Taranis: Gaulish God of Thunder and the Ritual Wheel
The old stories speak of a power that moved across the sky long before its name was shaped into sound. Travelers said the force carried a wh...
The old stories speak of a power that moved across the sky long before its name was shaped into sound. Travelers said the force carried a wh...
A shoreline dark with evening mist, the ocean holding a quiet glow beneath a moon rising silver and calm—one could imagine a rider emerging ...
There are figures in Irish storytelling who seem to rise from the tide itself, shaped not by the firmness of soil but by the shifting pull o...
The forge glows deep in the quiet of the Otherworld, where hammer strikes fall like distant thunder across green hills and ancient barrows. ...
Beneath the veiled hills and misty rivers of ancient Ireland, whispers spoke of a presence unlike any other. Not a warrior, nor a king, yet ...
Mist clings to the rolling hills of Wales as a shadow glides silently across the landscape, its presence both captivating and mysterious. Fe...
The night sky in Celtic tradition was not silent or distant. It moved, turned, and shifted like a vast wheel above the world, a motion watch...
In the quiet hours before dawn, when mist clung to riverbanks and forests whispered with unseen life, a single flame could chase away the sh...
Shadows gather over a landscape once shaped by marching warriors, where the air carried more than the clash of weapons. Stories whispered of...
Night settles over a quiet plain, and the sky feels as though it watches with the same silent judgment that once weighed on kings, warriors,...
In the quiet corners of ancient stables and along winding roads of Gaul, travelers once whispered of a presence that watched over every hoof...
There are names in ancient tradition that do not simply sit on the throne of memory but continue walking through stories as if they never le...
In the shadowed depths of ancient forests, where the trees form a cathedral of green and the wind carries whispers older than human memory, ...
Night after night, the western sea carried its own voice—soft at times, roaring at others—yet always alive, as though something beneath the ...
The mist drifts low over the ancient Irish plains, and somewhere beyond the trees, a shadow moves with intent yet unseen. Travelers speak of...
In the shadowed valleys and mist-laden hills of ancient Ireland, there was a presence that could not be ignored—a figure whose skill and cou...
A faint glow lingers on the horizon as winter loosens its grip over the Irish hills. In the quiet of hearths and forges, a presence stirs—a ...
In the shadowed ridges of Anatolia’s ancient mountains, a presence moves silently among the trees, unseen yet profoundly influential. Whispe...