Tag: poems

The Fire That Ran from the Sky.

Long before the clans gathered,

beneath the Roaches ridge, before the stones were marked with names, the sky itself betrayed the earth.

It began as a night without stars. A quiet so deep the wind dared not breathe.

Then flames tore across the heavens.

The elders called it the Fire That Ran from the Sky. A burning serpent of light and death that raced faster than the eyes follow.

From the hills near what the future would call Staffordshire,. the clans watched in horror as the blazing serpent descended, striking the land with a terrible force. Trees exploded into firestorms; rivers steamed and boiled.

Smoke curled upward, blotting out the moon.

When the fire touched the great wood, the earth shook and cracked. A great chasm opened, swallowing whole herds and warriors alike.

In the days that followed, the sky rained ash. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and ancient sorrow.

But from the ruins, life stirred anew.

The clans, scattered and broken, gathered under a new oath to honor the fire that had destroyed and forged them.

They built great stone altars on the hills. Each year they held a vigil, lighting fires that mirrored the serpent’s dance across the sky.

It was said that those who dared to look into the flames see the fire’s spirit a fierce. ever-burning heart that chose the worthy and cursed the false.

And so, the Fire That Ran from the Sky became legend, a warning, and a blessing.

A story whispered by those who survived the night. Those who vowed never to forget the power of the storm that shapes all things.

When the fire’s fury faded, the world was silent and broken.

The great wood once thick with ancient oaks and whispering leaves lay scorched and blackened, its heart beaten by flame.

Smoke still curled from the ground, and the air tasted of ash and sorrow.

The clans that survived wandered through the ruin, their footsteps heavy on the brittle earth.

Marak Storm Eye, then a young warrior, knelt beside a fallen tree stump. Its bark cracked and bleeding resin like tears.

“We must live,” he said, voice raw but fierce. “This fire has taken much, but it has not taken our will.” he said looking to his people.

Those around gathered roots and herbs. As they began learning which plants heal scorched flesh and which cleanse the bitter smoke from their lungs.

Around him, others nodded, their faces grim. From the ashes, they hunted the beasts that had fled or died.

At night, they huddled close to small, careful fires. The warmth giving comfort. While their new altars whispering prayers to the sky and earth, asking for mercy and strength.

It was in this time of hardship that the first whispers of the Thunder Child were born. For some said the fire had marked the land, and the clans, with destiny.

And so, from ruin, the storm-wrapped promise of a new age began to stir.

The Fire That Ran from the Sky

Thank you for reading!

© written by ELHewitt

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