StormborneLore

Tag: warrior poet

  • The Black Shield Rides

    The Black Shield Rides

    Where the moon hides his face
    and the wind smells of rain,
    rides the man with no name
    on the blood-dark plain.

    No banner he bears,
    no kin’s colours to show,
    yet the fire in his eyes
    makes the battle-wolves know.

    He strikes in the fords,
    and the rivers run red,
    he burns the long spears
    where the warriors bled.

    The ships in the harbour
    find flame in the tide,
    and the gates of Dun Rath
    stand broken and wide.

    By feast hall or fort,
    none escape from his hand,
    for the Black Shield rides
    where the outlaws stand.

    Ask not his name,
    nor the oath he has sworn,
    for the storm takes the rider
    and leaves only the morn.

    © 2025 StormborneLore – From the Bardic Archives of Caernath

  • The Bard’s Warning

    The Bard’s Warning

    Hear me, hearth-folk and warriors,
    for I speak of the High Warlord who walks the storm.
    His name is Taranis Stormborne,
    breaker of oaths, rider of wolves
    whose eyes burn like embers.

    He has raided the corn
    from the winter barns,
    struck down chiefs
    beneath the peace banner,
    and set fire to groves where the gods were honoured.

    The druids name him outlaw;
    the kings demand his head on a spear.
    Yet the warbands whisper,
    his name in the night,
    and some would follow him,
    even into the jaws of death.

    If his banner rises in your valley,
    bar your gates and guard your herds,
    for where the Stormborne passes,
    the thunder will follow and the land will not rest.

  • Nature and Memory: A Reflection in Poetry

    Nature and Memory: A Reflection in Poetry

    A Poem by Taranis Stormborne

    Four painted stones displayed on a black surface, each featuring different colorful designs.
    Colorfully painted stones representing various landscapes, reflecting themes of nature and memory.


    They carved the stone while I still breathed,

    The blood not dried on mother’s brow.
    My name was spoken not with love,
    But like a curse the tribe would disavow.

    The fire crackled but not for me,
    No meat passed down by elder’s hand.
    I watched the smoke rise like a ghost
    Above a world I’d never understand.

    Their eyes were flint.

    Their backs like stone.
    My brothers looked, then looked away.
    I was not child. I was not kin.
    I was the price they chose to pay.

    I walked into the weeping trees,
    Each branch a wound I could not see.
    The ground did not resist my weight.
    The wilds at last remembered me.

    A boy of eight. A heart struck down.
    But storms remember where they’re born.


    The silence wrapped around my bones.
    And made me something more than scorn.

    They taught me I was less than breath,
    But wind and wolf still knew my name.
    The rain did not deny my steps.
    The storm would never speak of shame.


    Have you ever felt cast out not in body, but in soul?
    Share your thoughts. The fire still burns, and there’s room beside it.

    Thank you for walking this path through exile and memory with us.

    © written and created by ELHewitt