Tag: pre-Celtic legend

  • The  Houses of Caernath Part 3

    The Houses of Caernath Part 3

    The Feast of Blood and Bond.


    The great hall of Emberhelm pulsed with firelight. Smoke curled upward from the long hearth, rich with the scent of charred lamb fat, root vegetables, and sweet herbs.

    It was a scent that stirred memory of winter hunts. Harvest feasts, and nights when the storm howled but the fire held fast.

    Taranis stood at the head of the long stone table. His arms folded behind his back, a rare softness in his eyes. To his right sat Lore, robes still dusted with ash from the spell that broke the curse. To his left, Drax toyed with his carving knife, his appetite as fierce as ever.

    But it was the spaces beyond that caught the eye.

    Boldolph sat with his broad, wolfish shoulders hunched, a strip of roast meat gripped in one clawed hand. Morrigan.

    Once white wolf, now flame-haired woman, laughed as she stirred a pot near the hearth beside Solaris. Who sprinkled crushed nettle and wild garlic into the steaming soup.

    And near the fire, two boys sat on a bench Nyx and Rayne. The latter still bore the bruises of captivity, but his shoulders had relaxed, his collar gone. Nyx offered him a chunk of honeyed root and a crude wooden spoon. The boy’s smile was slow, cautious. But it came.

    Taranis raised a horn of wild berry wine.

    “Tonight, no war. No judgment. No weight of kingship or curse. Tonight, we eat.”

    A cheer rang through the hall.

    The first course was served hearth-brewed vegetable broth, thick with barley, wild leeks, and stinging nettle. Simple, earthy. Morrigan’s touch. The nettle had been boiled thrice, mellowing its sting but keeping its iron-rich heart.

    Then came the main feast braised lamb neck, rubbed with ash salt and roasted on iron spits. It fell from the bone into honeyed mash made of parsnip and turnip, flanked by fire-roasted carrots. leeks, and bruised apples wrapped in dock leaves.

    A vegetarian version of roasted nuts, wild mushrooms, and legumes. Bound with barley and wild garlic was passed to those who’d taken vows of gentleness.

    The hall grew louder with warmth and full bellies. Solaris poured ladle after ladle of broth. Boldolph, face still savage, offered a growled blessing in the tongue of old wolf-warriors. Even Lore smiled briefly.

    And then came dessert.

    Forest fruit compote slow-stewed blackberries, crab apples, and hazelnuts served over a rough cake of grain and honey. It wasn’t sweet in the way of sugar, but it hummed with the wild tang of the land.

    As the fire cracked lower, Taranis rose once more.

    “We have reclaimed brothers,” he said. “Rayne is free. Draven will return soon. Boldolph and Morrigan have chosen forms of their own. Solaris has cast down his chains. And you my kin you have chosen your Houses.”

    He turned, gesturing to three newly hung banners behind the head table.

    Tempestras storm-grey with blue lightning: the House of the Storm.

    Ignis flickering red and gold: the House of the Flame.

    Umbra shadowed silver moon eclipsing a burnt-orange sun: the House of the Shadow.

    “Caernath lives again,” Taranis said. “Not through conquest but through kinship. Through the storm we were broken. But by fire and shadow, we are reforged.”

    Rayne rose, slowly, holding up a crude carving the three brothers etched into a cairnstone, side by side.

    “Then let it be known,” he said, “that Stormborne is no longer just a name. It is a vow.”

    Lore pressed a hand to the stone, then nodded.

    “A vow… and a future.”

    And beneath the storm-beaten beams of Emberhelm, the wolves howled once more not from pain or exile, but from joy.

    Feast Notes (Modern Budget Version approx. £10 total):


    Starter:

    Wild Nettle & Leek Soup

    Nettle leaves (free if foraged)

    Leek or spring onion

    Pearl barley

    Garlic & herbs

    Main:

    Braised Lamb Neck or Shoulder (cheap cuts)

    Honey-roasted root veg (parsnip, carrot, turnip)

    Mashed turnip/potato

    Vegetarian choice: wild mushroom & nut loaf

    Dessert:

    Berries & Graincake

    Stewed blackberries/crab apples

    Honey/oats cake

    Optional: hazelnuts

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    The Houses of Caernath – Act I: The Broken Howl

    The Houses of Caernath – Act II: The Forgotten Blood

    Solaris’s Kitchen:

    Rustic Bronze Age Lamb Recipe: A Diabetic-Friendly Delight

  • The tragic curse of Boldolph and Morrigan 2

    The tragic curse of Boldolph and Morrigan 2

    The mystical bond between the black and white wolves, symbolizing the intertwined fates of Boldolph and Morrigan.

    Boldolph’s people wept for him and Morrigan.

    As the cursed pair fled the stone cave. Their new forms heavy with shame and grief, they knew the truth they would yet be hunted. Death would almost be kinder than living on, watching their people unravel from the shadows.

    From the tree line, they watched.

    The enchantress Whitehair was dragged to the punishment stones. Her mouth forced open as the chieftain stepped forward.

    “Bring me my grandchildren,” he commanded.

    A line of children stood before him. The oldest, a thirteen-year-old girl, stared straight ahead as the wind lifted her dark hair.

    “Gwyn,” the chieftain said, “you are the eldest of my blood. This honour is yours. Remove her tongue and nose.”

    Without a word, the girl obeyed. She carried out the sentence without question her hand steady. Her eyes blank while Boldolph and Morrigan looked on from the trees.

    “The youngest three,” the chieftain continued, “shall be raised among us. Spared. But the oldest, Ryn…”

    A fourteen-year-old boy was dragged forward.

    “…He will be cast out.”

    “No! Please…” Ryn cried. “I was hungry she hadn’t fed me in weeks…”

    “You’re old enough to hunt,” his father barked. “Old enough to fish. Old enough to gather. You chose to steal.”

    As the blade was drawn, Morrigan gave a sharp growl.

    Boldolph stepped from the trees not attacking, but shielding the boy with his massive black form.

    “Morrigan? Boldolph?” the chieftain asked, surprised but calm. “Do you understand what is happening here?”

    Boldolph gave a single nod.

    “Do you agree with this judgment?” another tribesman called out.

    Morrigan whimpered, then moved beside Boldolph, gently nosing Ryn toward the tree line.

    “Boy,” the chieftain said, “how can we speak to the wolves?”

    “My father knows a chant, sir,” Ryn answered softly. “I’ve heard him whisper it to the earth spirits.”

    A moment later, the chant rose in the air low and trembling. The spirits stirred.

    “It is done,” the seer confirmed. “The wolves may not speak through mouths, but they will speak through minds. A bond has been made between Boldolph and the tribe’s spirit.”

    “Father,” Boldolph said in thought alone, “let the boy live. Morrigan wishes no harm.”

    “If she could poison her own people, she may have cursed him too,” someone muttered.

    But Morrigan white as snow, her eyes full of sorrow pressed her head into the chieftain’s hand.

    “He has always seemed… touched by something,” she said. “Not cursed. But not untouched either. Let him go. For me.”

    The chieftain knelt.

    “Boy,” he said, “do you understand what this means?”

    “No, sir.”

    “It means my grandfather will spare your life,” Gwyn said, stepping forward. “But you must leave, Ryn. And never return. You will walk with the cursed wolves. And you will not bear a name. Not in any tribe. You will be the boy who walks in exile. The boy of silence.”

    Ryn’s father added, “You will walk until you sleep. And when you sleep, you will not wake.”

    Tears welled in Ryn’s eyes. “Can I say goodbye to my brothers and sisters?”

    “Five minutes,” the chieftain said. “Then the exile begins. You’ll be given a spear, a stone knife. One day’s food for you. A week’s for my son and his mate.”

    The children nodded.

    The chieftain’s hand rested on Morrigan’s head, then Boldolph’s.

    “You are not forgotten,” he whispered.

    Boldolph’s mother stepped from the crowd, her eyes wet with love and regret.

    “Boldolph,” she said, “you are always welcome at our fire.”

    And with that, the wolves turned toward the deep forest and the cursed child walked beside them.

    © StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.