The island steamed beneath a blood-orange dawn. Black sand hissed as the tide pulled back, revealing fragments of broken shields and driftwood charred by lightning.
Taranis Stormborne stood among the wreckage, cloak torn, hair slick with salt. Around him, the Black Shields gathered the fallen in silence.
No victory songs were sung only the slow rhythm of men. Who understood the cost of silence and the weight of patience.
“Bury them high,” Taranis said at last. “Let the wind speak their names.”
He turned his gaze inland, where the volcanic ridges rose like the spines of sleeping beasts. Smoke drifted from fissures in the rock, thick with the scent of iron and ash.
Beneath those ridges lay the forge a secret his men had built in defiance of empire.
As the storm’s light faded behind the clouds, a scout approached, breath ragged.
“Lupus… Rome has sent word north. They know a fleet was lost, but not how. They think it was a storm.”
Taranis’s mouth curved into a faint, weary smile.
“Then let the lie live. Storms are easier to fear than men.”
He knelt beside a shattered shield half-buried in sand. Its surface was scorched black, the emblem of the wolf barely visible beneath the soot. With slow care, he traced the mark with his thumb, leaving a streak of silver ash.
“This island is no longer exile,” he murmured. “It’s the forge of the next age. And when Rome’s thunder fades, ours will remain.”
Above him, a distant rumble rolled through the clouds not thunder, but the awakening of something older.
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.
A vibrant artistic depiction of a stylized object, blending intricate designs with bright colors, invoking themes of lore and magic.
The Quiet Flame
The wind that swept over Emberhelm carried no warmth, only the ghost of fire long spent. I stood where the circle had once been whole, where twelve stones still defied the weight of empire, and one lay split a wound upon the land.
The others had gone. Drax to fury, Draven to silence, Rayne to his choices, and Taranis to chains. I remained, bound not by steel but by memory. It was not courage that kept me here; it was knowing that something sacred had been broken and that it was not yet done with us.
The Romans called this valley conquered. They built their roads and forts as if they could hammer meaning from earth and stone. But meaning does not bow to empire. It whispers, it lingers, it waits. And I have learned to listen.
I knelt beside the thirteenth stone, tracing the crack with my fingers. The split hummed faintly, as though it still remembered the storm that birthed it. I could almost hear Taranis’s voice beneath the wind, a murmur of thunder too distant to strike.
“Brother,” I whispered, “if the storm is caged, does the sky mourn its silence?”
A shadow passed across the ridge perhaps a hawk, perhaps a sign. In the old days, I would have asked the druids for meaning, but now I was the only one left to ask.
Rayne’s betrayal still cut deep, though part of me understood it. He had always been the one to see the long game, the patient serpent coiled beneath the waves. I did not forgive him, but neither could I condemn him fully. Perhaps this is how the gods feel when they look upon men weary, knowing, endlessly disappointed.
Night crept over the hills. I lit no fire; the Romans watched for smoke. Instead, I watched the stars, the same constellations our ancestors had trusted when the world was still young. Somewhere beyond those lights, I felt the pulse of something waking old magic, stirring beneath stone and soil, called forth by blood and betrayal alike.
The Circle was broken, yes. But its power had not vanished; it had merely changed shape. The storm that once lived in Taranis’s heart now whispered through the bones of the earth. I could feel it gathering, quiet but sure, as if the land itself prepared to rise.
In that silence, I spoke the old words not prayer, not spell, but remembrance. A promise carved into breath:
“When the storm returns, it will not ask who was loyal. It will ask who remains.”
I stood where thunder carved the sky, Where old oaths broke, and none asked why. The staff I raised was not for war, But for the ghosts I still fight for.
Boldolph’s eyes were iron flame, They spoke of love, not seeking fame. His growl a warning, not a threat A brother’s bond I won’t forget.
The wolves still watch. The dragons wake. Each vow we make, each path we take A storm-born soul must never stray From fire-wrought truth or shadowed way.
Let others rule with golden tongue, I lead where pain and praise are sung. For every scar upon my frame Is carved from love, not just from flame.
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Artistic depiction of a fierce wolf howling at the moon, embodying the spirit of the Wild Years and the bond between Taranis and the great wolves of Caernath.Abstract artwork featuring intricate patterns and vibrant colors, created by artist ELHewitt from StormborneArts.A striking depiction of the great wolf Boldolph, symbolizing loyalty and strength in the tale of Taranis Stormborne.Vibrant artwork depicting Taranis Stormborne and the thunder-dragon Tairneanach, symbolizing their powerful bond in the world of Emberhelm.
High Warlord of Emberhelm Exile. Survivor. Dragon Rider.
“The storm did not break me. It made me.” Taranis Stormborne
Born of Storm. Forged by Fire. Taranis Stormborne was not born to rule. He was born beneath a sky torn open by lightning. Marked by omens the elders feared and prophecies they not control. At just eight years old, he was cast out—exiled for powers no one dared understand.
But exile did not break him. It shaped him.
Exile and the Wild Years
Driven from Emberhelm into the haunted woods of Caernath. The boy who should have died found allies no tribe claim.: the great wolves Boldolph and Morrigan, creatures of fang and flame who walked between spirit and shadow.
From them, Taranis learned the old truths how to hunt, to command silence, to harness the storm within.
The Dragon Bond
Years later, during a blood eclipse at Rykar’s Ridge, Taranis encountered the thunder-dragon Tairneanach, long thought lost to legend. In that moment, lightning met fire. Beast and man did not tame one another they recognized each other.
The storm had chosen its rider.
⚔️ Rise of the Stormborne He returned not in vengeance, but in purpose. With brothers Drax and Lore at his side.Taranis united the scattered clans of the highlands and led them against the Clawclan invaders. His victory over the warlord Gaedrix at Rykar’s Ridge lit the flame of rebellion—and rebirth.
He became not just a warlord, but a symbol. The exile returned. The prophecy fulfilled.
Who Is He?
Taranis walks a line between fire and mercy. Towering, scarred, and grey-eyed, he speaks little and strikes hard. But beneath the ash lies a deep loyaltyto his people. To the forgotten, and to those who fight for more than conquest.
He is not king by blood. He is leader by choice. And the storm, once his curse, now answers his call.
Known As:
The Fire-Blooded
Stormborne Lord
Malcrone of Emberhelm
Rider of Tairneanach
Breaker of Clawclan
His Realm
Emberhelm, Caernath Set atop the Seven Hills of the Stormborne, Emberhelm is both fortress and flame. From here, Taranis watches the horizon not as ruler, but as guardian of the storm.
The women of the tribe had already begun preparing the celebration. Only the finest foods would be offered on this special night the night of my brother’s birth.
The birth of Taranis Stormborne.
In the woods, the younger children laughed as they filled baskets with berries, blackberries and raspberries, bilberries (wild blueberries). elderberries (cooked only), hawthorn berries, rose hips, crab apples, and sloes from the blackthorn.
Their chatter echoed with pride a new life meant strength for the tribe.
The women worked in quiet rhythm. Hazelnuts, acorns (leached to remove tannins), beech nuts, pine nuts, and the seeds. Young leaves of nettles were piled high beside bundles of wild garlic and sacred greens.
I saw my mother’s sister lay a sprig of rosemary at the fire. Not for seasoning but for blessing.
“Hey, young Lore,” someone called, grinning. “You coming hunting? Father says we’re after red deer and boar, fox, grouse, even river salmon. Only the finest meats for your mother and father. A new chieftain has been born!”
“Father’s naming him tonight? I’m coming!” I said, breath quickening. I tried to keep the smile off my face, but it broke through anyway.
I was seventeen — broad-shouldered, proud, still hungry to prove myself. I grabbed my spear and cast a glance back at my brothers and father.
our father, stood straight as an ash tree his expression unreadable. Part of him was already in the cave, beside my mother and the child. The rest of him… watched the woods.
I ran to join the others, my heart pounding. Together, we hollered and sprinted into the deep forest a forest older than memory.
But as our laughter faded behind us, a silence settled.
And then… that chill again.
Not the kind that comes with wind or storm. No, this cold was the kind that clung to your bones. The kind that made birds quiet and your breath feel too loud.
Something was watching. But nothing moved.
Still, we pressed on. The Naming Feast had to be worthy.
“I hope he survives,” I muttered, trying to sound casual but Nyx heard the worry in my voice.
“Drax is furious,” he said under his breath.“He thinks the prophecy’s come true.”
He didn’t say what the prophecy meant but we both knew the stories.
A child born under eclipse. A name written in fire. A brother… destined to break us or save us.
Suddenly, Nyx raised a hand. A deer just ahead.
I nodded once, crouched low, and let my spear fly. A perfect strike.
Nyx gave the bird-call whistle to alert his father. We hauled the carcass back to camp together.
The others returned soon after. The fire was lit. The meat laid out. Herbs were thrown onto the flames and their smoke curled skyward. in a spiral that reminded me of a dragon’s breath.
Tonight, my baby brother would be named. But even as the tribe gathered in joy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming through the trees.
A painted stone representing fire hitting the earth near standing stones – abstract art.
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.
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