The Fianna Chronicles: A Series of Flame and Memory
In Awakening, the Fianna rise.
Choose your path: Read the prologue, claim the Medallion, or begin the journey.
First Edition Bonus: Each physical copy comes with a collectible Lore Card—signed, numbered, and bound to the Medallion’s legend.
The Ever-Weaver’s Archive
Artifacts, scrolls, and songs from the world of the Fianna.
Welcome, seeker of stories.
You have crossed into the shadow of the Archive—a place where whispers linger in parchment, and runes remember the names long sung beneath starlight. Here, the lore of the Fianna lives on: their trials, their triumphs, and their truths.
Curated by Lirian, Ever-Weaver of Mórradún, this collection is no mere merchant stall. It is a vault of legend, a keeper of echoes. Every tome, every card, every gift offered here is a fragment of the greater song.
They say the stone remembers what the stars forget—etched by the First Keepers, it hums still with the breath of ancient power.
The Echoes of Mórradún
“What was spoken once in shadow may yet be heard in the hush between worlds.”
What you will find within:
- The Fianna Chronicles: Awakening (Digital & Print Editions)
- Illustrated Lore Cards (Limited Lore Edition, Serial Sealed) (coming soon)
- Collector’s Scrolls and Digital Codices (coming soon)
- Audiobook Relics (coming soon)
- Secret paths to coming prophecies (future releases)
Each item bears the mark of authenticity—a seal of the Archive, bound by word and memory.
So step lightly, dear reader. And linger long. For legend has made its home here—and perhaps, if you listen closely, you will hear your name written in its pages.
May your hands be steady, and your heart tuned to song.
—Lirian, Ever-Weaver
Chronicler of Mórradún
The Fianna Chronicles: Awakening
by J.F. Hopper
Prologue
(by Lirian, the Ever-Weaver, Chronicler of Mórradún)
Listen well, wanderer, for the winds have shifted and the old songs stir once more.
Long ago, the Fianna stood as a shield against the dark, their names carried in the breath of the world, their deeds woven into the marrow of the land. But time is a cruel river, washing away even the mightiest of legends, leaving behind only whispers in the stone, echoes in the trees, and the memory of warriors whose blades have long since rusted into dust.
It was said they would rise again, that the embers of their order would smolder beneath the weight of ages, waiting for the moment when darkness dared once more to unfurl its hand across the world.
And now, the hour is come.
The Medallion has awakened.
A name has been spoken into the void, the first note of a song not yet sung. Aisling of Branwyll, bound by fate, walks the path unknowingly tread before her. She is not the first, nor shall she be the last. The weight of the past presses upon her shoulders, and the road before her is shadowed with peril.
But listen, and listen well—this is not her story alone.
For no legend is shaped by a single hand, no war waged by a lone warrior, no fate decided in isolation. The threads are many, the strands interwoven. The Fianna rise not as one, but as a chorus—a song of blood and steel, of faith and fire. And already, the deceiver stirs, whispering in voices only the lost can hear.
You stand at the edge of the tale, where the past and the future converge. Step forward, if you dare. The story has begun, and the quill is set to parchment.
And I—I am but the one who writes.
(And so the Awakening begins…)
Chapter 1: Whispers in the Mist
Mórradún lay beneath a thick shroud of mist, its emerald forests stretching endlessly like a vast sea beneath a sky heavy with storm-worn clouds. At its heart stood Branwyll, a village carved from the land itself, its cottages nestled deep within the ancient embrace of Elderglen Forest.
The trees, their gnarled branches like grasping fingers, loomed over the narrow paths, casting shifting shadows that breathed with intent. Tonight, the air was unnervingly still. No rustling leaves. No distant calls of night birds. Only silence.
Branwyll had lived in harmony with the land for as long as memory served, but that fragile balance was unraveling. The winds carried the acrid scent of ash, crops withered inexplicably, and animals sickened without cause. Eerie lights flickered in the skies at night, and hunters whispered of paths that twisted against them. Livestock vanished, only for their remains to be found in unnatural patterns. Families barred their doors at dusk, whispering prayers to forgotten gods. Fear had settled upon the village like an unshakable fog.
The villagers gathered beneath flickering torchlight, their hushed murmurs laced with unease. Smoke curled from lanterns, trailing toward the sky like silent prayers. The whispers had spread quickly—stories of vanishing hunters, shifting forest paths, shadows at the edge of the moors.
In the village square, a crowd gathered under the sullen glow of lanterns. The air was thick with unease as Grannoc, a staunch believer in the old gods of Mórradún, addressed the crowd. His voice, once commanding, now trembled with dread. “The shadows stir in the east,” he warned. “Entire hamlets vanish overnight. The King’s guard, sent to investigate, return broken—if they return at all.”
Ewan, an older woodsman, stepped forward, his lined face grim. “Even the forest has turned against us. Paths shift, the trees whisper, and something watches from the darkness.”
Among the younger villagers, Ailill scoffed. “These are the ramblings of frightened old men. The old gods are myths. This blight is no divine punishment; it’s the greed of the nobles. Their neglect has poisoned the land.”
Tension rippled through the crowd, divided between superstition and reason, faith and doubt.
At the center of the debate stood Eryndor, the village elder. His tall, stooped frame was cloaked in a robe of coarse wool dyed in earthy greens and browns. Piercing storm-gray eyes scanned the anxious faces before him. He clutched a parchment the king’s messenger delivered, its brittle edges trembling.
“Silence,” Eryndor’s voice rang out, firm despite its weariness. “This is no time for division. Something ancient has awoken, and we must prepare.”
His words carried a gravity that stilled the crowd, but unease lingered.
“Will the Fianna return?” a voice hesitated, laced with uncertainty. A young woman stepped forward, her eyes wide with fear. “They’ve come before in times of great need.”
Eryndor hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the darkened woods. Before he could respond, Daith, the bard, began to sing the Song of the Fianna. An ancient battle hymn of the Fianna, sung in times of great need. It is said to awaken the spirits of warriors past and summon the courage of the living. His voice, weathered but resonant, filled the square:
***
The Song of the Fianna
Chorus:
Rise, O Fianna, fierce and true,
From forest deep and river’s blue.
Awaken now, our ancient kin,
For Mórradún calls from deep within.
Verse I:
Born of earth, fire, wind, and sea,
Bound by oath to keep us free.
Through endless strife and grim battles,
They forged their bond; they followed Him.
Verse II:
Where shadows stretch, and whispers grow,
And stars keep watch o’er fields below,
The Fianna stand, both flame and stone,
Guardians are sworn to shield their own.
Verse III:
But darkness stirs, the spirits fade,
The oath, once sworn, must be obeyed.
From the mountain’s peak to the ocean’s roar,
The Fianna’s might shall rise once more.
Final Chorus:
So rise, O Fianna, take your blade,
For the hour is nigh, the debt unpaid.
In forest glades and skies of grey,
Mórradún calls—none shall delay.
Join the Ever-Weaver’s Circle
Where memory fades, the story endures.
The ledger opens only to those who listen closely.
By joining, you’ll receive:
• 🔮 Lore cards & character glimpses – before they’re sung aloud
• 📜 Secret chapters whispered from the scrolls of Mórradún
• 🌲 Behind-the-scenes worldbuilding from the edge of legend
• 🕯️ First word on releases, lore drops & collector relics
The tale waits only for your hand to turn its next page…
Let the Medallion Remember Your Name
(Be written into the tale before the world remembers it.)
If your heart is not yet quiet, and the winds of the tale still call—
📜 Step into the Ever-Weaver’s Ledger
🔗 Read the Prologue and Chapter One
Let the parchment speak. The story begins with a whisper, and it waits for your eyes to give it breath.
