NAME: Brannic Storm, The Lightning’s Edge
PRONOUNS: He/Him
MAGE CLASS: Voltomancer — Conductor of Lightning and Divine Upheaval
LINEAGE: Elemental → Elemental
SUBTYPE: Loreweavers → Herald
ERA PLACEMENT: Era I — Post-Rift Awakening, ca. 2204–2230
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Born of no womb and claimed by no tribe, Brannic Storm emerged at the eye of the Fifth Skybreak — a celestial rupture that tore open the firmament above the Taerel Expanse in 2204. Witnesses did not speak of his birth, but of his arrival: a biped of crackling arcs, clothed in the living thunder of the Ætherion. He walked from the storm itself, trailing scorched glass in his wake, the wind afraid to touch him.

He is Elemental, yes — but not merely so. Where others of his kind serve the earth’s instincts, Brannic dictates them. He does not flow with the current of raw Aether — he conducts it, reshapes it, lashes it like a divine whip. Though formed of volatile energy, his mind bears structure. Purpose. Anger, honed into law.

Brannic is a Voltomancer, a stormwright whose every breath charges the very air around him. Unlike others who bend nature through chant or relic, he is the conduit. Where he walks, gravity softens. Static follows him like a loyal beast. When his arms rise, clouds break. When his eyes narrow, mountains feel it in their bones. He does not merely manipulate lightning — he is its edge: the briefest flash, the final word before ruin.

He took no name until challenged by the mortal scholar-legion at Caer Vire, where inquisitors of the Archanum attempted to bind him with runes of dominion. Their chains melted before they were uttered. The storm burned blue, then white, then violet. Brannic spoke a single word — his name — and the ground did not recover for years. From that day, "Brannic Storm" was not a name but a warning.

Yet even gods of thunder are haunted by silence.

Beneath his fury lies a flaw not of form but of conscience. Brannic remembers nothing before his emergence — no origin, no progenitor, no shaping will. This absence maddens him. He burns not only with lightning, but with obsession — the need to know why he was made and by whom. His actions sway between divine justice and raw vengeance, as he tears through the remnants of the Rift Age seeking answers even the Architects no longer speak.

He is volatile, reckless, driven by instinct and fury. He does not wait, he does not ask. When slighted, his retribution is cataclysmic. Yet he is also a Herald — a Loreweaver touched by vision — and in his more lucid moments, he writes glyphs of power into the sky with forked lightning, leaving prophecies only other storms can read.

Though feared by cities and worshipped by scattered Stormcult enclaves, Brannic answers to no throne. He is The Lightning’s Edge — the exact moment where wrath becomes form. Not an Avatar, not a Weapon. A message, walking.

He does not come to rule.
He comes to remind the world what fear felt like when it had gods.