“Let others raise the blade. I raise the truth.” Lore Stormborne
🕯️ Keeper of the Flame. Brother of Storm. Lore Stormborne is more than a warrior he is the voice of memory, the keeper of names, and the bearer of the fire that binds tribe to tribe, and age to age. Born the youngest of the Stormborne brothers, Lore walks the path between word and weapon, prophecy and pragmatism.
Where Taranis is storm and Drax is stone, Lore is firelight quiet but searing, patient but unyielding.
He writes not only with ink, but with action.
Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, meticulously writing history and preserving knowledge.
📜 From Shadows to Scrolls In childhood, Lore followed in the shadow of his brothers Taranis, the storm-marked exile, and Drax, the hardened shield. But even then, Lore saw what others missed: patterns in myth, warnings in the stars, truth beneath tradition.
When Taranis was exiled, Lore did not speak but he remembered. When Drax rose through the ranks, Lore was already mapping the past.
His weapon was never just steel it was knowledge. And it burned just as brightly.
Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, conjures fire in a display of power and wisdom, embodying the essence of his role as the keeper of ancient rites.
🔥 Flamebearer of Hearthrest Lore governs Hearthrest, the wooded sanctuary of sacred stones and old rites. There, within the ancient stone circle, he tends the Eternal Flame of the Stormborne lit only in times of great need. It is said he can hear the voices of ancestors in the fire.
To the warriors, he is their truthkeeper. To the children, he is the story-weaver. To the Stormborne, he is their lore.
Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, wielding fire magic in a display of power and resolve.
⚔️ A Warrior When Needed Though often seen as a scholar, Lore is no stranger to battle. In the war against the Clawclan, he stood beside Taranis and Drax at Rykar’s Ridge, calling down the old flame-magic inscribed into cairnstones. His staff of flamewood, carved from lightning-struck ash, is both relic and weapon.
When dragons fell from the sky, Lore stood firm. When the storm rose, he whispered its name.
The Flamebearer of Hearthrest, Lore Stormborne, embodies wisdom and strength, standing as the keeper of ancient stories and the guardian of the Eternal Flame.
🧠 Mind of Flame Measured, articulate, and always listening, Lore speaks less than most but when he does, his words linger. He believes that the world is not saved through strength alone, but through stories preserved, names remembered, and wisdom passed on.
He is the bridge between storm and silence. And his fire never goes out.
Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, walking through ancient stone circles with a torch to illuminate the path of tradition and memory.
✴️ Known As: The Flamebearer of Hearthrest
Keeper of the Cairnstones
Lore of the Stormborne
Fire-Walker
Voice of the Old Flame
The sacred grove of Hearthrest, a mystical sanctuary of standing stones and ancient rites.
🌳 His Realm: Hearthrest, Caernath A wooded region of sacred groves and standing stones. Home of the Eternal Flame and ancient rites. Governed not by sword, but by tradition and firelight.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A mystical wolf howls under a glowing moon,. Symbolizing the struggle of Morrigan, a character entwined with curses and ancient magic.A striking artwork of a red wolf howling against a crescent moon, embodying themes of transformation and magic.
There is a silence in the marshlands that swallows time.
It lies thick over the water, coiled like mist among the reeds. Soundless. Watching. Waiting. The trees bow not to wind but to memory. Beneath their branches, something moves not quite woman, not only wolf.
Her name is Morrigan, though no one dares whisper it aloud anymore.
She runs low across the damp ground, white fur streaked with ash, paws soaking in the moon reflected puddles. Her breath rises in short, sharp bursts. Red eyes flicker in the dark, not with anger but with ache. Older than rage. Older than words.
Once, she had hands. Fingers that braided herbs and soothed fevered brows. Once, she sang lullabies to babes with eyes like river glass.
But that was before the curse.
The Curse of the Moon-Mother She remembers the moment it fell upon her the oath she broke. The vengeance she vowed. She remembers fire and blood. The cries of her dying cubs. The sickle moon high above, silent as ever.
“You protect them,” the goddess had whispered, cold and cruel. “But never again shall a human see you in human skin.”
And so, she is wolf now. Always.
Except in dreams. Except in the lonely corners of the woods where magic still lives. Except when Boldolph her mate, her shadow. Her equal appears in her memory not as wolf, but as the man she once loved.
But even in dreams, they do not touch.
A striking depiction of Morrigan., the wolf-woman howling against the backdrop of a crescent moon, symbolizing her duality and the curse she bears.
🐺 A Shadow in the Marshes She walks with her last remaining cub. Ash tiny, limping, a remnant of fire. His coat has not yet thickened. He does not yet know how to hunt. But he follows her. And he watches.
Somewhere in the Shropshire hills, Boldolph lifts his nose to the wind. He feels it too. The pull of the past. The whisper of change.
For the first time in an age, Morrigan feels it stir: hope. Not for herself that is too dangerous but for something else. Something old waking up in the soil. Something waiting.
⚡ A Boy in the Distance In her visions, she sees him. A child exiled from his people. Alone in the woods, carrying wounds deeper than the bone. Grey eyes, like thunder behind mist. A storm within him.
He is too young to lead. Too wild to tame.
But he sees. He does not run from wolves. He does not scream when the trees whisper.
Morrigan felt it deep in her bones the presence of the young boy.
A Promise Made of Teeth and Fire She pauses at the edge of the marsh. Ash nuzzles her side. She looks up and for a moment, the stars seem closer.
She carves a spiral into the mud with one claw. The shape of cycles. Of beginnings.
Not far now. Staffordshire, they call the place now though in Morrigan’s memory, it had a different name. A name older than stone.
That is where she will go.
To the forest where the boy waits.
To the place where storms are born.
And there, she will decide whether this child is worth the breaking of old vows. or whether the curse will claim him too.
A hand-painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape, featuring trees and a bright sun, symbolizing a connection to nature.
They always said the Chase held secrets. Over the years rumors of ghost sightings, lost children, lights that danced just out of reach.
But Private Callum Hargreaves had grown up nearby. He’d run through these woods with scraped knees and muddy boots, long before he wore the army’s green.
He used to love the quiet, the peacefulness that the woods brought.
Tonight, it felt wrong.
The mist had rolled in fast, blanketing the forest floor. Dusk bled into night like ink in water. Callum’s breath fogged in front of him not from cold, but from the weight in the air.
His squad had finished training hours ago, but he hadn’t gone back. He couldn’t. Not yet. His thoughts were loud again memories knocking like fists on the inside of his skull.
“Just walk it off,” he muttered, his voice low. “Like always.” he told himself.
He followed an old deer track or maybe just instinct into the dense pines. The kind that made their own darkness even before sunset. The ground was soft, smelling of wet leaves and something older.
He paused.
There at the base of a gnarled tree was a stone. Half buried, bone coloured. Not shaped by nature. Carved. Faint, but deliberate.
Callum crouched. A breeze touched his neck, oddly warm.
“Someone put this here.”
A mysterious token featuring a swirl design, symbolizing the secrets of the woods.
He brushed aside the moss. A symbol. A swirl or a horn. Beside it a feather. White. Slightly scorched at the edge. When he reached out to touch it.
The air twisted.
Like the world held its breath.
He blinked. Once. The trees around him… changed.
Taller. Closer. Ancient.
No wrappers underfoot. No footprints. No signal bars. The forest felt closer, like it was listening.
Then came the whisper.
Not from behind him. Not from the side.
From below.
“He’s returned…”
The voice wasn’t human but it wasn’t wind either. It filled his ears like rising water. Callum staggered back, instinct flaring.
The stone was gone. The trail behind him, vanished. Even the smell was different no exhaust, no cordite, just wood smoke and something sharp: iron? sweat? blood?
“No. No, no what is this?”
He turned toward where the training grounds should’ve been.
Nothing.
Just trees. And silence. And the whispering louder now. Familiar. Calling him by name without speaking it.
And then… a howl.
Low. Echoing.
Not quite wolf. Not quite human.
Callum’s breath caught. He gripped the feather tight in his palm.
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.
StormborneLore 