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Tag: Caernath
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House of Lumen
For Rayne and the Healers of DawnIf I fall, let me fall,
where the light still touches bark,
where elderflowers whisper secrets,
to the bees who dare return.I will not fight with flame.
I have no sword but kindness,
no shield but truth.My wounds are many,
but I dress them with honey.
Even the broken bloom
if the morning is gentle enough.We do not strike first
we remember.We remember what it was like
to be left behind,
and we vow never
to let another wake alone.© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
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House of Terra
Rootbound
For Draven and the House of EarthI was born beneath the roots,
not in halls nor under banners,
but where stone remembers every name
it ever held beneath its weight.We do not rush.
We do not rise like fire or storm.
We grow.
Through frost. Through famine. Through silence.The earth does not speak quickly,
but when it does,
the world listens.We are the ones who bury the dead,
but we also plant the seeds.
We kneel not in fear
but to build.So call us slow,
but call us standing
long after towers fall.© 2025 EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.
This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of EL Hewitt. Do not copy, repost, or adapt without permission. -
House of Earth (Terra) Recipe
Bronze Age Root & Grain Bowl
Hearthstone Harvest Bowl
Inspired by Draven and the steady traditions of the EarthIngredients (Modern Adaptation)
- 1 cup pearl barley (or bulgur wheat) – £0.60
- 1 parsnip, peeled and chopped £0.30
- 1 carrot, peeled and chopped £0.20
- 1 leek, sliced £0.40
- 1 small turnip, chopped £0.35
- 1 tbsp rapeseed oil or butter £0.10
- Salt and pepper (or crushed wild herbs) – £0.05
- Optional: soft cheese (like goat cheese) or oat cream for richness £0.50
Estimated Cost per Serving: £2.50
(serves 2–3)Historical Insight
Grain and root vegetables formed the basis of Bronze Age meals in lowland Britain. Pearl barley, turnips, and wild leeks were common, often boiled or roasted near hearth fires. Butter or animal fat was prized and sometimes substituted with pressed oils.Substitutions
- Barley can be swapped for spelt, bulgur wheat, or even brown rice.
- Use any available root vegetables (e.g., swede, sweet potato).
- Foraged herbs or nettles can replace salt in a rustic version.
Method
- Boil the barley in salted water (2:1 ratio) for 30–35 mins until tender.
- Roast parsnip, carrot, leek, and turnip with oil and a pinch of salt for 25–30 mins at 180°C.
- Combine barley and vegetables in a bowl. Drizzle with oat cream or scatter cheese if desired.
- Serve warm by the hearth nourishing, grounding, and Bronze Age simple
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
More Recipies can be found at:
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The Wilderness Years Part 10
Ashes into Oaths
The morning mist clung to the earth like breath held too long.Taranis stood barefoot in the frost-hardened dirt, his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Before him, the children the eleven pulled from the pit stood in an uneven line. Some shivered. One held a stick like a sword. Another clenched it like a club.
“Not to hurt,” Taranis said. His voice was calm but carried weight. “To protect.”
He walked along the line, placing his hand gently on each child’s shoulder. Their eyes were wide. Some still flinched. But none ran.
Boldolph sat at Taranis’s right, silent and unmoving, a guardian of the moment. Morrigan circled the clearing with the patience of a winter wind, occasionally brushing a child’s ankle with her tail when their stance faltered.
Solaris stood at the edge of the clearing, arms folded. He watched Taranis with an unreadable expression.
“They’re too small,” he said quietly.
Taranis turned.
“So was I,” he replied.
He took a staff from the ground and twirled it with precision, the end cutting the air in a slow arc.
“If we wait for them to grow, it will be too late.”
That evening, the fire burned low. The children huddled close to its warmth, whispering stories they were beginning to remember stories Taranis had told them about the wolves, the fire, the storm.
Solaris sat apart from them, alone with the thoughts that had haunted him for weeks.
He rose when all were asleep. He moved through the shadows, past the bones of old tents and the ghosts of gallows, until he reached the western tree line.
From inside his tunic, he pulled a strip of black cloth, worn thin and embroidered with a single red claw.
He tied it to a crooked branch. Then he whispered.
“Tell them the storm is coming.”
His voice cracked.
“Tell them… it’s Taranis.”
He turned, vanishing back into the mist.
It happened at dawn.
Taranis led a scouting party through the ashwoods Boldolph at his side, two scouts ahead, three boys from the training ring carrying supplies. The fog was thick, the silence heavier than snow.
They never saw the first spear.
It took one of the scouts through the chest. Another cried out and was silenced. The boys ran or tried to but two were taken by horsemen bearing the sigil of the Black Claw.
Taranis fought like a storm obsidian pendant flashing in the smoke, staff and blade spinning but by the time the sun broke the treetops, four were dead, two missing, and the forest was soaked in blood.
He returned on foot, armour torn, a wound above his eye leaking down his face.
Grael met him at the gates.
“They were waiting for us,” the warlord said grimly.
Taranis nodded.
“They knew we were coming.”
“Someone told them.”
The circle was cleared at dusk. Warriors formed the ring. The children watched from behind Morrigan’s flank. The fire crackled but did not comfort.
Solaris stood in the centre, unbound. He didn’t run. He didn’t plead.
Taranis entered last, blood still dried in the cracks of his skin.
“You warned them,” he said flatly.
Solaris bowed his head.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because they would have killed my children,” Solaris said softly. “I was trying to stop a war.”
Taranis stepped closer, gaze unwavering.
“You started one.”
The words were quiet. Measured. Final.
From a wrapped bundle at his belt, Taranis pulled a collar carved bone, etched with runes. Not the iron of chains. Something older. Something sacred.
“You are not my enemy,” Taranis said. “But you are no longer free.”
“You will serve. You will teach. You will live in the light of what you did and what you chose not to.”
He placed the collar around Solaris’s neck. It locked with a soft click.
Solaris did not resist.
He simply whispered, “Thank you for letting me live.”Taranis didn’t answer.
Days passed. The air grew colder. But the children trained each dawn, and the wolves stayed close.
Solaris taught them how to cook, how to read the skies, how to find warmth when the earth turned bitter. Taranis taught them how to fight but more than that, how to stand. How to speak without fear. How to remember.
“We were broken,” he told them. “But we are still here.”
A council formed. Not by title. By oath.
Grael stood with arms crossed, nodding at the children now sleeping beside the fire.
Morrigan lay curled with the youngest boy against her ribs.
Boldolph prowled the border like a guardian carved from ash and stone.Taranis drew three sigils in the dirt.
A flame.
A storm.
A shadow.“We are not a camp anymore,” he said. “We are Caernath.”
The Seer who had first named him stepped forward, voice wind-carried.
“From fire and chain, the first House is born.”
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
Further Reading – other stories.
Taranis Early Years:
The Awakening of a Charmed Hero
Born of Flame, Brother of Wolves
Taranis the slave.
Taranis The Wilderness Years Part 3.
The War Years :
The Battle Beneath the Storm.Part 1
Battle Beneath the Storm Part 2
The Rise of The Houses:
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The Wilderness Years Part 7
The Grave That Couldn’t Hold Him
The wind rolled down from the mountain like a warning.Three days had passed since the Trial by Fire. Taranis had been seen walking beside Grael’s warhorse, the shattered collar left behind, and the obsidian pendant still warm against his chest. But not everyone had accepted his transformation.
Some called him storm-marked. Others, cursed.
In a low tent near the edge of camp, whispers brewed.
“He defied the gods,” one said.
“Walked through flame and came out smiling,” said another.
“Flame tricks the weak. It blinds.”
The men gathered around the edge of the fire, cloaks pulled close against the creeping mist. They weren’t Grael’s most loyal, nor Solaris’s brothers. They were wolves without a pack mercenaries who had once served the Clawclan, now waiting for coin and chaos.
They didn’t wear Stormborne colours. Not yet.
“Tonight,” muttered Kareth, his eyes gleaming with spite. “We do what fire could not.”
A few nodded.
“He should’ve died in chains. He’s no warrior. He’s a beast.”
“And beasts don’t get reborn.”
They struck after moonrise.
Taranis had gone to the stream to refill his waterskin, alone as he often did, choosing solitude over celebration. The camp had begun to sleep. The guards were half-drunk from fermented berry wine.
They came from the trees six of them. Faces covered, blades drawn.
The first blow caught him across the shoulder, sending him to the ground.
“Traitor,” one hissed. “Freak.”
Taranis fought back with bare fists, striking like the wolf they feared but it was too many. A second dagger found his ribs. A club broke across his spine.
He fell to one knee.
They kicked him until he stopped moving.
Until his breathing went quiet.
Until he bled into the moss and stones.
They dragged the body to the far side of camp, past the standing stones, into a hollow in the woods where no firelight reached.
They left no markers. No words. Just dirt over his body and a curse on their breath.
“He walks no more,” Kareth said. “The storm dies in silence.”
And they returned to camp, blades clean, alibis ready.
No one would find him.
No one would weep.
They believed the gods had finally corrected their mistake.
But Taranis was not dead.
He dreamed of fire.
He dreamed of wolves.
He dreamed of the black dragon watching from above not with pity, but with fury.
And beneath the soil, his fingers twitched.
The early morning sin rose and grael could be heard hollering
“STORMBORNE WHERE ARE YOU?” grael shouted looking around for taranis
“He fled, he’s a coward” one of kareths men said smirking Wolves circled where his body lay leading them to discover taranis body still and cold.
Two days passed “we will find him tether him again no escape this time.” A warrior said as the wolves circled a piece of land
“Hes dead grael” a Saris said
“He deserves a real burying ” another saidThe earth did not keep him.
Not on the first day, when silence reigned.
Not on the second, when the wolves came.
But on the third the wind changed.At first, just a shift. A stillness. Then, a scent.
Morrigan arrived first. White fur gleaming against the ash-darkened trees. She paced in a wide circle around the hollow. Then came Boldolph, the black wolf, teeth bared, hackles raised.
They howled.
A low, haunting sound not grief. Warning.
Grael rode at once, followed by Solaris and half the guard. When they reached the hollow, they found the wolves digging. Claws tearing through dirt, paws flinging soil like rain.
Grael dismounted. Something in his chest cracked.
“Taranis…”
Solaris dropped to his knees beside the wolves, hands trembling.
“Help me dig!”
No one moved until the first scrap of cloth was exposed. A torn edge of tunic, blood-black, crusted to the earth.
Then the digging began in earnest.
It took three men and two wolves to drag the body out.
He was pale. Lips cracked. Blood dried to his skin. The obsidian pendant still hung around his neck, dirt pressed into the ridges.
One eye was swollen shut. Bruises ran like vines across his chest and arms.
But he was breathing.
Shallow. Ragged. But alive.
Solaris shouted for the healer. Grael stared at the boy like he was seeing a ghost.
“No burial mound,” he said softly. “No cairn. Just a shallow grave… and a storm too stubborn to die.”
The healer worked in silence, hands quick and firm. Crushed pine and fireweed were pressed into the wounds, stitched with thread made from gut and hope. Taranis didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Each time the wind shifted, the wolves growled low in their throats, sensing the old power flicker just beneath his skin.
By nightfall, they had moved him to a guarded hut near the heart of camp. Four warriors stood watch. Grael gave orders that anyone who tried to enter unbidden would be struck down no questions asked.
Solaris sat beside the boy, wiping dried blood from his temple.
“You stubborn bastard,” he whispered. “Even the grave gave up on you.”
Taranis didn’t reply. But his eyes opened barely and fixed on the obsidian pendant now laid upon his chest.
Grael returned before moonrise.
“Speak if you can,” he said.
Taranis’s voice was a thread. “They buried me.”
“I know.”
“They didn’t even check.”
“I know that too.”
“Will you punish them?”
Grael paused. “I already have.”
He tossed something at Solaris’s feet a piece of fur, torn and bloodied.
“Kareth?”
“Gone,” Grael said. “Dragged into the trees by Boldolph. I don’t expect him back.”
Silence settled between them again.
“I should be dead,” Taranis murmured.
Grael nodded slowly. “You were.”
That night, as the wind moaned through the valley, a scout returned from the northern ridge.
“There’s smoke again,” she said. “Not ours. Not Clawclan. Something… older.”
She hesitated before finishing.
“There’s no fire. But trees are blackened. Stones cracked. Something passed through.”
“What kind of something?” Grael asked.
The scout swallowed.
“The kind that flies without wings.”
By dawn, word had spread. Taranis had survived. Taranis had risen.
They called it impossible. Witchcraft. Proof of corruption.
But some whispered another name.
Stormborne.
He stood the next morning.
Not for long, and not without pain, but he stood.
Morrigan watched from the doorway. She did not enter only nodded once, her red eyes gleaming.
“Even the wolves thought you were lost,” Solaris said.
“I was,” Taranis replied, voice raw. “But I heard them. In the soil. Calling.”
He stepped out into the morning light slow, stiff, but upright. The warriors turned to look. One dropped to a knee. Another stepped back in fear.
Grael met him near the edge of the camp.
“We’re riding soon. There are still wars to fight.”
Taranis nodded. “Then I’ll ride.”
“No packs,” Grael said. “No chains.”
Solaris handed him his cloak. “And no grave can hold you.”
Taranis turned to the standing stones, where birds now circled. Thunder echoed in the far hills.
He placed his palm against the earth the earth that had tried to hold him.
“Not today,” he whispered. “I am not done.”
In Emberhelm, the elders would speak of that day for generations.
The day the Stormborne rose from the grave.
The day the wolves howled not for mourning but for warning.And from that moment on, no one dared bury him again.
Because legends, once born, do not stay buried.
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.
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After the Duel
A Fireside Conversation
The courtyard had long emptied. The ash of the fire pits still glowed faintly, casting soft light on stone walls and weary limbs.
Taranis sat alone, legs stretched, a jug of broth in one hand,. the other flexing and sore from the clash with Boldolph.
The crack of staffs still echoed in his bones.
Footsteps approached not boots, but clawed paws. Heavy, padded, unmistakable.
Boldolph.
Without a word, the old wolf-man knelt beside him, a strip of clean linen in hand. He took Taranis’s wrist and began to bind the bruises, slow and methodical, like a ritual done a hundred times.
“You didn’t hold back,” Taranis said after a moment.
“You didn’t ask me to.”
The silence between them was old, familiar. Like the stillness before a storm. Or the hush before a boy became a warlord.
“I needed them to see I bleed too,” Taranis muttered, wincing as the linen tightened. “That I fall. That I get back up.”
Boldolph grunted.
“They already know you bleed,” he said. “They just needed to see you still feel it.”
Taranis looked toward the sky. Smoke trailed like threads into the blackness. One dragon circled high above, a quiet sentinel.
“I keep thinking,” he said, “about when I was exiled. Alone in the wilds. All I had was that storm inside me and the promise that no one was coming.”
He looked down at the staff beside him.
“And now… now there’s you. Solaris. Lore. Drax. Rayne. Even Draven. I have everything I never thought I would. And I don’t know how to hold it without crushing it.”
Boldolph didn’t speak at first. Just poured a second jug of broth and handed it to him.
Then he said, low and hoarse:
“Every beast that’s ever bared teeth knows fear. Not of pain. Of losing what it’s fought to protect.”He paused, eyes distant.
“I was exiled once too. Long before you were born. I clawed through snow and silence, not knowing if I was cursed or chosen. I still don’t.”
Taranis turned to him.
“You stayed. Even cursed. Even as a wolf.”
Boldolph nodded.
“Because someone had to. And because I believed that one day, the one I guarded would understand the weight of the fire he carried.”
The flames crackled beside them. Taranis took a slow sip of broth.
“I understand it now.”
Boldolph gave a grunt soft, almost approving. Then he stood, stretched, and turned toward the shadows.
“You’re not alone anymore, High Warlord,” he said. “Stop trying to fight like you are.”
Then he was gone, back into the night, tail flicking behind him like a whisper of old magic.
Taranis sat a while longer.
Then he smiled.
Not like a warlord. Not like a weapon.
Like a man who had bled, fallen, and been lifted again by the hand of a wolf.
Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.
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The Road to Umbra Written from Lore’s perspective
A vibrant artwork reflecting the themes of struggle and resilience in the narrative of StormborneLore. House of Shadow
I do not speak of heroes.
I speak of those who walked in silence.
Of boots torn at the sole,
and breath taken with care
lest the wind betray them.I walked the road to Umbra alone,
but never unmarked.
Each tree knew my name,
each stone held a memory,
and the crows whispered
what the living dared not say.My brothers called it exile.
The warlords called it treason.
The wolves knew better.
They call it the long return.I did not carry banners.
I carried wounds.I did not seek the throne.
I sought peace and found shadows
that bled like I did.And when the night fell thick with frost,
and even the stars looked away,
I did not pray for light.A heartfelt thank you for engaging with the narrative of StormborneLore, inviting readers to support the storytelling journey.
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Training Day at Ignis
A tale from the halls of Emberhelm
The morning mist clung to the valley like a second skin. Emberhelm’s courtyard steamed with breath and sweat, the scent of stone, ash, and boiled roots heavy in the air. Around the inner circle, newly chosen warriors waited nervous, eager, some barely out of boyhood. Others bore scars older than Taranis himself.
At the centre stood the High Warlord of Caernath. His cloak cast aside, sleeves rolled, storm-grey eyes fixed on the line before him.
“No blades today,” he said. “Not until your hands know what weight feels like.”
He tossed a staff to the first in line. Then another. And another. Each warrior caught their weapon or fumbled it those who dropped theirs were told, simply, “Again.” And made to run.
On the other side of the training ground, beneath the shadow of the stone wolf banner, Boldolph paced in silence.
His pack half-men, half-beasts, with eyes like old moons watched him without blinking. He spoke low, but his voice carried like thunder over ice.
“You are not pets. Not soldiers. You are guardians.”
A pause.
“You see a child in harm’s way, you do not wait for orders. You act. That is the law of the wolf.”One of the younger wolves whimpered. Boldolph turned sharply.
“Fear is not failure. Freezing is. Move even if it hurts.”Across the field, Taranis raised his voice again.
“This is Ignis. This is fire. You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to withstand the storm, and stand through it.”
He glanced at Boldolph.
“Or do you want to spar with his lot instead?”
A low growl rippled from the wolf-warriors.
The chosen laughed nervously until Boldolph nodded. One of his warriors, a massive figure with a half-healed burn across his chest. stepped ahead, gripping a staff as thick as a child’s leg.
Taranis smiled. “Right then. Let’s see who learned to dance.”
The wolf-warrior advanced, silent but for the low crunch of earth beneath padded feet. His height matched any war-chief. His eyes amber, slit like a blade of dusk fixed on the line of young recruits now stepping back.
Taranis caught Boldolph’s eye.
The old wolf-man crossed his arms, his growl half amusement, half challenge.
“Too much for them?” Taranis asked.
“They need to know pain has teeth. And that not all enemies snarl first.”
The recruits shifted nervously. One tried to step ahead, but Taranis raised a hand.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
Then, slowly, he removed the silver cuff from his wrist. The one shaped like twisted flame and dropped it into the dust.
The courtyard hushed.
Boldolph straightened, his expression unreadable.
“You mean to fight me?” he said, stepping ahead, voice low.
Taranis rolled his shoulder and took a training staff from the rack.
“Not to wound,” he replied. “To remind.”Boldolph took his own heavier, gnarled like a branch torn from an ancient tree.
They circled.
The recruits, wolf-men, and even dragons above watched in stillness.
Then Boldolph struck fast, low, aiming to knock out Taranis’s legs. But the warlord leapt, twisting mid-air, landing in a crouch with a grin. He swept his staff up, tapping Boldolph’s ribs before stepping back.
“Sloppy,” he said. “You’re slower in your old age.”
Boldolph snarled, but it wasn’t anger. It was the old dance.
The rhythm of claw and command.He lunged again this time a full force blow. Their staffs cracked like thunder as they met. Sparks flew from the impact. Recruits flinched. One dragon above rumbled softly, folding its wings to watch closer.
They moved like storm and shadow:
Taranis fluid, forged in battlefields and flame.
Boldolph grounded, brutal, unshakable like the old hills.
Neither aimed to kill.
But neither held back.A final clash and both stopped, locked staff to staff, breathing heavy, eyes locked.
“You’ve grown,” Boldolph said, finally. “Not just in size.”
“And you’ve not changed,” Taranis replied, sweat on his brow. “Still the rock I lean on.”
He broke the hold, stepped back, and offered a hand.
Boldolph took it without hesitation. The courtyard erupted in cheers both from humans and wolves alike.
Taranis turned to the watching recruits.
“This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is how you lead. Not with fear. But with fire, with honour, and with those who would bite your enemies long before they betray your trust.”Boldolph gave a rare smile.
“And don’t forget,” he growled to the recruits, “the wolves are watching.”
Further Reading
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The Houses of Caernath Part 7
The Fifth Flame
The stone circle of Emberhelm stood silent under the pale light of morning., five cairnstones glowing faintly in their ancient places. The air shimmered with a stillness that only came before something eternal was spoken.
Taranis Stormborne, cloaked in black and silver. stepped ahead to the first cairn the one carved with roots and mountains, circled in white ochre. He turned to face the gathered warriors, wolves, and wanderers.
“Before the dragons flew,” he said, “before the wolves howled, there were five lines of fire. We knew only three. But today, we remember them all.”
He turned to Draven, who stepped ahead slowly, still favouring his side.
“Brother you bled for us. You survived what none should have. You guarded the line even when no one knew it was there.”
Taranis drew a shard of stone from the cairn itself. Then handed it to Draven, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“By the weight of the earth and the strength of the mountain, I name you Lord of Terra.”
A cheer rose from the crowd, led by the wolves, then echoed by the dragons above. Draven bowed not to Taranis, but to the people.
Taranis turned then, slowly, toward the fifth cairn the one none had touched in generations. It bore a sunmark, and a spiral, and a cut across its base. where an old flame once split the stone.
Beside it stood Rayne, straight-backed now, though his eyes still bore the shadow of the collar. And beside him stood Tirena, a woman of stone and flame, silent and radiant. With one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sun-marked blade.
Taranis paused before speaking not as a warlord, but as a brother.
“Rayne. We lost you once. You were chained, beaten, turned into a whisper. But you came back. And with you came fire not born of wrath, but of forgiveness.”
“Yet even flame must have form. And no one guards the flame better than the one who sees in silence.”
He turned to Tirena.
“Knight of Lumen, daughter of the dawn do you stand beside him of your own will?”
Tirena gave a single nod, her voice soft and fierce.
“I do. Not for crown. For cause.”
Taranis placed his hand on Rayne’s shoulder, and raised his other toward the sun.
“Then by the fire that remembers and the light that does not burn. I name you Rayne of Lumen, Lord of the Fifth House.”
The crowd was still for a heartbeat.
Then a pulse rolled through the cairns. A faint hum, like the deep breath of the land itself, stirred the hair of every person there.
The ley lines had awakened.
Five fires, once lost, now stood again.
Taranis looked out across the gathered faces his brothers. His people, the wolves, the dragons, the flame keepers and shadow walkers who had followed him through storm and silence.
His voice dropped low, just above a whisper, but the wind carried it to every ear.
“I know I wasn’t there for you. I’ll always regret that. Father exiled me… and maybe I would’ve run anyway. But that exile taught me many things.”
He looked to each brother in turn Lore, cloaked in dusk and silence. Drax, ever the storm, hands calloused from war. Draven, grounded like stone. And Rayne, flame rekindled beside the steel gaze of Tirena.
Taranis smiled, but it was not the smile of a warlord. It was that of a boy who had once been cast out. Now stood at the heart of everything he loved.
Just then, Draven stepped ahead again, his voice steady.
“Brother… you were exiled at eight,” he said. “We not protect you then. But we can stand with you now.”
Taranis’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment not from shame, but from the sudden weight of grace.
“And I will never walk alone again,” he answered, his voice thick with feeling.
Around them, the wind stirred the banners of each House. The cairns pulsed faintly, glowing at their roots. Overhead, the wings of dragons cast long shadows across the circle. And for the first time in generations, all five ley lines were whole.
Thank you for reading
© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.
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Further Reading
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
StormborneLore 