Tag: short-story

Drax the Dragonball.

A Stormborne Skysport!

The sun dipped low over the hills, turning the sky the colour of old bronze. A warm wind blew across the half-built hillfort, stirring the campfire embers and the occasional ego.

Out from the shadow of the forge strutted Drax, shoulders broad, beard wild, and eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m riding Pendragon,” he announced to no one and everyone. “You can’t be the only rider, runt.”

Taranis, seated by the fire with a hunk of roasted meat in hand, didn’t even flinch. He just raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure Pendragon will love that.”

From the ridge above, the mighty dragon shifted. Pendragon, ancient and noble, snorted in what can only be described as pre-emptive disappointment.

Next to him, Tairneanach. The younger storm dragon, lowered his head as if already bracing for whatever chaos was about to unfold.

Drax clapped his hands. “Let’s fly, beasts!”

“Hey Pendragon, Tairneach,” Taranis called, struggling not to laugh. “Drax thinks he’s got wings.”

With an exaggerated swagger. Drax tried to climb up Pendragon’s massive side promptly slipping and landing flat on his back with a grunt.

Pendragon groaned like a disgruntled horse and used his wing like a shovel. As he started lifting Drax back onto the saddle with a firm thwap.

“Thank you!” Drax wheezed, trying to sit upright. “See? We’re bonding!”

Pendragon gave Tairneanach a long look. The younger dragon’s eyes gleamed. The mischief had begun.

With a mighty roar, the dragons launched into the sky, wings tearing through the clouds. At first, it was majestic. Drax whooped with delight, arms raised, his braids flying.

“This is incredible!” he bellowed. “I am one with the storm!”

And then Pendragon did a barrel roll.

Drax did not.

He flew off the saddle like a sack of meat and bellowed curses all the way down.

“OH YOU BLOODY SCALY!”

Before he could hit the ground. Tairneanach swooped in like a feathered bolt of lightning. Catching Drax by the back of his tunic with a precise claw.

“Thanks!” Drax wheezed again, now dangling like a trussed boar over a bonfire.

But the game wasn’t over.

Pendragon arced around and opened his claws mid-air. Tairneanach, with a playful screech, tossed Drax into the air like a sack of barley.

“WHAT IN THE STONE-FORSAKEN” Drax spun mid-air.

Pendragon caught him.

Then tossed him again.

Taranis stood below, hands on hips, watching the two dragons play catch with his brother.

“This is fine,” he muttered. “Completely normal.”

The wolves Boldolph and Morrigan lay nearby watching with what only be described as smug amusement. Morrigan even wagged her tail once.

Up above, Drax was shouting at both dragons.

“NOT THE EARS! I NEED THOSE! I’M A COMMANDER, DAMMIT!”

But they didn’t listen.

Pendragon looped. Tairneanach flipped. Drax flailed.

Eventually, they deposited him gently but with zero dignity onto a hay bale just outside the fort walls. He rolled off, dizzy, covered in ash, and missing one boot.

Taranis walked over and offered him a hand.

“Still think you’re a rider?”

Drax groaned. “I think… I’ll stick to walking.”

As Taranis helped him up. Pendragon landed behind them with a smug puff of smoke. while Tairneanach gave a playful chuff and nudged Drax’s remaining boot onto his head.

“Great,” Drax muttered. “Now they’re comedians too.”

Taranis grinned. “Just be glad they like you. If they didn’t, you’d be inside a mountain right now.”

Drax groaned again, then started laughing. “Alright, alright dragons win.”

And from that day on, the fort echoed not only with the sounds of battle and building but with laughter.

Because sometimes, even a Bloodbound Commander needs to get tossed around by dragons to stay humble.

Thank you for reading.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 3, 2025
Building the Hillfort: A New Era Begins

The hillfort rose like a scar upon the earth raw, unfinished, powerful in its promise.

Stones clattered as men worked shoulder to shoulder. Logs were rolled into place, lashed with thick rope and secured by wedges of bone and bronze. Children ran between the scaffolds, delivering water or watching with wide eyes as their future took shape.

It was a day like no other.

The sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden sheen across the half-built wall. Birds circled above, uneasy. The animals in the nearby woods had gone silent.

Sir Gael, the oldest warrior among the fort’s guardians, paused to wipe sweat from his brow. His grey-streaked beard was heavy with dust. He glanced upward, his hand stilled mid-motion.

“Commander Drax,” he said, his voice strangely calm. “Look.”

Drax turned his shoulders broad, his eyes as sharp as the spear he carried.

Above them, the sky split.

A roar echoed across the valley not of wind, nor beast, but something far older. The builders dropped their tools. The children froze. Heads tilted toward the heavens.

The clouds churned as if afraid. And from them, something vast and terrible descended.

A dragon.

Wings wide as the river’s span. Scales that shimmered with green, gold, and a glint of crimson. Pendragon, King of the Sky. A creature from legend — spoken of in firelit whispers and dream-songs passed down by the Flamekeepers.

And on his back rode a man.

Tall. Armoured in blackened bronze. A red cloak fluttered behind him like a banner of blood and flame. His grey eyes gleamed with the fury of storms.

Taranis Stormborne.

The exiled boy. The returning myth. The High Warlord.

Sir Gael dropped to one knee. The others followed not out of fear, but reverence.

“Is it truly him?” someone whispered.

A small girl tugged at her father’s tunic. “Daddy… is he the one the Seer spoke of?”

Her father a scarred builder named Halvor looked to Drax for guidance.

Drax did not speak at first.

He simply nodded.

“It’s possible, young one.”

The dragon roared again. Pendragon spiralled downward, his wings churning the air so fiercely that dust clouds rose from the hilltop. Yet the High Warlord stood unshaken upon his back, one hand on the saddlehorn, the other raised in greeting.

He did not fall.

Not once.

He rode the wind like it was his birthright.

When Pendragon finally landed upon the high ridge, silence followed. Even the wind dared not move.

Taranis slid down with the ease of a seasoned warrior. His boots hit the ground with a thud like thunder. Behind him, the dragon crouched, its golden eyes watching all with quiet fire.

Drax stepped forward.

“Taranis,” he said, voice cracking. “You’ve returned.”

Taranis nodded. “And you’ve begun.”

He looked past his brother to the rising fort, half-finished but brimming with hope.

“Stone and sweat,” he said. “It’s a good beginning.”

Lore emerged next from the shadows, staff in hand. “The prophecy breathes,” he said.

“It was written: When sky and fire meet the hill. The son shall return to shape the land with storm and blood.”

A murmur passed through the gathering crowd.

Taranis took a slow breath, then turned to the workers.

“I am no king,” he said, voice deep and sure. “I do not bring crowns or glory. I bring a future. A place for the broken and the brave. A shield for our young. A fire for our old.”

He lifted his sword.

“This land this fort will stand not just for the Stormborne. It will stand for all who remember. For those cast out. For those who bled. We rise not to conquer, but to endure.”

Cheers broke across the hilltop.

Some wept. Others simply stared, mouths open, unsure if they stood in a dream or waking world.

The children gathered near the dragon’s feet, staring up in awe. Pendragon blinked slowly and lowered his head so they touch his scaled snout.

The girl from before her name was Marla reached out, fingers trembling.

“He’s warm,” she whispered.

Sir Gael stood beside Drax, smiling through his years.

“I thought the stories were just that,” he said. “Stories.”

“Some stories,” Lore said, “are simply waiting for the right time.”

That night, fires were lit along the hilltop. The beginnings of the wall gleamed in the torchlight, casting long shadows over the land. Meat was roasted. Bread was broken.

At the centre sat the brothers Stormborne Taranis, Drax, and Lore their heads bent together, planning the days to come.

Boldolph and Morrigan, the sacred wolves, lay on either side of the war table. Watchful. Silent.

Above them, high in the sky, Pendragon remained perched. His wings wrapped around the star-streaked air like a guardian angel of old. Next to the dragon was a black dragon

“They fought with us and now they returned “

“I’m staying as long as needed ” taranis knelt to the children “this beast us pendragon and that ones Tiarneach “

The hillfort was far from finished.

But something greater had begun.

Hope.

Thank you for reading.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : lThe Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 3, 2025
Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 3

The Brothers Reunited.

The sun broke through the bruised clouds, casting shafts of gold over the bloodied field. Smoke curled from the remnants of fires, and bodies friend and foe lay strewn like broken oaths across the grass. The storm had passed, but silence hung thick as grief.

Taranis stood still, sword lowered, his chest heaving. Blood streaked his arms, his face, even his hair but none of it slowed him. His eyes, grey as thunderclouds, scanned the chaos. Not for more enemies, but for the ones who had once called him brother.

A shape moved through the mist. Then another.

Lore came first tall, limping, one eye swollen shut. His armor was scorched, his left arm dripping crimson. But his voice was whole when he said, “You came back, little storm.”

Taranis didn’t speak. His jaw clenched as he looked at Lore, then at the shadow beside him. Drax emerged next, sword still slick with blood. A gash crossed his temple, but his stance was steady. They looked older. Harder. But not strangers.

“I thought you were dead,” Taranis said at last.

Drax shrugged. “We thought the same of you. For a long time.”

Lore stepped closer. “The others… they didn’t make it. The sickness. The blades. The fire.”

Taranis’s voice cracked. “None of them?”

Lore shook his head. “Only us.”

A long silence passed, broken only by the wind rustling the torn banners on the hill.

Taranis turned, scanning the field again. “I need to see them.”

Drax put a hand on his shoulder. “They’ve been gone a long time, Taranis. But you weren’t forgotten. Even when the tribe cursed you, some of us still believed.”

Lore added quietly, “Mother asked about you. Before the fever took her. She said… if the wind howled in the right way, she still hear your voice in the trees.”

Taranis closed his eyes. The wolves at his side sat in silence. Above, the dragons had vanished, leaving only smoke trails where the storm had passed.

Then, slowly, he knelt.

He didn’t weep. But he placed his blade flat against the soil and whispered words. Only the wind would carry a farewell, a promise, a mourning for all he had lost.

Lore and Drax stood beside him, the last of the Stormborne bloodline. No longer divided. No longer boys.

Brothers. Survivors.

And builders of something new.

Thank you for reading.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 2, 2025
Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 2

The mist churned with the heavy breath of the earth. It was a blanket of silence, thick as the sorrow that weighed on the air. The warriors stood, unsure whether to kneel or fight to greet their kin, or strike at their curse. There had been no warning, no word of Taranis’s return. He had simply appeared the shadows parting to reveal him like a storm-born god.

Taranis stood tall in the heart of them, his broad shoulders cut against the rolling mist. The wolves at his side. Boldolph, his red-eyed companion, a shadow of night itself, prowled silently beside him.

Morrigan, a beautiful white wolf, ever the ghost, her eyes glittering like twin embers. Moved with the grace of wind, barely disturbing the earth beneath her paws.

Above them, the storm was waiting watching. Tairneanach and Pendragon, the dragons, were not of this earth. But they lingered in the skies, their wings beating the air like the rhythm of war itself.

He did not call for battle. He did not raise a spear. He simply let the storm guide his steps. The weight of his presence alone seemed to shift the land. The earth trembling as though it too remembered what the boy now a man had become.

The warriors of his homeland, who had once been his brothers. Now looked upon him with a mixture of awe, fear, and guilt. Lore, his older brother, stood before him, his face shadowed with grief and anger. There was no joy in his eyes, only the harsh weight of lost years and lost family.

“You return, Taranis. But what have you come back to?” Lore’s voice cut through the stillness. There was no warmth in his tone. Only a coldness that ran deep, a layer of resentment that not be overlooked.

Taranis’s voice, nonetheless, was steady as thunder in the distance, resonating with the storm that had followed him for years. “I return for blood,” he said. “Not just for yours, but for mine.”

A wave of motion the clash of steel, the growl of beasts. But it wasn’t just the tribe who sought war. From the far ridge, a war band of strangers approached, their figures shrouded in shadow. They were not just raiders.

These men had come for something more like. They had heard the legends of the boy who had been cast out. The one who had walked through the storm. They had come to test the power of the Stormborne bloodline.

Taranis didn’t wait. He swept ahead, his blade gleaming like the edge of the storm, glowing with fury. Boldolph leapt alongside him, his jaws snapping at the air. A creature of black shadow and red fire, creature of his own making. Morrigan, ever the shadow, darted forward like a streak of vengeance. her white fur glowing as if the moon itself had poured through her.

The first strike landed. Taranis’s blade cut through the flesh of his nearest foe with the ease of wind through the trees. Blood sprayed from the wound, but it wasn’t just mortal men he was fighting. The storm answered him, the air vibrating as if the heavens themselves would break apart.

The Storm Unleashed
Taranis fought as though he was the very storm itself. Each swing of his blade cutting through flesh like lightning raking the sky. His movements were fluid, practiced not from years of training, but from something older. He had become the storm, the blade in his hand merely an extension of his fury.

Boldolph was a black shadow beside him. His jaws closing around an enemy’s throat, tearing through flesh like a force of nature. Morrigan struck with the elegance of wind, swift and deadly, cutting through men. As though they were nothing more than smoke in the air.

Her eyes burned with the same fire that danced in Taranis’s chest. Morrigans presence was a reminder of the wildness that had shaped him.

The warriors of the rival tribe faltered under the weight of the storm that followed Taranis. The mist, which had once cloaked them in mystery. As it began to burn away, replaced by a swirling cloud of rage and prophecy. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the clash of steel mingling with the roar of dragons in the sky.

Above them, the dragons spiraled, their forms flickering in and out of the thunderclouds. Pendragon, the King of Dragons, seemed to grow in size with each heartbeat of battle. His wings tearing through the air like the flaps of fate itself.

Tairneanach, the storm dragon, called down bolts of lightning, sending the enemy scattering in terror. He was not of the world below. But his power filled it with such force that even the mightiest warriors. were little more than ants beneath his gaze.

Lore, still standing firm at the edge of the battlefield, shouted over the chaos, his voice tinged with fear,.

“Taranis! This battle is ours to win, but not with blood alone. The storm has a price.”

Taranis glanced at his brother, the bond between them still intact despite the years of separation. Lore’s face was etched with worry, and Taranis saw the doubt in his eyes. They had fought together once, long ago. But the battlefield was different now, and so were they.

Taranis nodded, raising his sword to the sky. Pendragon roared, and the ground trembled beneath them. The clash of steel and the roar of dragons echoed across the hills as the battle raged on.

The Turning Point
Taranis had always fought for survival, but now he fought for something more his legacy. This battle was more than a struggle for land or tribe. It was a struggle for what would stay of the Stormborne name. The tribe, his family, and the ancient bond of blood and storm were all tied to this moment.

Drax, his brother, caught sight of him in the thick of the battle. Their eyes met across the chaos. Drax had once been the fierce, unrelenting warrior, the protector. But now, his eyes were full of something else hesitation.

Taranis fought his way toward him, cutting through the enemy like a force of nature. When he reached Drax, there was a moment of stillness the battlefield paused, the winds held their breath.

“You fight as a man, Taranis,” Drax said, his voice rough with emotion, his sword slick with blood. “But you’ve never known the price of victory.”

Taranis’s eyes flashed with a fire of their own. “Victory isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”

Drax, understanding in that moment what Taranis meant, raised his sword. “Then let us give,” he said, and together they turned. Fighting back to back, cutting through the enemy ranks with a power born of blood, storm, and flame.

The End of the Storm

The battle raged on for what felt like eternity, but slowly, the enemy forces began to break. The storm that had followed Taranis, fierce and untamed, began to recede as the last of the rival warriors fell.

The sky cleared, the clouds parted, and the first rays of sunlight broke through. casting a strange glow over the blood-soaked earth.

Taranis stood midst the chaos, bloodied but unbroken, his sword raised to the heavens. Pendragon and Tairneanach circled above, their forms still haunting the skies as their presence faded with the storm.

Lore and Drax stood beside him, their faces full of silent grief and reluctant pride. The cost had been great, and the blood of their brothers stained the earth beneath them.

But the Stormborne bloodline had endured. Taranis had returned and with him, the legacy of the Stormborne would live on. No longer a whispered legend, but a truth written in blood, storm, and flame.

Thank you for reading.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 2, 2025
Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 1

The Return of Stormfire

A vibrant abstract artwork featuring a bold central pattern surrounded by colorful concentric lines.

They say the sky cracked open the morning he returned.

A low thunder rolled across the hills, though no lightning had yet touched the earth. The mist lay thick upon Malvern Hill, curling over the stones like the breath of ancient spirits. Somewhere between the bracken and the stormclouds, a shape emerged not quite man, not quite myth.

A fierce black wolf howls against a vibrant blue background, embodying the spirit of Taranis Stormborne’s journey in ‘The Return of Stormfire.’

Taranis Stormborne had come home.

He walked as one who had been reforged, each footstep heavy with memory and fire. Ten winters had passed since he’d been cast out as a cursed boy. But now he stood seven feet tall, shoulders broad as yew trunks. his eyes glinting with the steel-grey of a storm’s eye. His breath steamed in the cool dawn, yet he wore no furs. He needed none.

To his right padded Boldolph, the black wolf, massive and scarred, his red eyes burning like coals.

To his left prowled Morrigan, white as frost, her gaze sharp as carved bone.

An eye-catching illustration of a dragon intertwined with vibrant foliage, showcasing the magical essence of StormborneLore.

Above them circled the watchers of the sky two dragons cloaked in storm. Tairneanach, the spirit of thunder, and Pendragon, King of Flame. Their wings stirred the clouds. Their roars were hidden in the rumble overhead.

No trumpet called. No banner flew. But the mountain knew.

So did the tribe.

The watchmen were first to see him — one dropped his spear, the other fled into the trees. Word spread like fire through dry grass:
“The Stormborne has returned.”

By the time Taranis reached the outer ridge, a ring of warriors had formed. Men he once called brothers. Men who remembered the boy and now beheld the storm.

His father was gone. His mother, buried in silence.

But Lore was there the eldest, proud and sorrow-worn.

So was Drax once cruel, now haunted.

And others less forgiving.

They stepped ahead, hands on stone blades, fury in their eyes. The past had not been buried with the bones of the dead.

Taranis did not speak.

He simply knelt. Placed his hand upon the earth.

And the clouds above them began to swirl.

Thank you for reading.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 2, 2025
The Storm Dragon and Flame Father: Tales of Taranis

Tairneanach and Pendragon Spirits of Storm, Fire, and Fate

A vibrant illustration of Tairneanach, the Storm Dragon, embodying the elements of fury and prophecy amidst a colorful backdrop.

The Storm That Watches

They say a great wyrm once roamed Biddulph Moor. A beast of smoke and sky, hunted by men with spears of bronze and fear in their bellies. But no man killed it.

The creature rose into the thunderclouds and vanished, taking the storm with it.

The next day, nothing grew on the moor but blackened heather.

That wyrm became Tairneanach, the Storm Dragon not a creature of fire, but of prophecy. His breath is wind. His scales shimmer like wet slate. He is the first when a child is born under an omen sky. The last to vanish when a soul is cast out unjustly.

“He is not tamed. Not ridden. He chooses.”
Whispered in the dreams of outcasts and seers.

He spoke once to Taranis, though none saw him but the moon. And ever since, storms gather when the boy is near.

Pendragon the King of the First Flame.

Before the first stone stood upright, before wolves wore names, there was Pendragon the Flame Father.
He does not fly in the sky, but in the bloodline of heroes.

His heart is fire, but his wisdom is older than heat. Some say he shaped the bones of the land. Others say he waits beneath the earth, dreaming.

He is the King of Dragons, but he does not rule — he remembers.

Pendragon comes not in rage, but in reckoning. When a soul is weighed against fate itself, he is the one who tips the scale. He appeared in the old hills beyond Cannock. Curled in flame and sorrow when the first chieftain died protecting a starving tribe. That fire still burns in the soil.

The Blood Oath of the Stormborne
It is said the Stormborne line carries both marks:

The Eye of Tairneanach

vision, fury, and unnatural storms

The Flame of Pendragon

mercy, fire, and legacy

Taranis bears both.
He is not just watched by dragons he is of them.

Tairneanach: Name derived from Irish/Scottish Gaelic tairneanach meaning “thunder.”

Pendragon: Traditional Welsh/British title, here re-imagined as the Flame Father, not a king by rule but by spirit.

This lore blends:

The Biddulph Dragon (real Staffordshire tale)

Knucker folklore & storm-serpent myths

Cannock Chase legends & draconic omens

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

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July 2, 2025
The Bitter Berry

Isolation

The punishment was isolation not exile, not quite. Taranis, though still only a babe by the tribe’s reckoning, was watched but not spoken to. No brothers played with him. No mother’s lullaby wrapped him in comfort. He was to be observed, not nurtured. Fed, but not spoken to. Cared for, but not loved.

It was said the elders feared what he would become. A child with glowing hands who healed a broken mind just as easily break others, they whispered.

And so, silence fell over him like a second skin.

But the boy the boy did not stop being hungry.

On the third day of his confinement, Taranis wandered just beyond the shadow of the chief’s hut.
He was old enough to walk, too young to know danger. And he was hungry.

He saw berries.

They gleamed with dew, small and red like droplets of blood upon the brambles. They looked like the ones Nyx used to give him in summer. He plucked them, popped one in his mouth, and smiled.

Within minutes, the world tilted.

Taranis clutched his belly, his body shaking. His legs gave way as a cry tore from his throat not of pain alone, but of betrayal.

The world blurred. The air thickened. He vomited violently and collapsed into the underbrush.

From the edge of the village, Nyx saw the fall.

“FATHER!” she screamed, racing ahead before any guards stop her. “Taranis! Taranis!”

Conan came running, as did Lore and Boldolph, the great black wolf. Lore scooped the child into his arms, his skin already burning with fever again, his lips pale and trembling.

“What’s he done?” Lore cried.

“Berries,” said Morrigan softly from the tree line. “The bitter kind. Poisonous to children.”

Nyx was sobbing now, her hands over her mouth. “He didn’t know. He was hungry. He was hungry and no one fed him.”

Father turned to the elders, fury flashing in his eyes.

The elders said nothing.

That night, the laws were rewritten.

Taranis would not be left alone again. He would still be watched, still be studied but never again forgotten.

Because even a stormborn child needs more than destiny to survive.

He needs kindness.
He needs love.
And above all…

He needs to eat.

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

June 30, 2025
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.

June 28, 2025
The Tragic Curse of Boldolph and Morrigan

Written by emma.stormbornelore
in Ancient Britain

Once, I was a man.
A cherished warrior.

The youngest of three lords, the only surviving heir before the word chieftain had even been carved into stone.

I was a protector, a trader,

a traveller to far shores…
but above all, I was a husband and a father.

Morrigan.

She was everything.
Three children had blessed our home and that was enough.

It was all her body can carry after the night she met the old crone in the woods.

The one whose words still haunt me.
“The howl will return to your house, but not in the way you dream.”

I remember that day like thunder.

I had walked the long trail from the hunt., a wolf’s pelt across my shoulders, the carved head resting like a crown.

There was smoke above the village.
And shouting.

An old woman beaten, clothes torn was being dragged toward my father’s cave.

“Wait!” I shouted.

I stepped ahead eighteen, tall, muscle-bound, burning with promise.
They said I would one day unite the valleys.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded.

A freckled, tattooed man stepped ahead, fury carved into every line of his face.

“This enchantress worked against us in the last battle,” he spat.
“She betrayed us, Boldolph. We demand justice for our dead.”

My jaw clenched.
I turned to her.

“You?” I growled.
“You’re the reason my brothers now sleep the eternal sleep?
The reason my mother weeps?
The reason the blood of my people feeds the grass?”

She said nothing.

With a roar, I seized her
hauled her high above the firepit, as if ready to cast her into flame.

But then
“NO!”

A voice like wind cut through the rage.

Morrigan.

Only she reach me.
Only she still the fire in my chest.

“This is not you, my love,” she said.
“Let the chieftain decide. Please…”

And I listened. Because she was the one thing I would never fight.

I carried the woman into the cave.

The chieftain stood waiting.
Red-haired, tattooed in victory and sorrow, wise beyond warriors.

“I have heard your crimes, Whitehair,” he said, voice like stone.
“You drugged the warriors. You let the enemy pass through us like wind through grass.
You gave our children to fire. You made the wombs of mothers empty.”

Still, the woman did not plead.

“Death is too easy,” he continued.

“You will be taken to the deepest part of the wood.
Stripped of your name.
Your hands will be marked so that the spirits do not recognise you.
You will eat only what you can dig or steal. None shall speak your name, nor carve it. You will walk in silence until the earth swallows you. Or until the wolves forget your scent. So say the spirits. So says the tribe.”

And so she was cast out not as woman, not as witch. As nothing.

But my rage had not cooled.

“Father, banishment is too easy for one who knows these lands,” I said.
“Bind her. Take her children. Take her tongue, and theirs,so none curse us again.”

And that’s when she finally spoke.

Her voice was dry like wind over bones.
“I curse thee, Boldolph… son of Marnak.
And thy wife Morrigan, daughter of Ayr.
You shall be wolves until the day you meet a boy. a giant of seven feet, who befriends all animals and dragons.
The house of your father will fall.”

The pain came instantly.

My darling wife and I we transformed, howling and breaking,
before the entire tribe.

Thousands of years have passed since that day.
Many cubs later, we have never seen each other in human form.

I bear black fur as dark as night.
a golden five-pointed star on my head,
a red crescent moon on my chest.

And my Morrigan…
She is snow-white,
with a red star between her eyes
and a golden sun over her heart.

If I have spared her this
I would have.

© StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 28, 2025
Taranis and Boldolph: The Birth of a Chosen One

The Myth of Taranis and Boldolph.

The rest of us stepped back.

Father’s eyes had changed
flashing a pale shade of red.

Thunder cracked as he stepped into the cave. Ready to lay eyes on Mother and the newborn she had fought to bring into the world.

We stood behind him in silence,
all of us but one.

One brother, whose eyes held no joy.
Only fear.
Only the taste of blood.

“Thirteenth son of the thirteenth son,” he muttered.
“Born during a storm… and an eclipse.
Even the dragons have fallen silent.
And the wolves, they’ve stopped howling.”

Just then, as if the forest itself heard hima sound split the trees in two.

Boldolph.

His howl rose like thunder turned voice,
a cry so powerful the very air seemed to flinch.

Artistic depiction of Boldolph, the powerful wolf, alongside symbols of mythology and nature.

At his side stood Morrigan,
his bonded mate white as new snow.
She gave a low, haunting cry
and pressed her head gently against his.

Then the dragon stirred.

It lifted its head,
wings stretching wide like a storm reborn.

And with a roar that lit the sky,
it rose.

Fire molten and blinding
erupted from its throat,
painting the clouds in gold and crimson.

And there, across the eclipsed heavens, the name appeared.

TARANIS.

Burning.
Brilliant.
Undeniable.

As if the stars,
the storm,
and the breath of the gods themselves
had spoken as one:

This child is no curse.
He is chosen.

© StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 27, 2025