There are some men who are born to stand with kings. There are some who are born to stand against them.
Taranis Stormborne was born to be the storm that breaks empires.
He is the brother who takes the front line, who holds the shield, who rises when others fall.
He carries the old fire of the tribes the wild courage of a world that refuses to surrender.
He has walked through ages of blood and frost. He has seen kingdoms rise and collapse into dust. He has fought under a hundred banners, yet swears loyalty to none.
Because Taranis does not protect rulers.
He protects people.
Identity & Role
Archetype: The Blade / The Storm / The Protector
What he stands for: Courage, defiance, resistance
His purpose: To stand where others can’t
His burden: He feels every loss. Even after centuries, he remembers every face.
Taranis is not a hero — he is the cost of heroism.
Strengths
Unbreakable will
Fierce loyalty to those who can’t defend themselves
Instinctive battlefield intuition
The ability to endure and return when others would break
Wound
He can save many but never enough. He carries grief the way others carry scars.
No matter what age he walks through, war finds him. Or, he is what war is searching for.
Whispers Across History
Taranis is never officially recorded but his shadow is.
There are stories of:
The lone warrior who held a bridge against an army and vanished into the woods.
The man in the Perry Woods who supplied gunpowder to rebels and walked away unseen.
The shieldwall breaker whose roar turned battles.
The wandering guardian who frees the enslaved and disappears before dawn.
The soldier who dies, and then is seen again years later unchanged.
Sometimes he is called a king. Sometimes a demon. Sometimes a ghost.
But he is always Stormborne.
How Others Speak of Him
“When the world is burning, look for the thunder. He will be there.”
“He does not lead armies. He ignites them.”
“If you hear the storm, it is already too late to run.”
This Is Only the Beginning
Taranis’s story is not told in a single lifetime. or a single kingdom or a single war.
His path crosses:
empires,
rebellions,
oceans,
and centuries.
But those stories are not kept here.
They are found in the fragments the tales, the memories, the scars, the songs, scattered across StormborneLore.
The storm had not yet left his veins. Even in exhaustion, Taranis’s breath came sharp as lightning through rain. The iron on his wrists bit deeper with each movement, the weight of Rome’s victory heavy, but not finished.
He heard them before he saw them the measured tread of Caelum and Marcos. The murmur of soldiers giving way as they entered the cell yard. The torches flared against the damp walls, shadows stretching long like reaching fingers.
“Uncle Marcos,” Caelum’s voice was quiet but edged with fear. “Can those chains come off him?”
Marcos paused beside the centurion who held the keys. His gaze lingered on Taranis, bloodstained and silent, the faint curl of defiance still etched into his mouth. “They can,” Marcos said slowly. “But they won’t. Not yet.”
Caelum’s jaw tightened. “He’s bleeding. If he dies”
“He won’t,” Marcos interrupted, eyes never leaving Taranis. “He’s too stubborn to die.”
Taranis lifted his head then, a slow, deliberate motion. “You sound almost proud, Marcos.” His voice was hoarse, roughened by sand and roar, but steady. “Tell me how does it feel, watching Rome chain another son of the storm?”
Marcos stepped closer, the metal of his own armour glinting in the firelight. “It feels like survival,” he said quietly. “A lesson you still refuse to learn.”
“Survival,” Taranis repeated, the word tasting like ash. “You call it that. I call it submission.”
The centurion moved between them, keys jangling. “Enough talk.” But Marcos lifted a hand not to command, but to stay him.
“Let him speak,” Marcos said. “Words weigh less than chains.”
Caelum’s eyes flicked between them, confusion and pain warring in his young face. “He fought lions, Uncle. Bears. He lived through what no man should. Why must you treat him like this?”
“Because,” Marcos
“You know they say deaths the final lesson?” Taranis grinned…Marcos’s eyes hardened, but not with anger with something closer to grief.
“Death teaches nothing,” he said. “It only silences the unteachable.”
Taranis laughed then a low, ragged sound that echoed off the stone like distant thunder. “Then maybe silence is what Rome fears most. A man who dies still defiant who doesn’t give them their spectacle.”
The centurion stepped ahead impatiently. “Enough of this.” He seized Taranis by the shoulder, but the bound warrior’s gaze did not waver.
“Do you see it, Caelum?” Taranis rasped. “Chains don’t make a man loyal. They only show who fears him most.”
Caelum swallowed hard, torn between the authority of his uncle and the raw conviction before him. “Uncle… he’s right. Rome fears him.”
Marcos turned sharply. “Rome fears no man.” Yet even as he said it, his voice faltered, as if the walls themselves disagreed.
A moment of silence fell the kind that breathes between lightning and thunder.
Then Taranis whispered, “You once said the blood of the storm can’t be trained. You were right. It can only be bound… for a while.”
The torches flickered, shadows dancing like spirits around the three men the Roman, the youth, and the storm-bound prisoner.
Marcos finally turned away. “Clean his wounds,” he said curtly to the centurion. “He fights again at dawn.”
As they left, Caelum lingered by the gate, his eyes locked on Taranis’s. “I’ll come back,” he said softly.
Taranis’s faint grin returned. “Then bring thunder, boy. Rome hasn’t heard enough of it yet.”
The cell door slammed shut, iron against stone but somewhere, deep beneath the fortress, thunder rolled.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read yesterday’s Authors Note.
just a warning : This is NOT EDITED in anyway so there will be spelling mistakes and grammar issues., structure issues.
Why am I doing this?
The reason I’m saying hello in English. German, Russian, Spanish, Swedish and Welsh (I do apologise if I’ve spelt or wrote anything wrong)
The reason for it is those are the top countries in my stats for viewing my site.
THANK YOU
Thank you and USA youre number one. Thank you, and last night’s authors note had more likes than any other piece.
AI and Me
Well I’ve tried AI and still think even with all the errors. My writings probably better, than ai even though I use it to Polish my work it feels wrong.
Less human! Less capable of putting in what it takes to make the reader feel. SO after talking to my child who is a one of the biggest book nerds I’ve know. Someone who states don’t use AI they steal from other writers.
They are right but my stories are mine and double checked even triple checked not just through grammarly. But I also paste anything that I’m suspicious of direct into search engines manually check. If something worth doing it’s worth doing right !
The Plan Today
What’s on the plan today is easy 4 pieces.
This authors note
1 story – Three houses of Caernath part 7
1 poem – based on the eternal lords
1 article
1 recipe. Inspired by the bronze age
Where is my world based?
Someone asked me where are my stories / world based?
Worcestershire.
The House of Flame – Ignis.
Infact Emberhelm is based on the Malvern Hills and surrounding areas. Where I walked every weekend as a child and teen. An area stepped in history and folklore from Roman Britain to today.
Shropshire, Welsh marches and Staffordshire
The houses of Lore and Drax
Tempestas (house of storm) and Umbria (the house of shadow)
While Drax guards the marches with his armies of tempestas. Lore works his charms throughout his lands of Umbra. Taranis sits in the main house of Ignis. Soon to be joined by two others.
Again I spent hours walking not just around my village. But Cannock chase and Tettenhall woods, Walsall woods, cannock woods. I listened to historians, folklorists, read books on mythology, folklore, hauntings of the areas.
Other areas
I’ve walked Glastonbury Tor. (The hard way even ended up crawling at the top. But worth it and I proved to myself I can achieve the impossible. )
I’ve walked the long mynd (shropshire)where a village is said to have disappeared. The walks beautiful but not for those with mobility issues.
I’ve visited Wales (let’s face the truth at one point most of England was welsh). so when I include Welsh it more of a nod to ancestral heritage. My favourite place in Wales is Pembrokeshire.
Everywhere I go I’m learning not just the history but any folklore people are willing to share.
Growing up in Staffordshire gave me an opening to learn the Lore. Of not just my village but cannock chase and many other areas.
I was told “never put rough articles on your blog”. but when you don’t have funds for an editor for your articles where do you go?
Many indie writers told me once Grammarly but that’s ai isnt it? If anyone has any suggestions please let me know.
I’m learning and slowly starting to use my own raw writing on this site.
Have a good day, and to those in war torn areas or going through tough times. blessing and positive thoughts go out to you.
From the first howl on the wind to the firelit feasts of Caernath, StormborneLore now stands tall a living archive of myth, memory, and meaning.
In these past 19 days, you’ve journeyed through:
✨ Poems of Spirit and reflections from wolves, dragons, outcasts, and gods 🔥 Tales of Hardship and Hope, stories born in darkness, rising toward the light 🍖 Feasts of the Ancients, recipes inspired by the meals of warriors, crones, and storm-born kings. ⚖️ Truths of Our Time articles echoing modern struggles: disability, injustice, survival, and healing
Each post is more than just a page — it’s a voice from the halls of Emberhelm.
“When all the world forgets us, we will still sing around the fire.” Taranis Stormborne
To every reader who’s wandered these halls, thank you. To every warrior, wolf, and flamekeeper yet to come welcome home.
StormborneLore Fiction forged in myth. Truth written in fire.
Support the creative journey of StormborneLore through shares, likes, and engagement.
StormborneLore is a personal, creative project not a business. It was born from my love of myth, history, and storytelling… and it gives me a way to express myself despite the challenges I face day to day.
I live with disabilities. I currently receive PIP and LCWRA, which help cover my basic needs. I don’t make any money from this site nor do I expect to in the immediate future.
But what I do get… is purpose.
Creating these stories, poems, and legends takes time, effort, research, and heart. And the best way you can support me right now isn’t with money it’s with likes, shares, comments, and follows.
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🕯️ Every Click Makes a Difference Your engagement whether that’s a like on a post, a follow, or simply sharing my work with others helps me see that what I’m doing matters. It shows me someone is reading. That this world I’m building is seen.
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Looking Ahead: Plans for future support options to enhance StormborneLore.
🔮 Looking Ahead I may eventually add a small donation button (like Buy Me a Coffee) to help with
Site and hosting costs
Basic tools like a printer or laptop
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If or when that happens, I’ll be completely transparent and I’ll always keep the content free and accessible to all.
A heartfelt message from the creator of StormborneLore, expressing the importance of writing and community support.
✍️ Why This Matters StormborneLore is my way of contributing something real. I can’t always work in the traditional sense. But I can create. I can write. And with your help, I can keep going.Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here.
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.
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.
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