The mists rolled thick across the highland of Staffordshire, curling like ghost fingers over rock and root. Beneath their shifting veil stood a figure that did not belong to the world of men not entirely. He was massive, broad-shouldered, with the raw frame of a warrior and the head of a beast. His fur was obsidian black, streaked with silver scars and ash.
Red eyes burned beneath his brow. His breath came out in steam as if the forge fire lived in his lungs.
Boldolph.
The wolf-man. The cursed one. The guardian of the Stormborne line.
That morning, he had awoken not as man, nor wholly beast, but as something sacred. Taranis had spoken only two words to him before the sunrise: “It begins.”
And now he stood at the edge of Rykar’s Field, muscles tensed, waiting for the signal.
Bronze glinted on the hilltop warriors from the Black Clawclan had gathered in force, armed with spears and teeth alike. Raiders, born of bloodlust, who left villages razed and children buried beneath burnt thatch.
A low growl rumbled in Boldolph’s throat.
Today, they would be stopped.
Below him, the Stormborne forces gathered. Taranis on the ridge with Pendragon and Tairneanach perched behind him.
, Lore chanting beside a fire that would not die. Drax tightening his bracers, muttering curses and prayers as one. Among the warriors stood farmers, hunters, fire-callers, bone-weavers all who had chosen to rise.
But none were like Boldolph.
He crouched low, the carved bronze blade strapped to his back. humming faintly forged by Drax, blessed by Lore, named Ashsplitter. His claws, though not natural, were tipped in obsidian. His howls call Morrigan from the far trees and silence men’s hearts.
And when the horn blew, he moved like a shadow torn free of the dark.
He crashed into the enemy line like a storm of fang and bronze. The first man he struck did not even scream just fell, bones splintered beneath the weight of the blow. Boldolph spun, slashed, roared, tore. Blood hit the grass like spilled wine.
The Black Clawclan were fierce but they were not ready.
“By the ancestors!” one shouted, staring in horror. “A beast walks!”
A spear was hurled. Boldolph caught it midair, snapped the shaft, and flung it back. It pierced armor and flesh. The man fell.
He was not alone.
From the trees came Morrigan white and wraithlike, her eyes alight with moonfire. Together, they circled the enemy, not as humans, not as animals but as something other. Something older.
Across the field, Taranis raised his sword high.
“For every child taken,” he shouted, “for every flame snuffed out WE RISE!”
The Stormborne charged. Bronze clashed with bronze. Flesh tore. Voices sang the old war cries.
Boldolph didn’t hear them. He was lost to instinct now the heartbeat of the land pounding in his ears. His claws met bone. His teeth found leather and neck. He leapt and rolled and dove through fire.
A warrior came at him with twin blades, marked in red clay and hate. Boldolph let him come. At the last second, he dropped low, sprang upward, and slammed both fists into the man’s chest. The impact shattered ribs and silence.
Then came the Champion.
Tall, scarred, wrapped in tattoos of wolf skulls. He grinned as he strode ahead, axe glinting.
“You’re no god,” the Champion sneered. “Just a cursed mutt.”
Boldolph stood, blood dripping from his chin.
“I am neither,” he growled, “but you will kneel before this mutt.”
They clashed.
Steel to fang. Roar to warcry. The battle stilled around them as the two titans fought. Blades rang. Earth shook. Bones cracked.
At last, Boldolph caught the Champion’s axe arm, twisted and snapped it. With a howl, he drove the dagger into the man’s chest.
Silence.
Then the howl.
Long. Ancient. Reverberating through stone, marrow, memory.
After the battle, the field was quiet.
The dead lay in solemn rows, the fires lit to honor their spirits. Taranis stood at the center, cloak torn, eyes fierce. Lore marked the ground with runes of ash. Drax drank in silence.
And Boldolph… sat alone beneath a tree.
His fur was streaked with blood. His eyes no longer burned they watched the stars. Morrigan lay beside him, her white coat stained with battle.
A small child approached. Her face was smudged with soot. Her eyes, wide with awe.
“Are you a monster?” she asked.
Boldolph tilted his head.
“No,” he said softly. “I am what protects you from monsters.”
She sat beside him.
In that moment with the fire crackling, and the dead honored. the Stormborne still alive Boldolph, the cursed wolf-man, found peace.
For just a while.
© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.
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