StormborneLore

Tag: fantasy mythology

  • Taranis Stormborne The Storm

    Taranis Stormborne The Storm

    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.

    Piece by piece.
    Age by age.
    Storm by storm.

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Taranis and the Thief.

    Taranis and the Thief.

    A Story of Kindness.

    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.

    © written and created by ELHewitt

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Nature and Memory: A Reflection in Poetry

    Nature and Memory: A Reflection in Poetry

    A Poem by Taranis Stormborne

    Four painted stones displayed on a black surface, each featuring different colorful designs.
    Colorfully painted stones representing various landscapes, reflecting themes of nature and memory.


    They carved the stone while I still breathed,

    The blood not dried on mother’s brow.
    My name was spoken not with love,
    But like a curse the tribe would disavow.

    The fire crackled but not for me,
    No meat passed down by elder’s hand.
    I watched the smoke rise like a ghost
    Above a world I’d never understand.

    Their eyes were flint.

    Their backs like stone.
    My brothers looked, then looked away.
    I was not child. I was not kin.
    I was the price they chose to pay.

    I walked into the weeping trees,
    Each branch a wound I could not see.
    The ground did not resist my weight.
    The wilds at last remembered me.

    A boy of eight. A heart struck down.
    But storms remember where they’re born.


    The silence wrapped around my bones.
    And made me something more than scorn.

    They taught me I was less than breath,
    But wind and wolf still knew my name.
    The rain did not deny my steps.
    The storm would never speak of shame.


    Have you ever felt cast out not in body, but in soul?
    Share your thoughts. The fire still burns, and there’s room beside it.

    Thank you for walking this path through exile and memory with us.

    © written and created by ELHewitt