the laws were rewritten.
Taranis would not be left alone again. He would still be watched, still be studied but never again forgotten.
Because even a stormborn child needs more than destiny to survive.
Whisper not his name too loud, Lest storms descend and fire shroud. The child who walks ‘twixt wolf and flame, Was never born to live the same.
His cradle rocked in winds that roared, His breath was thunder, wild, untoward. At one moon old, he called the stars At two, he broke his brother’s bars.
The elders spoke with furrowed brows, “This one will break our sacred vows.” But in his hands, a light did grow, Too pure to burn, too fierce to slow.
He healed the sick with dragon’s grace, And sorrow fled his glowing face. Yet fear, like roots, took hold and spread “He brings both blessing… and the dead.”
Some say his eyes hold forest lore, The wolves’ old grief, the fae-folk’s war. Some say his blood recalls the flame Of gods who walked with no true name.
What tribe can hold a storm so wide? What fire endures when fear must hide? So mark these words on bark and bone, The Stormborne never walks alone.
For when the wind begins to wail, And branches sing a deathless tale, Look not for mercy, shield, or guide. The fire within the child will rise.
Thank you for reading.
If you enjoyed reading this please like, comment and subscribe.
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”
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.
An artistic representation of a mother holding her baby, symbolizing love and protection, echoing the themes of warmth and celebration in the naming ceremony of Taranis Stormborne.
The fire rose high, its heat warming us as we sang and danced around it. the Song of the Spirit carried on our voices.
But beneath the music, there was a chill in the air, something wrong. something dark, as though a shadow had seeped into the world unseen.
“My brother cried once, Father,” I said, pride swelling in my chest. “It was like he answered the thunder god himself. Even the wolves are silent. Even the dragon doesn’t strike.”
I ran my fingers gently over Stormborne’s face. my baby brother, wrapped in warmth, calm in a world that seemed to hold its breath.
Father War, chief of our people placed a strong hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve noticed the strangeness too, Lore,” he said quietly. “But tonight we don’t fear each other’s company we embrace it. Tonight, my son, we celebrate. Tomorrow… we stand guard.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied. “As you consider.”
I stepped back and watched, as he and Mother approached the fire. They stepped ahead proud carrying Taranis wrapped in the freshly cut fox hide. its red fur a symbol of cunning and strength.
War cleared his throat, lifted the baby high, and turned to face the tribe.
“I name him Stormborne,” he said, “for he was born from the storm the thirteenth son, under thunder and fire. He will be a mighty warrior.”
The people gathered close.
One by one, they reached into the sacred ash. They marked the child’s forehead and chest black smudges to bind him to the tribe,to earth, flame, sky, and spirit.
Food and drink flowed. Smoke curled into the sky. Even the animals gathered at the forest edge to witness the naming.
So was born Taranis Stormborne the thirteenth son, the thunder child, and the one the winds would never forget.
Father’s eyes had changed flashing a pale shade of red.
Thunder cracked as he stepped into the cave. Ready to lay eyes on Mother and the newborn she had fought to bring into the world.
We stood behind him in silence, all of us but one.
One brother, whose eyes held no joy. Only fear. Only the taste of blood.
“Thirteenth son of the thirteenth son,” he muttered. “Born during a storm… and an eclipse. Even the dragons have fallen silent. And the wolves, they’ve stopped howling.”
Just then, as if the forest itself heard hima sound split the trees in two.
Boldolph.
His howl rose like thunder turned voice, a cry so powerful the very air seemed to flinch.
Artistic depiction of Boldolph, the powerful wolf, alongside symbols of mythology and nature.
At his side stood Morrigan, his bonded mate white as new snow. She gave a low, haunting cry and pressed her head gently against his.
Then the dragon stirred.
It lifted its head, wings stretching wide like a storm reborn.
And with a roar that lit the sky, it rose.
Fire molten and blinding erupted from its throat, painting the clouds in gold and crimson.
And there, across the eclipsed heavens, the name appeared.
TARANIS.
Burning. Brilliant. Undeniable.
As if the stars, the storm, and the breath of the gods themselves had spoken as one:
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.
StormborneLore 