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.
Chains clinked like faint echoes of the arena’s roars, and the scent of iron still clung to the air. Taranis Storm lay awake in the half-darkness, eyes open to the stone ceiling, counting the rhythm of the guards’ boots. Rome slept, but the storm within him did not.
He had won his life for another day, but victory came at a cost. He had shown them what he was. Not a beaten barbarian, but something far more dangerous a man who learned.
At dawn, Marcos appeared at his cell door, shadowed by two guards. “You’ve made them talk,” Marcos said quietly. “The governor himself wants to see you.”
Taranis said nothing. The chains around his wrists jingled as he stood.
They led him through the inner halls of the fortress, where Roman banners hung stiff and silent. Soldiers stared as he passed some curious, others wary. A man who defied lions and bears without breaking was not easily forgotten.
In the governor’s chamber, incense burned thick. Maps of Britannia sprawled across a marble table, marked with red ink and small figurines of silver legions.
The governor, Decimus Varro, was not a cruel man by Roman standards merely pragmatic. “You are a spectacle,” he said, voice calm. “A man who fights like the gods themselves favour him. Tell me, Briton what drives you?”
Taranis met his gaze. “The same thing that drives Rome. Freedom.”
Varro smiled faintly. “Freedom is an illusion. Order is what endures.” He leaned forward. “Serve Rome, and you’ll live well. Defy us again, and your death will be remembered only as noise in the sand.”
Silence stretched between them, thick as the smoke that coiled from the brazier. Then Taranis spoke, slow and deliberate.
“I have no wish to be remembered. Only to finish what began in the storm.”
Varro frowned not in anger, but thought. “Then we understand each other.” He gestured to Marcos. “Train him. Watch him. If he can be tamed, he’ll fight for Rome. If not…”
Taranis was taken to the training grounds. Men waited there gladiators, soldiers, slaves who had survived too long to be careless. The air rang with the sound of iron on iron. Marcos tossed him a blade, better balanced than the last.
“Your real trial starts now,” Marcos said. “In the arena, you fought to live. Out here, you’ll fight to learn what Rome fears most a man they can not own.”
For the first time since his capture, Taranis smiled. The storm had found a new horizon.
They say the stones at Emberhelm still whisper when the wind moves right a low murmur that rises from the earth like the breath of something ancient, waiting.
Farmers avoid the place now. Shepherds drive their flocks wide, and children dare each other to touch the outer ring, laughing until the laughter falters. Only the old remember that once, before Rome, before even the clans, the stones were not dead things.
Each one bore a mark storm, fire, tide, and light carved by hands that no longer walk the world. Together they formed a circle, a promise between the gods and those who spoke their tongue. The Circle of the Gold Ring.
When the brothers swore their oaths there, thunder split the air. The eldest spoke of wisdom, the youngest of freedom, and the middle ones of strength, loyalty, and truth. But the sky heard more than words it heard pride. And pride is the chisel that breaks all stone.
Now, when lightning rolls across Cannock’s high fields, some claim to see figures between the stones. Not ghosts, not living men something between. They say one wears chains that sing when he moves, another bears a sword that hums with the weight of unspoken guilt, and one more walks with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the storm as though it answers to him.
The villagers leave offerings there still a bowl of salt, a coin, a lock of hair just in case the whispers are not only echoes, but memories listening for their name.
“Taranis is our baby brother, no matter what some think,” Drax growled, his voice low and edged with iron. His gaze locked on Rain across the firelight, sharp enough to cut stone. “You betrayed him when he was a child and you betray him now.”
Rain’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak. The silence stretched between them, thick with memory and regret.
The old priest, Maeron, lifted his hand gently. “He forgives you, Rain,” he said, his tone weary yet steady. “He wanted Drax, Draven, and Lore to know he will endure what they give him. So that you three will survive. He says to make choices that will keep you all safe and your people.”
Drax’s expression did not soften, though his eyes flickered with something that have been pain. “He forgives far too easily.”
Maeron inclined his head. “Forgiveness is not weakness, my lord. It is the weapon of those who can’t be broken. The Romans won’t rule forever. Prepare for what comes next.”
At the edge of the fire, Caelum shifted uneasily, his young face caught between fear and pride. “But what about my uncle’s meals?” he asked suddenly. “Uncle was exiled from the Circle years before they caught him. I was a baby then. Now I’m fourteen he shouldn’t be forgotten again.”
The words silenced the hall. Even Rain, for all his bitterness, not meet the boy’s gaze.
Drax rose slowly, the firelight glinting off his scars. “He will not be forgotten,” he said at last. “Not while the storm still bears our name.”
“But won’t they strip him of his name?” Caelum pressed, voice trembling now. “If Rome erases it, how will anyone know he lived?”
Drax looked down at his son the fire’s glow. Reflected in the boy’s wide eyes and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Names can be taken,” he said quietly. “But legacies can’t. The Romans think power is carved in stone. Ours is carved in memory.”
He turned back to Maeron. “Tell him that. Tell him Emberhelm remembers.”
The priest nodded, rising to leave. But before he turned, his gaze swept the circle of men gathered in the hall. “When the storm returns,” he said softly, “I hope you are ready to stand beneath it.”
When Maeron’s footsteps faded into the night, the hall remained silent. The storm outside broke, rain hammering against the shutters like the echo of distant drums.
Drax stood by the window long after the others had gone. He could not see the fort from here, but he could feel it the iron cage that held his brother. The empire pressing closer each season. Yet as lightning flashed over the valley, he smiled grimly.
Because storms, no matter how long they’re caged, always find their way home.
The road to Viroconium was slick with rain. Drax rode beneath a low sky, his cloak heavy with water, the wind biting at his face. Beside him, Maeron’s hood was drawn deep, the priest’s silence carrying the weight of things better left unspoken.
When they reached the outskirts of the Roman fort, the air stank of smoke and iron. The rhythmic clash of hammers and the cries of soldiers echoed through the mist. But above it all, there was another sound low, strained, human.
Drax reined his horse sharply, his eyes narrowing.
At the edge of the square, raised above the mud and the murmuring crowd. Hung a man bound to a crude wooden cross. Blood streaked his arms, his body marked by lashes and bruises. His hair clung to his face in the rain. But the set of his jaw the defiant lift of his head was unmistakable.
Taranis.
Drax’s heart clenched as the legionnaire stepped forward, spear in hand. “He struck a guard and tried to run,” the man said stiffly. “By Roman law, the punishment is public display.”
“Law,” Drax echoed, his voice quiet, almost a whisper but Maeron flinched at the tone. “You call this law?”
The soldier hesitated, but before he could respond, Maeron laid a hand on Drax’s arm. “Careful,” he murmured. “The walls have ears.”
Drax dismounted, boots sinking into the mud. He walked forward until he stood before the cross, rain washing the grime from his face. Taranis raised his head slowly, eyes bloodshot but burning with that same inner fire that no empire could snuff out.
“Brother,” Drax whispered.
Taranis gave a faint, broken smile. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“And leave you to the crows?” Drax’s voice cracked like thunder. “Never.”
Maeron stepped forward, murmuring Latin prayers under his breath for the watching soldiers. Though his words were laced with druidic meaning ancient phrases meant to shield, not to save. His fingers brushed the iron nails that bound Taranis’s wrists. “These are not deep,” he said quietly. “They did not mean to kill him. Only to shame.”
Taranis’s laugh was hoarse. “They can’t shame what they don’t understand.”
The centurion appeared, cloak heavy with rain. “This man belongs to Rome,” he declared. “You will step back, Lord of Emberhelm.”
Drax turned slowly, the weight of centuries in his gaze. “And yet Rome forgets whose land it stands upon.”
The centurion stiffened. “Do you threaten?”
“No.” Drax’s tone softened to a dangerous calm. “I remind.”
The priest raised his hands quickly. “My lord only seeks mercy,” Maeron said. “Let him pray with his brother before the gods.”
After a pause, the centurion gestured sharply. “You have one hour.”
When the soldiers withdrew to the gatehouse, Drax knelt beside the cross. The rain had turned to sleet, stinging against his skin. “Hold on,” he murmured. “We’ll get you down when the watch changes.”
Taranis shook his head weakly. “No. Not yet. If you cut me down, they’ll know you came. They’ll burn Emberhelm.”
“Then let them come,” Drax growled.
But Taranis only smiled faintly. “Storms must wait for the right sky, brother.”
Maeron placed a hand on Drax’s shoulder. “He’s right. Endurance, not rage. That is his rebellion.”
Drax bowed his head, jaw clenched. He hated the wisdom in those words. He hated that Taranis could still smile through chains and nails.
As dusk fell, lightning cracked beyond the hills, white and wild. The storm gathered again over Viroconium.
And though Rome saw only a prisoner’s suffering. Those who remembered the old ways knew the truth: A storm had been crucified and still, it did not die.
The circle of stones stood under a bruised sky. The thirteenth stone, already cracked from the battle at Emberhelm, seemed to strain against itself as though it knew what was coming. Thirteen seats. Only twelve filled.
Taranis Storm to his outlaws stood at the centre. His cloak was damp from rain, his wrist still bandaged from the Hill of Ashes. Around him, the brothers of the Ring shifted like wolves uneasy in their own skins.
Drax spoke first. “The Black Shields raid in your name. The people whisper of you, not of us. The balance is broken.”
“It was never balanced,” Taranis replied. His voice was low, bitter. “We bled for fields that gave us no bread. Rome takes salt from our earth while we quarrel. If I raid, it is to feed our people, not to wear a crown.”
Lore’s eyes flicked to the sky. “And yet the crown follows you, brother. The omens have turned. The storm no longer waits.”
Then Rayne stepped forward, the firelight showing the sly curve of his smile. “No storm lasts forever. Some of us have chosen survival.”
From the shadows came the tramp of iron boots. The air filled with the rhythm of Rome square shields, horsehair crests, iron blades that gleamed even in the grey. The circle of stones was surrounded.
Draven’s face went pale. His lips moved as if to speak, but no words came.
“You led them here,” Taranis said.
Rayne did not deny it. “Our people will live beneath Rome’s law. Better chains of iron than graves of ash.”
The thirteenth stone split with a sound like thunder. Dust trickled down its face. The Ring was broken.
Battle erupted. Drax drew steel, Lore called fire from the runes, Aisin shielded the cradle where Caelum slept. Nessa’s blade sang bright before she was dragged into the fray, her cry lost in the clash.
Taranis fought like the storm itself blade flashing, shield breaking, each stroke cutting down another soldier. But for every man he felled, three more closed in. Nets weighted with lead tangled his limbs. Chains of iron bit deep.
He roared once, a sound that shook the stones. Lightning split the sky as if the gods themselves mourned. Then the Romans dragged him down. His black shield shattered under their boots.
“Take him alive,” the centurion barked. “Rome has use for beasts like this.”
When the fighting ended, the circle lay in ruin. Smoke curled from broken fires. Brothers lay wounded or scattered. The thirteenth stone was nothing but rubble.
Taranis, Storm of Emberhelm, was shackled in chains and marched south along the salt road. Behind him, the old world fell silent. Ahead lay the lash, the arena, and the roar of foreign crowds.
He lifted his head once to the sky and whispered through bloodied lips:
“If I must fight, let it be as storm, not as slave.”
A vibrant depiction of a lone Roman soldier standing ready against a stormy backdrop, symbolizing the strength and fragility of empires.
Medium: Acrylic on paper
Size: A4
Description: A lone Roman soldier stands vigilant against a stormy sky, spear and shield at the ready. The piece captures both the strength and fragility of empire one figure set against the vast shifting forces of history.
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When the Roman legions marched into Britain in AD 43 under Emperor Claudius, they did not find an empty land. They found a patchwork of proud tribes, each with its own rulers, gods, and customs.
To the west of Watling Street lay the Cornovii, rooted in Shropshire and Staffordshire. To the south, around the salt-rich lands of Droitwich and Gloucestershire, stood the Dobunni. Both tribes would feel the weight of Rome’s advance.
Salt and Survival
Salt was life. It preserved food, healed wounds, and was as valuable as coin. The Romans renamed Droitwich Salinae and placed it under heavy control, taxing the salt trade and guarding it with military force.
For the Celts, who had long drawn wealth from the brine springs, this was both a theft and an insult. To strike the salt routes was to strike at Rome itself.
Resistance and Betrayal.
Not all Britons resisted. Some tribal leaders saw the might of Rome and chose to make an alliance. They took Roman names, built villas, and dressed in the style of their conquerors.
Others fought tooth and nail, their warriors painted, their gods called upon in the forests and on the hills. This clash between loyalty to tradition and the lure of Roman power split kin and tribe alike betrayal often hurt more than Roman swords.
Gods of Two Worlds.
The Romans rarely erased local gods. Instead, they blended them into their own pantheon.
Taranis, Celtic god of thunder, was aligned with Jupiter, wielder of lightning.
Sulis, worshipped at Bath, was merged with Minerva, goddess of wisdom.
Even the war goddess Andraste found echoes in Roman Mars and Bellona.
For many, this was a mask. Outwardly Roman, inwardly Celtic still. Temples rose with Latin names carved into stone, yet behind closed doors, the old rituals carried on offerings at sacred groves, whispered invocations at standing stones.
Daily Life Under Rome.
Markets bustled with pottery, wine, and oil imported from Gaul and Spain. Roman roads cut straight through the land, binding together forts, towns, and villas. Yet step off the road and you might still find Celtic roundhouses, farmers living as their ancestors had, and druids carrying wisdom that defied Rome’s order.
Legacy.
Celtic–Roman Britain was not either fully conquered or fully free. It was a place of merging, conflict, and uneasy coexistence. Rome imposed its order, but the spirit of the land the forests, the rivers, the stones still whispered the old names.
For some, like the warriors of legend, this was a time of rebellion. For others, a time of survival. And for figures like Taranis Stormborne, also known as Storm caught between gods and men, Rome and Celt, it was the crucible that forged myths still told today.
Spoiler: Not by name but they felt the land’s power.
They didn’t call them ley lines. They didn’t mark them with ink. But the builders of cairns and stone paths walked in tune with something deep a rhythm etched in earth and sky.
Across prehistoric Britain, ancient people aligned their lives and deaths with natural forces that modern names can only echo.
🧭 What Are Ley Lines? Today, ley lines are understood as invisible paths said to connect places of ancient or spiritual importance a kind of unseen network crossing the landscape.
The idea gained attention in the 1920s when Alfred Watkins, a British thinker and historian, observed that many old sites from standing stones and burial mounds to chapels and crossroads seemed to fall into long, straight lines on the map.
Though his view was practical at first, later generations embraced the mystical side. The idea of earth energy flowing beneath our feet became a key part of modern folklore, spiritual healing, and even fiction.
🔥 Did Bronze Age People Believe in Them? They had no word for “ley lines.” But they knew how to read the land.
Stone Circles & Sunlines Sites like Stonehenge were built with exact alignments to solstices, star paths, and natural landmarks. These weren’t accidents they were maps carved in stone.
Sacred Roads Ceremonial trackways like the raised Avenue near Stonehenge weren’t for trade. They were used in rituals, processions, or seasonal gatherings.
High Cairns & Burial Sites Ancient barrows were often placed on ridges visible for miles, suggesting a belief in sightlines and spiritual pathways.
Mystic Memory Many later myths from Celtic and Welsh traditions speak of dragon roads, fairy paths, and spirit lines echoes of older beliefs in a world shaped by invisible forces.
🌌 In StormborneLore…
House Ignis draws from the fire-veins beneath the Malvern Hills
House Umbra guards the shadows where old stones hum
House Tempestas rides the storm-lines through the Marches
House Terra roots into the deep stones of the north
House Lumen awakens where sun and soul meet
And in the centre Emberhelm, where all lines converge, and prophecy stirs the stones.
🐉 So… Did They Know? Not in words. But in ritual, in rhythm, and in the way their bones followed the wind, the ancient people of Britain lived by the lines long before we gave them a name.
And perhaps, deep under our modern roads and ruins… the lines are still there, waiting.
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“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.
StormborneLore 