Tag: Tairneanach

The Houses of Caernath Part 6

The Path They Choose

StormborneLore Original Story

Draven watched his younger brother with the quiet reverence of a man who had walked through fire. To find a home on the other side. Though the aches in his ribs still tugged at his breath, he laughed a genuine, full-throated laugh. as he caught Rayne peeking from behind a weathered oak near the feast.

Rayne’s cloak hung awkwardly over one shoulder, and though his hands were free. He held them stiffly as if still expecting chains.

Draven looked back to Taranis, who stood tall and proud. The firelight glinting off the rings etched into his forearms marks of every clan he’d freed, every vow he’d kept.

“You’re not the only one who can’t die, Taranis. The bards will call us the Eternal Lords. The Man of the Woods, the Warrior of the March… But what about you, brother? What will they say?”

Taranis grinned, but his eyes stayed on Rayne.

“The Lord with a Heart. The Flame that Walks. The Warlord who Wept.”

He turned to Draven. “What ails him, truly?”

Draven’s smile dimmed.

“He survived,” he said softly. “And survival… isn’t as easy to wear as a legend.”

Taranis nodded, the smile gone. “Then I’ll not offer him a title. Or a command. I’ll offer him what was once denied us all.”

He walked from the firelight and toward the shadows where Rayne stood alone, arms folded and eyes like flint.

“You Came Back.”
Rayne didn’t speak as Taranis approached. His jaw twitched. He stepped backward out of habit until his heel hit a root and stopped him.

Taranis said nothing at first. He simply sat on the fallen log nearby, stretching his legs and sighing into the evening air.

“When I was your age,” he said, “I thought silence made me strong. That if I didn’t speak of the beatings, or the exile, or the hunger… then I had won.”

He picked up a small stone and turned it over in his hand.

“But silence doesn’t win. It buries. And buried things don’t stay buried, brother. Not forever.”

Rayne looked down, fists clenched.

“They said you were dead.”

“So did I,” Taranis replied. “And then I woke up… and realized I wasn’t done.”

Rayne’s voice cracked.

“Why didn’t you come for me?”

Taranis flinched not visibly, but somewhere behind the eyes.

He finally looked up, tears bright in his eyes. “And I believed them.”

Taranis didn’t speak. He rose slowly, walked the short distance, and pulled Rayne into his arms.

Rayne stood stiff as iron pthen broke. His head fell against Taranis’s shoulder, and the boy who had been a slave sobbed like the child he never got to be.

The Wolves Watched
From the trees, Boldolph watched, crouched low, Morrigan beside him.

“He’s not ready,” the black wolf growled.

“He’s more ready than you were,” Morrigan said softly.

Boldolph grunted. “He’s not like Taranis. Or Draven. The fire isn’t in him.”

Morrigan smiled. “No. But the river is.”

Boldolph glanced at her, confused.

“Some of us are made for flame and rage. Others for healing and flow. Rayne… is the river that remembers every stone.”

Morning Comes to Emberhelm
By dawn, the fires had burned low and the children were asleep in bundles of wool and bracken.

The warriors sat nursing sore heads and full bellies, and the dragons Pendragon and Tairneanach lay curled in silence, watching the horizon like guardians of an old dream.

Taranis stood before the gathering. His cloak flapped in the morning wind, and behind him the stone cairns of Caernath glowed faintly as if the ancestors were listening.

“Brothers. Sisters. Flamekeepers. Healers. Shadowwalkers and Stormborn alike. You have all walked through fire, through blood, through the turning of the old ways. Now it is time to choose.”

“Today we name the Three Houses of Caernath not for power, but for purpose. No longer shall bloodlines dictate loyalty. From now on, you choose where you belong.”

“Those who fight whose strength lies in blade and storm come to the House of the Storm.”

“Those who heal, protect, and serve who hold flame and lore come to the House of the Flame.”

“And those who walk between who guard the forgotten places, who speak to shadows, or carry wounds that cannot be seen come to the House of the Shadow.”

Rayne Steps Ahead
The crowd murmured. Solaris stood tall near the Flame. Draven took his place beneath the storm banner. Morrigan stood beneath the flame, Boldolph beside her though his stance was still more wolf than man.

And then slowly, silently Rayne stepped forward.

All eyes turned.

He walked past the flame. Past the storm. And stood alone beneath the third banner, woven with deep purples and grey threads: the House of the Shadow.

Gasps rippled.

Rayne turned, voice calm but steady.

“I am not whole. But I am not broken.”

“I have walked in chains. I have worn silence like a second skin. I am no warlord, no healer, no dragon-slayer.”

“But I remember. And I will not let the forgotten be lost again.”

After the Choosing
Later that night, Taranis found him by the cairnstones.

“The House of the Shadow,” he said. “I never thought someone would choose it first.”

Rayne smiled faintly. “Someone had to.”

“You know… I think it might be the strongest house of all.”

Rayne nodded. “We carry the weight.”

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Further Reading

July 10, 2025
The Flame That Counsels.

A tale from the firekeeper’s hearth.

By the time the boy was dragged into the fire-circle, Solaris already knew what the verdict would be.

The child barely ten summers old had stolen from the Emberhelm kitchens three times in as many weeks. This last time, he’d taken smoked venison, enough for three mouths.

It wasn’t a clever theft either; he’d left claw-marks in the ash like some wild cub. They’d found him crouched behind the root cellar with a bone in one hand. His little sister clutched to his side, shaking from fever.

Taranis sat high above, throne of blackened oak behind him, his blade resting point-down in the dirt. His eyes storm Grey and quiet met Solaris’s across the fire.

“Third offence,” the warlord said, not unkindly. “You know the law.”

Solaris bowed his head.

He had known it would come to this.

The fire crackled between them amber light dancing against carved cairnstones. The gathered clan murmured like wind in the pines. Some looked away. Others watched with cold detachment.

From the shadows near the far cairn, Boldolph crouched in wolf-man form, eyes glowing red in the dusk. Morrigan stood beside him, silent and still, her white fur streaked with soot from an earlier hunt. Neither beast moved.

The boy trembled, snot running down his nose. His sister was nowhere in sight.

One of the younger guards bristling with duty dragged the child ahead. “What’s the order, High Warlord?”

Taranis looked not at the boy, but into the flame. “Three thefts. All marked. The hand goes.”

A stillness fell. Not outrage. Not shock. Just a silence.

Solaris stepped ahead.

He didn’t ask permission. He never had.

“My lord,” he said softly, “I speak?”

Taranis’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

“Come.”

Solaris walked slowly into the circle, his linen tunic soot-streaked, hands calloused from tending both fire and blade. He stopped beside the boy who flinched at his nearness then turned to face Taranis directly.

“You talk of mercy, sir,” Solaris said. “Of giving your people hope. Of forging something better than the clans before us. Yet you would take a child’s hand for hunger?”

“It’s not the first time,” the warlord said.

“No,” Solaris agreed. “It’s the third. Which tells me we failed twice already.”

Murmurs rose again uneasy, uncertain.

Taranis said nothing.

Solaris went on.

“Do you remember when we met, Taranis? You were half-starved. Barefoot. Curled between two wolves like a dying branch in the snow.” His voice cracked, just a little. “You think Morrigan would’ve taken your hand? Or Boldolph watched you bleed?”

Boldolph’s snarl low, thoughtful rumbled through the circle.

“Do not compare me to that child,” Taranis said, but the edge was gone from his voice. “I was cast out by my own blood. He broke a law.”

“So did you,” Solaris said, gently. “You stole from death. You defied exile. You bonded with a dragon.”

The flames snapped high.

Behind them, Lore stepped quietly into the circle’s edge, arms crossed. Drax lingered further back, sharpening his axe with deliberate rhythm.

“The law is clear,” Taranis said, but softer now. “What’s your counsel, Solaris?”

Solaris exhaled.

“The hand stays. Cut his rations. He works the ash pits. But let the sister be seen. She’s burning from within.”

A pause.

Then: “Do we have a healer who treats the children of thieves?”

Solaris gave the barest smile. “We have a Flamekeeper who remembers that fire burns all the same.”

Taranis stood.

He turned to the guards. “The child’s hand stays. Halve his meals for two moons. The sister—tend her.”

“And after that?” the guard asked.

Taranis glanced to Morrigan.

“We watch,” he said.

Later that night, Solaris sat by the embers of the great hearth. The kitchens had long since emptied. The scent of root broth clung to the stones. He stirred a mix of wildfire oil and willow sap in a clay bowl, preparing a balm.

The door creaked. Taranis entered, shoulders still dusted with ash.

“She’ll live,” Solaris said, not looking up. “The girl. The fever broke at dusk.”

“You were right,” Taranis murmured.

“No. I remembered something you forgot.”

He set the bowl down and finally looked up.

“You’re not a tyrant, Taranis. But you are tired. Tired men return to old laws.”

Taranis sat across from him, resting his blade beside the hearth. “They look to me to be strong.”

“Then be strong enough to bend.”

They sat in silence a moment.

Then Taranis said, “What would you have me do? End the slave laws? Free them all?”

Solaris’s eyes softened.

“I’d have you start with one.”

A pause. Fire popped.

“My children,” Solaris said. “You let them stay with me. You feed them better than the others. You trust me with your fire. But still, by law, I am bound. My collar is light, but it is still iron.”

Taranis didn’t speak.

“I do not ask for release,” Solaris said. “I ask for meaning. If I am to be your Flamekeeper, let it not be as your property. Let it be as your kin.”

Taranis rose slowly.

He walked to the wall, lifted a flame braided chain from its hook, and placed it at Solaris’s feet.

“I will ask the cairn council to rewrite the bond,” he said. “You’ll take no collar again.”

Then, softly: “And neither will your children.”

Days passed. The fevered girl recovered. The boy, now under Solaris’s quiet supervision, took to the ash pits with a haunted gaze but steady hands.

At dawn, he brought Solaris firewood without being asked.

At dusk, he left a hand-carved wolf at the hearth.

Taranis watched from the upper cairn, Morrigan seated beside him.

“He’ll never steal again,” Taranis said.

“No,” Solaris replied, stepping beside him. “Because now he belongs.”

Taranis looked at his old friend, the man who had once been enemy. Then servant, then brother in all but blood.

“Thank you, Solaris.”

The Flamekeeper only smiled and added another log to the fire.

That evening, Solaris’s eldest son, Nyx, approached. He carried a plate of meat and grain, handing it to his father before setting his own aside.

“You scorn the meal, boy?” Taranis asked.

“No, sir,” Nyx said. “But it’s not right I get meat and grain while my father gets broth.”

Taranis tilted his head. Then smirked.

“Bring your father a plate from my stores.”

Then added, almost as an afterthought

“And Solaris it was never one dragon, was it? Two stood beside me all along.”

One Week Later Postscript to The Flame That Counsels

“He’s gone mad. The Highlord’s either broken or possessed.”

The guard’s words hit like ash in the lungs. Solaris said nothing, hands deep in the roots he was cleaning for poultice. He’d heard rumors all morning that Taranis had dismissed the old slave branders, torn the punishment scrolls in half, and ordered the cairnstones rewritten.

Another voice joined the first: “They say he talks to the dragons now. Not just rides them talks. Pendragon flew south and turned back. Refused to land in Gaedrix’s old territory.”

Then came softer steps. Young Nyx, barefoot and breathless, ran across the ash-warmed floor of the kitchen hall.

“Uncle Solaris!” he grinned, waving a carved wolf bone. “Father says you can visit him. No chains. No guards. Just you. He said it’d be good to see you without your collar.”

Solaris froze. Slowly, he turned — not to the boy, but to the collar hanging near the forge. Empty. Cold.

“Why now?” he asked, kneeling.

Nyx beamed. “He says the laws are wrong. That you helped him remember who he was. That it’s time to make them right.”

The fire cracked behind him. Solaris closed his eyes.

Later that dusk, in the central hall of Emberhelm, Taranis stood before his people — not in war-gear, but in storm-black robes, his sword sheathed at his back, Morrigan and Boldolph flanking him like ghosts.

A hush fell.

Then he spoke.

“I was cast out as a child chained not by iron, but by fear. I lived. I burned. I changed.

So hear me now.

From this day onward, Stormborne law changes:

First crime: a warning, carved in cairnstone.
Second: servitude, no longer than a season’s moon.
Third: magical judgment the storm or the shadow will decide.
No child shall ever be born in chains.
Dragons will not fly over lands where children are enslaved.
All who labor shall eat. None shall go hungry.
The broken, the maimed, the soul-wounded they will have a place.
We are not the Clawclan.
We are Stormborne.
The fire will not consume us. It will make us whole.”

Lore lit the cairnstones behind him. Solaris stepped forward and cast his collar into the flame. Pendragon circled overhead.

Taranis met his gaze with quiet steel.

“You are no longer mine,” he said. “But you are still my kin.”

Solaris bowed low, not as slave but as Flamekeeper.

And above them, the wolves howled, and the fire did not flicker.

Taranis turned to Morrigan and Boldolph, who stood unmoving beneath the runestone arch. A chant had begun low in their throats a strange, old language from before the cairns were raised.

“That is, if you’ll stay, Solaris?” Taranis asked quietly.

Then to the wolves:

“Boldolph. Morrigan. You’ll be free of this too. The curse ends with fire and brotherhood. You’ll walk again in human form.”

The chant rose.

The fire roared.

And somewhere in the high wind above Emberhelm, the storm broke not in rage, but in light.

July 6, 2025
Tale of Two Dragons

The batte for Stormborne.

Map of Stormborne

The sky over Rykar’s Ridge cracked with a sound like splitting stone.

Pendragon rose first wings stretched wide. Vast as storm sails, his bronze and emerald scales catching the last light of day. He circled high above the valley, a gleaming sovereign watching the armies assemble below.

To the west, the last kin of Stormborne gathered. Taranis stood at the forefront, grey-eyed and grave, flanked by Lore and Drax. The ground at their backs was scorched from the fire of prophecy.

To the east, under curling black clouds, came the dragon of thunder Tairneanach, black as midnight and crowned with sparks. Lightning licked his flanks. His eyes were coals, ancient and furious.

He was the dragon of reckoning, storm-forged and prophecy-bound, the one who watched from the shadows of time.

But this was no duel between beasts alone.

It was the end of an age. And dragons, it was said, chose sides not by blood — but by truth.

Taranis looked to the sky. “They’ve returned,” he said softly.

Drax scoffed. “Or come to see who burns first.”

“Dragons don’t come for sport,” Lore murmured, hand resting on the carved staff of flamewood. “They come when destiny wavers.”

The wind shifted.

Down came Pendragon, his great claws curling into the soil beside Taranis. His gaze fell on the young warlord no longer the exiled child of the woods. But a leader draped in fire-scars and ash-braided hair. Pendragon gave a low, resonant growl. Not a threat. A vow.

And across the field, Tairneanach descended like a storm himself, cracking trees and stone beneath his wingspan. His breath steamed in the air heavy with ozone. Thunder rolled in his chest.

They faced each other now: two titans born before men stood upright. Two dragons of the Stormborne prophecy.

The wind stilled.

And in that silence, Morrigan lifted her howl to the sky a signal from the ridge behind. Boldolph stood beside her in wolfman form, snarling low.

The Clawclan were moving.

“DRAX!” Taranis barked. “Hold the eastern rise!”

Drax nodded, slamming his axe against his shield. “With pleasure.”

“LORE!” he turned, voice like thunder. “Prepare the flame line. If the dragons fall—”

“They won’t,” Lore cut in, eyes glowing faintly. “But I’ll be ready.”

The Clawclan came screaming from the ridge like hornets. Painted in black and red, bone charms rattling, fire arrows loosed high. The first line met Drax’s warriors in a clash of metal, blood, and grit.

Behind them, the Stormborne shield-wall held fast. But the pressure built like a coming flood.

Pendragon roared, rearing high. With one beat of his wings, he swept fire over the Clawclan’s flank .flames so hot they melted shields anoʻd seared the earth itself. Men screamed, scattered, and fell.

But then, a second roar answered.

Tairneanach unleashed his storm.

Lightning struck the centre of the field, ripping through both earth and sky. The power coursed through bones, hearts, even memory. Clawclan warriors staggered but so did some of Stormborne’s own.

The dragons circled each other, neither striking first.

Not yet.

Amid the chaos, a boy barely of age charged toward Taranis blade too large for his arms. Face painted in fear and madness.

Taranis met him not with fury, but with mercy.

He turned the blade aside, struck the hilt, and knocked the boy unconscious.

“There’s no glory in slaying the broken,” he muttered.

A moment later, Boldolph leapt past him slamming into a Clawclan berserker with enough force to crack ribs. Morrigan followed, her white fur streaked with blood and soot, her teeth finding the throat of another.

Still the dragons circled.

Still the battle burned.

And then..

Pendragon dipped low. Not toward Tairneanach, but toward the battlefield.

A new force had emerged from the mists a second wave of Clawclan. armed with net-traps and dragon-piercing spears forged from meteoric ore.

“Cowards,” Lore hissed. “They seek to slay the sacred.”

Tairneanach landed with a thunderous quake.

He did not aid the Clawclan.

He turned against them.

His tail swept wide, sending a dozen spearmen flying. His mouth opened — but instead of lightning, he loosed a scream of pure rage.

Pendragon landed beside him, and for a moment. the two dragons stood back to back defending not sides, but something older.

Stormborne.
Balance.
Prophecy.

The brothers saw it too.

Taranis, Lore, Drax covered in blood and smoke turned toward the dragons now defending their people.

And Taranis whispered, “It was never a battle between them.”

“No,” said Lore. “It’s a battle for us.”

“For Stormborne,” Drax added, gripping his weapon.

Tairneanach raised his head, and with a final, sky-splitting roar, flew straight into the blackened clouds above. Pendragon followed, spiralling upward.

Together, they vanished into the storm.

And on the ridge below, the Stormborne warriors stood not victorious, but awakened.

The sky split again.

This time, it was not Tairneanach who screamed across the clouds, but Pendragon, rising high and circling above the valley. Beneath him, the Black Clawclan surged ahead like a tide of locusts. War cries rang out. Spears glinted. Shields slammed together in rhythm.

But at the front of the Stormborne line stood Taranis unmoved, massive, his blade held sideways like it weighed nothing.

Beside him, Boldolph roared half-man, half-wolf, his red eyes glowing. He slammed the butt of his axe into the ground and bared his teeth.

Behind them, Lore raised his staff. “Now!” he cried.

The runes carved into the ancient stones shimmered. The hill beneath the enemy’s feet cracked as though the land itself rejected their presence.

Drax, bloodied from an earlier clash, stood on a higher ridge, calling the warriors into formation. “Spears up! Hold the line! If we fall today, the fire dies with us!”

The dragons descended.

Pendragon spiralled downward, a comet of colour and fury. He opened his mouth and from it came not just fire, but a heat so intense it twisted the air. The Clawclan’s front ranks scattered as tents and timber exploded into flame.

From the west, Tairneanach swooped low and screamed. a bolt of lightning leapt from his jaws and struck the enemy catapult, reducing it to smouldering splinters.

“DRAGONS!” a terrified voice cried. “The legends were true!”

The battlefield was chaos.

Taranis leapt into the fray, his sword catching fire as Pendragon soared above. With every swing, a foe fell not just cut down, but shattered. It was as if the storm had learned to walk.

Boldolph tore through the lines like a shadow of vengeance. He moved low and fast, clawing one man across the chest. Slamming another with his shoulder so hard the man flew ten feet.

The brothers fought in unison, their bond forged through exile and pain.

Lore, standing at the sacred cairn, whispered ancient words. Roots erupted from the ground, tangling the Clawclan’s feet. A tree burst through the soil like a spear, skewering a line of advancing warriors.

Still they came.

From the far end of the field rode their leader a brute named Gaedrix. cloaked in bone armour and wielding twin axes carved from dragon tooth.

He bellowed a challenge.

Taranis turned. His sword burned brighter. “This ends now.”

They met in the centre of the field the High Warlord and the Bone King.

Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The ground cracked beneath their boots. Gaedrix struck wild, savage, unrelenting. But Taranis moved like wind and thunder blocking, dodging, answering with devastating power.

One swing he broke Gaedrix’s left axe.

Another he knocked the warlord to one knee.

The Bone King snarled, blood spraying from his lips. “You should’ve stayed dead, Stormborne.”

Taranis drove his blade into the ground beside him, stepped forward, and cracked Gaedrix across the jaw with his gauntlet.

“I don’t die,” he said.

Then, as the dragons roared overhead and the warriors of Stormborne shouted in unison. Taranis lifted Gaedrix above his head and hurled him toward the burning ridge.

He never rose again.

Silence swept the field.

The remaining Black Claw warriors, seeing their leader defeated, dropped their weapons. Some fled. Others dropped to their knees.

The sky cleared.

Pendragon circled once before landing beside Taranis. The great beast bowed his head, his flank marked by a shallow gash but his eyes burning bright.

Tairneanach landed beside Boldolph, nudging the wolf-man with a low, throaty growl.

Drax limped forward, laughing through the pain. “You’ve always been dramatic.”

Taranis sheathed his sword and looked around at the wreckage, the blood, the fire.

“We were born of storm,” he said. “But we survive through each other.”

Lore joined them, hand resting on the cairn stone. “The old ways live.”

From the cliffs above, children and elders peeked out watching, hoping.

Taranis turned and called, “We are Stormborne! This is your land. Your fire. Your home!”

Cheers broke like thunder across the valley.

Boldolph threw his head back and howled. Morrigan’s answering cry echoed from the woods. The wolves had returned.

Above them, the two dragons fire and storm crossed paths in the sky.

A new age had begun. The prophesy come true. Tairneanach landed near Taranis allowing Taranis to climb his back.

“I’m not the ball I’m the dragon rider ” Taranis smirked chuckling as he swooped up into the sky.

Thank you for reading.

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

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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

A Journey Through My Poetic Collection

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

The Chronicles of Drax

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

July 5, 2025
Whimsical Dragon Adventures: A Bronze-Age Tale

A vibrant illustration of a dragon, embodying the whimsical spirit of the story ‘A Ballad of Bronze-Age Bouncing’.

(A Ballad of Bronze-Age Bouncing)

The dragon smirked and gave a wink,
Then launched him skyward in a blink.
A loop-de-loop, a spiral twirl
Drax flailed like a dizzy girl.

“I’ve got this!” he cried, “I’m born to fly!”
Pendragon laughed and rolled the sky.
Down he tumbled, flapping fast
Till Tairneanach caught him at last.

Oh mighty Drax, with sword so wide,
Declared, “It’s time for me to ride!”
He climbed Pendragon’s scaly back,
And shouted loud, “Let’s hit the track!”

The dragons chuckled, playing catch,
With Drax the ball in every match.
He swore and shouted, “Put me down!”
While Taranis watched with half a frown.

“Next time,” said Lore with knowing grin,
“Just stick to marching less of a spin.”
But Drax just grinned and gave a cheer,
“Best flight I’ve had all flaming year!

A colorful thank you note encouraging readers to engage with the content.

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
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
The Wrath of Stormborne: A Quest for Honor

They came in mist, in blood-wrought rage,
Across the vale, like beasts uncaged.
But we stood where thunder walked,
Where dragons soared,

and stormwinds talked.

My blade was not of iron born,
But forged in exile, grief, and scorn.
Each swing a vow, each cry a flame,
Each drop of blood a brother’s name.

The wolves ran silent, swift, and black,
With fire and frost upon their track.
Boldolph’s howl split sky from bone,
While Morrigan’s eyes turned hearts to stone.

And high above, the storm unfurled,
Two dragons circled round the world.
Pendragon roared with fire’s breath,
While Tairneanach sang deathless death.

Lore called the old names from the flame,
And Drax, my blood, carved through the shame.

Together we storm’s chosen three
Unleashed the wrath no foe flee.

Yet still I asked, mid blade and cry,
“Must kin be lost so we rise?”
But fate gave silence, not reply
And storms don’t pause to question why.

Now all is still. The earth, it weeps.
Our fallen sleep in warrior’s sleep.
The skies remember what we gave.
The Stormborne rose and stormed the grave.

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

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