StormborneLore

Category: Ancient Britain

  • Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts.

    Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts.

    They called him traitor, but Rayne no longer heard the living. As he listened to the stones instead. Each night he carved runes along the riverbanks shapes of storm and warding, the language of his dreams.

    The air thickened with whispers when he worked, low voices that hummed like thunder beneath the earth.Sometimes he saw faces in the mist, men long dead still bearing the mark of the ring.

    He never ran from them. They were his only kin now. When the first Saxon ships came gliding through the dawn fog, he was already waiting, knife in hand, carving one last rune a warning, or a welcome.

    This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.

    to read the full story :

    The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

  • Draven The Quiet Road

    Draven The Quiet Road

    Draven had left the fight behind or so he told himself.

    He walked the Roman road south, its stones cracked, grass grown thick between them. Every milestone he passed bore scratches the Storm-ring carved into the stone by unseen hands.He carried grain, not a sword, now.

    Yet the silence unnerved him.No birds sang. Only the hiss of wind through abandoned villas. When he reached the crossroads, he saw a figure ahead cloaked, unmoving. He called out.

    The figure didn’t answer, and when he drew closer, there was nothing there. Only a carved mask nailed to a post, grinning red beneath the twilight.This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.”⚡

    The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

  • Lore The Flame Beneath the Chase.

    Lore The Flame Beneath the Chase.

    Lore knelt before the cairn fire.The caves hummed with old power the breath of ancestors, the drip of unseen water.

    He wrote by flame-light, ink made from soot and oak sap, each word a prayer that the world would not forget itself.

    Above, the forest moaned as wind wound through hollow trees.He could feel the weight of those watching not hostile, but hungry for remembrance.

    When the candle flickered, it cast shadows that moved on their own.Lore did not flinch. “Guard them,” he murmured, “even when they forget our names.

    ”This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.”🛡️

    The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

  • Taranis The Black Shield’s Oath

    Taranis The Black Shield’s Oath

    The wind on the Chase carried voices again not of men, but the echoes of those buried beneath the hills.


    Taranis sat by the fire, sharpening his blade as the Black Shields slept around him.


    He no longer knew if they were fighting for Britain, or for ghosts.
    The Picts came by night, howling through the fog.


    When the first fell, Taranis felt nothing only the land moving beneath his feet, as if the soil itself had taken breath.
    He whispered a vow into the dark:
    We guard what Rome forgot. We guard the living and the dead.


    Somewhere in the mist, the old gods listened.

    This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.”

    To read the full story:

    The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

  • The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

    The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

    Interlude

    The banners of Rome had fallen long ago, but Drax still rode as if the legions would return. The road through Pennocrucium was broken now, weeds spilling through the cracks where once the eagles marched. His armour no longer shone, the crimson cloak dulled by weather and war. Yet he wore it still not for pride, but remembrance.

    He had buried too many men to abandon the law.

    To the north, word spread of ships black-prowed, heavy with warriors from across the sea. To the west, the Picts pressed down through mist and mountain. Between them, the land lay hollow, ruled by whoever still raise a blade.

    From the shadows of the trees, smoke curled not of hearths, but of hidden fires. The Black Shields were at work again.

    Drax halted his horse beside the stream. In the rippling reflection he saw a face harder than he remembered. The boy who had once followed Rome’s banners now hunted ghosts of his own blood.

    “Brother,” came a voice from the treeline.

    Taranis stepped out, cloak blackened, a scar like thunder down his cheek. His men lingered behind him, masked in soot and ash. Outlaws. Rebels. To the poor, heroes.

    “The Picts strike from the north,” Drax said, hand on his sword. “You have joined me in holding the border.”

    “I hold what matters,” Taranis answered. “The people. The fields Rome left to burn. You guard ruins, Drax I guard the living.”

    For a heartbeat, silence two worlds staring across a stream. Then the sound of hooves echoed through the trees.

    Draven rode between them, shaking his head. “Enough. We’ve bled too long for banners that mean nothing.” He threw down a pouch of grain. “There’s famine in the villages. We fight each other while children starve.”

    From deeper in the wood, Lore watched through drifting smoke. In the caves beneath Cannock Chase he had tended the cairns of their ancestors. Lore kept the fire burning through the endless grey. He whispered to the flame: keep them, all of them, even when they forget the old names.

    And Rayne, ever the exile, carved symbols into the stones near the water’s edge runes of storm and warning. Ships will come. The sea brings change.

    That night, as the brothers parted beneath a blood-red sky, the wind carried the faintest sound not thunder, but the creak of oars. Far beyond the estuary, lights moved upon the water.

    The first of the Saxons had come.

    And in the hollow of Britain’s heart, the Stormborne name still burned

    Copyright Note

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

    Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:
    [Lore – The Flame Beneath the Chase]
    [Draven – The Quiet Road]
    [Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts]
    [Taranis – The Black Shield’s Oath]

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    Futher Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    Chronicles of Draven

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

  • Drax Stormborne: The Night of Hollow Fires

    Drax Stormborne: The Night of Hollow Fires

    Pennocrucium was dying.The fort that once rang with steel and Latin orders now lay quiet under a bruised evening sky. The last of the Roman banners hung in the wet like torn skin. The gold stitching dull and heavy with rain.

    Fires in the watchtowers had burned down to ash. Barracks stood open. Doors unbarred.No sentries.No horn.No empire.Drax stood in the centre of the courtyard, gloved hands behind his back, cloak dark with rain.

    He could still see where the eagle standard had stood, planted in the earth like a promise. He had bled beneath that symbol. Killed beneath it. Buried men beneath it.

    Defended it long after others began to whisper that Rome no longer had the strength to defend itself.Now the standard lay in the mud.He let out a slow breath.

    “This is how it ends,” he said quietly. “Not with fire. With retreat.”A few of his men were still with him. Not many. Veterans. The ones too loyal or too stubborn to walk away until ordered.

    “Praefect,” Maren said, stepping to his side. Rain had plastered the boy’s hair to his face, and his jaw worked the way it always did . When he was circling fear and pretending not to feel it. “The last wagons are packed. They’re taking the southern road to Viroconium before dark.”

    “Good,” Drax said. His voice stayed even. He didn’t look at his son. “They’ll be safer south.”Maren hesitated.

    “What about us? Us.Not the cohort. Not the banner. Us.” Drax let the word settle in his chest.

    “We’re not going south,” he said.Maren swallowed.

    “Are we going after them?”

    “No,” Drax said. “We’re going home.”The boy didn’t answer, but he understood. Drax saw it in the way the tension left his shoulders and something else took its place.

    Not ease. Something older. Something like hunger.Thunder rolled low over the Chase.Beyond the walls, the land lay open and dark. The tree line a ragged edge against a sky. That hadn’t decided yet if it meant to rain or break clear. Mist gathered low over the fields in pale bands.

    The air smelled of smoke from scattered farmsteads and peat fires. The smoke that drifted up on this night, every year, since before Rome ever named this place.

    Spirit night.Nos Galan Gaeaf.The first night of winter. Drax looked north, toward the low hills and the mist and the deep-breathing dark of the land that raised him.

    “Home,” he said.Then he walked into the new winter.

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this work is prohibited.

    To read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

  • Celebrating Calan Gaeaf: A Nod to Welsh Heritage

    Celebrating Calan Gaeaf: A Nod to Welsh Heritage


    As I mentioned yesterday, much of what is now England. Was once Welsh land so as part of today’s celebrations,. I give a small nod to my Welsh roots and the history that shaped these lands.


    I’d like to wish everyone a Calan Gaeaf hapus, also known as a Happy First Day of Winter!


    To many Christians, it’s celebrated as All Saints’ Day. But whatever name you know it by,. Take a moment to enjoy the turning of the season and stay safe as winter begins.

  • Taranis Stormborne: The Storm’s Farewell By E. L. Hewitt

    Taranis Stormborne: The Storm’s Farewell By E. L. Hewitt

    The rain had eased by morning, though the ground still steamed where the storm had passed.

    The Mist clung to the Chase like breath, thick and cold, rolling through the hollows where the Romans once marched proud. Taranis stood by the broken road, cloak heavy with water, hair plastered to his brow.

    He could still see the ruts of cart wheels half-buried in mud Rome’s mark, carved deep into the land.

    “Won’t last,” he muttered, toeing one of the stones. “Nowt they build ever does.”Byrin came up behind, shoulders hunched against the chill.

    “They’ve gone, lord. Last cohort took the south road yestere’en. Fort’s empty now.”Taranis grinned, the kind of grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

    “Aye, I know. Felt it in the wind. Empire’s breath cut short.”He knelt, pulling a scrap of bread from his pouch, laying it on the old stone. Where once the eagle banners stood. Then he poured a splash of mead beside it.

    “For them as fought, an’ them as fell,” he said quiet-like.

    “An’ for the land, what outlives us all.”Byrin shifted his weight.

    “Spirit night, innit? Galan Gaeaf, like th’owd folk say. When t’dead walk an’ th’winds carry their names.”Taranis nodded, eyes on the fire they’d lit a low orange glow crackling through damp wood.

    “Aye. Let ’em walk. Let ’em see what’s come o’ Rome. Maybe they’ll find peace in the storm’s breath.”One by one, the men came forward, tossing bits of bread, small charms, even blades into the flames.

    Their offerings for their kin, for luck, for the year turning.

    “Break the road,” Taranis said after a time. “Let the dead cross free. Rome’s way ends here.”The sound of stone splitting echoed through the trees like thunder.

    Byrin wiped sweat from his brow. “Yow reckon we’ll be free now, lord?”

    Taranis looked north, where the sky lightened just enough to show the edge of winter coming.

    Free?” he said, voice low. “No mon’s ever free o’ summat storm, king, or ghost. But th’land’ll be ours again, leastways till next lot fancies it.” He turned toward the fire once more.

    The wind caught it, scattering sparks into the mist like stars. Somewhere, a raven called deep and hollow. Taranis lifted his blade, resting it against his shoulder.

    “Come on,” he said. “Let’s feed the fire one last time, then go. Night’s drawin’ in, an’ spirits’ll be walkin’ soon.”Behind ’em, the last stretch of Roman stone cracked under hammer blows.

    As steam was rising from the breaks like breath from a wounded beast.Taranis didn’t look back. He just walked, slow and steady, into the mist where thunder rolled soft and low, like the old gods stirrin’ in their sleep.

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    To read more about Taranis see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Galan Gaeaf Celebrations: History and Superstitions

    Galan Gaeaf Celebrations: History and Superstitions

    Nos Galan Gaeaf Hapus

    During Roman Britain, people celebrated a festival very like Samhain it was called Galan Gaeaf.


    When the Romans invaded England, they began to see its celebrations blend with their own traditions:

    Feralia a Roman festival to honour the dead, sharing the same reverence for ancestors.

    Pomona a Roman celebration for the goddess of fruit and trees. which gave rise to the tradition of bobbing for apples.

    Galan Gaeaf is an Ysbrydnos a spirit night. when the veil between worlds thins and spirits walk the earth.
    The term first appears in literature as Kalan Gayaf. In the laws of Hywel Dda, and is related to Kalan Gwav.


    In Christian tradition, it became All Saints’ Day, but for those who still celebrate Calan Gaeaf. It remains the first day of winter a time of endings, beginnings, and remembrance.

    Let us not forget our past our warriors, our farmers, and the land itself that gives us life.

    Ancient Traditions

    As a harvest festival, farmers would leave a patch of uncut straw. Then race to see who can cut it fastest. The stalks were twisted into a mare, the Caseg Fedi.


    One man would try to sneak it out in his clothes. If successful, he was rewarded; if caught, he was mocked.

    Another tradition, Coelcerth, saw a great fire built. Each person placed a stone marked with their name into the flames. If any name-stone was missing by morning, it was said that person would die within the year.


    Imagine the chill of dawn as people searched the ashes for their stones!

    Then there was the terror of Y Hwch Ddu Gwta. The black sow without a tail and her companion, a headless woman who roamed the countryside. The only safe place on Galan Gaeaf night was by a roaring hearth indoors.

    Superstitions were everywhere:
    Touching or smelling ground ivy was said to make you see witches in your dreams.


    Boys would cut ten ivy leaves, discard one, and sleep with the rest beneath their pillows to glimpse the future.


    Girls grew a rose around a hoop, slipped through it three times. cut the bloom, and placed it under their pillow to dream of their future husband.

    It was also said that if a woman darkened her room on Hallowe’en night and looked into a mirror. Her future husband’s face would behind her.
    But if she saw a skull, it meant she would die before the year’s end.

    In Staffordshire, a local variation involved lighting a bonfire and throwing in white stones . If the stones burned away, it was said to foretell death within a year.

    Food and Feasting

    Food is central to the celebration. While I don’t make the traditional Stwmp Naw Rhyw. a dish of nine vegetables I make my own variation using mixed vegetables and meat.

    There’s little real difference between the Irish Gaelic Samhain and the Welsh Calan Gaeaf.


    Each marks the turn of the year the death of one cycle and the birth of another.


    Over time, every culture left its mark: the Anglo-Saxons with Blōdmonath (“blood month”). Later Christian festivals layered upon the old ones.

    The Borderlands of Cheslyn Hay

    I was born in a small village called Cheslyn Hay, in South Staffordshire. WHhich I think is about five miles from what the Norse called the Danelaw, the frontier lands.


    Before the Romans came, much of Staffordshire and indeed much of England was part of ancient Welsh territory.
    Though little is known of this period, imagination helps fill the gaps between the facts.

    The Danelaw was established after the Treaty of Wedmore (878 CE). Between King Alfred of Wessex and the Viking leader Guthrum.

    It divided England roughly from London northwards, trailing the Thames, through Bedfordshire, along Watling Street (A5), and up toward Chester.

    Watling Street the old Roman road that passes through Wall (near Lichfield). Gailey was often described as the de facto border between Mercia (to the west) and the Danelaw (to the east).

    Cheslyn Hay lies just west of Watling Street, near Cannock and Walsall. Placing it right on the edge of Mercian territory within sight of Danelaw lands.
    Because of that proximity, the area would have been influenced by both sides.


    Norse trade routes and settlers passed nearby, along Watling Street and the River Trent.


    Villages like Wyrley, Penkridge, and Landywood show both Old English and Celtic/Norse roots.

    It’s easy to imagine that my ancestors have traded or farmed alongside Norse settlers. after all, many Vikings were farmers too.


    Part of my family came from Compton and Tettenhall Wood. Where a local battle is still spoken of today; the other side from Walsall.


    Archaeological finds near Stafford and Lichfield suggest Viking artefacts and burial mounds, linking the landscape to that history.

    So while Cheslyn Hay wasn’t technically within the Danelaw. It stood upon the Mercian frontier what I like to call “the Border of the Ring” . where Saxon, Norse, and Brythonic traditions once met and mingled.

    My Celebration Tonight

    As I live in a flat, I’ll light a single candle instead of a bonfire. Cook a small feast vegetables and pork with a potato topping.


    For pudding, I’ll have blueberries, strawberries, and banana with an oat topping and warm custard.


    I’ll raise a glass to my ancestors and set a place at the table for any who wish to join.

    Thank you for reading.
    Nos Galan Gaeaf Hapus

  • Taranis Stormborne: The Gathering Storm

    Taranis Stormborne: The Gathering Storm

    The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. It came in thin veils that clung to the heather and the men’s cloaks. whispering through the birch like ghosts that had never left the Chase.

    Taranis knelt by the dying fire, sharpening the edge of his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Each scrape of the stone was a prayer, though no priest would have known the words.

    “Water’s risin’, lord,” said Caedric, glancing toward the ford. “River’s near burstin’. We’ll not cross ‘fore dark.”

    Taranis looked up, eyes catching the faint shimmer of dawn through the fog. “Then we hold. The storm waits for no man, but we’ll not feed it needlessly.”

    A murmur ran through the men tired, hungry, but loyal. They’d followed him from the salt marshes to the high woods, and not one had broken yet.

    Byrin crouched beside him, rubbing at the scar along his jaw. “Word from the south. Roman riders out o’ Pennocrucium. A full cohort, maybe more. Marchin’ for the hill road.”

    Taranis’ mouth twitched at the name Pennocrucium,. The Roman word for Penkridge, though no Stormborne had spoken it without spitting since the fort was raised.

    “Let ‘em come,” he said quietly. “They’ll find nowt but mud, ghosts, and trees that whisper their names to the wind.”

    Caedric chuckled darkly. “Aye, an’ if the trees don’t get ‘em, we will.”

    They waited through the day as the rain thickened. Ravens wheeled low over the clearing, black against the iron sky.

    By nightfall, fires burned low and bellies growled. But Taranis was restless the unease that came before the breaking of something old.

    He walked to the ridge alone, where the land dipped toward the flooded ford. The air stank of wet earth and smoke from distant hearths.

    He spoke softly, almost to himself. “Once, this road ran to Rome. Now it runs to ruin.”

    A flash of lightning tore the sky open white veins across black clouds. In its light, he saw them: Roman scouts, three of them, creeping along the far bank, cloaks slick with rain.

    Taranis smiled grimly. “So, the eagle still claws at the storm.”

    By the time the thunder rolled, the first spear had already struck.

    The fight was over quick steel on steel, mud and breath, the hiss of rain on blood.

    When it was done, two Romans lay dead. The third crawling back toward the ford with half a helm and a broken arm.

    Taranis knelt beside him. “Tell your centurion,” he said, voice low, “Pennocrucium belongs to the storm now.”

    He rose, letting the rain wash his hands clean.

    Behind him, Byrin and Caedric watched, silent.

    “Yow reckon they’ll send more, lord?” Byrin asked.

    Taranis turned toward the woods. Where torches burned faint between the trees his men gathering, more arriving from the north and the marshes.

    “Aye,” he said, voice steady. “Let ‘em all come. Rome’ll find no peace ‘ere. Not while the storm still breathes.”

    The thunder rolled again, closer now, echoing through the Chase like an oath renewed. Somewhere in the distance, the old road cracked underfoot stone splitting where the spiral mark had been carved.

    The storm had woken.

    © 2025 E.L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

    Author’s Note:


    This chapter draws from the old Roman site of Pennocrucium (modern Penkridge), a key post along Watling Street. Local dialect echoes through “yow,” “nowt,” “lord” the living voice of the Black Country and Staffordshire’s borderlands. These stories honour the land itself where history and myth still meet in the rain.

    Formorestories on Taranis please see http://The prophecies and tales of Taranis