Acrylic art piece symbolizing Capricorn, featuring earthy tones and layered designs representing discipline and endurance.
Stormborne Arts Zodiac Series
Steady lines coil upward like rings of stone the mountain and the spirit becoming one.
This piece embodies Capricorn’s strength: discipline, endurance, and the quiet ambition that builds empires grain by grain. The deep browns and greys root the soul in earth, while violet and gold trace the light of purpose that guides each ascent.
Each layer feels like a path carved by time patient, unwavering, eternal.
Medium: Acrylic paint pens on paper Palette: Earth brown, slate grey, violet, gold, rust, pale green
The mists of Cnocc clung low across the fields when Taranis turned north. Rain soaked the cloak across his shoulders, each drop heavy as guilt. Behind him, the standing stones of the old circle faded into grey half memory, half warning.
A handful of men followed, what was left of the Black Shields. Some limped. Some bled quietly into the mud. Yet none complained.
They cut through the marsh track at Landywood, the ground sucking at their boots.
“Bloody mire,” grumbled one of them Caedric, a smith from the Chase. “If Rome don’t catch us, we’ll drown in the bog.”
Taranis gave a faint smile. “Better the bog than their chains. Least the land buries its dead with honour.”
The men laughed, low and rough, their voices carrying through the mist. Overhead, crows turned circles against a sky bruised with stormlight.
By midday, they reached the edge of Cannock Chase. The trees rose dark and close, their branches whispering in the wind.
Here, the old tongue lived still the rustle of leaves. Carried the same sounds as the words once spoken in Mercia before Rome built her roads.
“Best not light a fire,” said another man. “The smoke’ll draw ‘em down Watling Street.”
Taranis shook his head. “The legions keep to stone. They fear what grows wild. That’s our road, not theirs.”
They made camp near the brook, the water brown with silt.
Taranis knelt, washing his hands, watching the red earth swirl away downstream.
He thought of Drax his brother in law and blood. Who wasvstanding in that Roman armour like a stranger wearing their father’s ghost.
“Praefect Drax,” he muttered. “You walk in the eagle’s shadow now. But one day, even eagles fall.”
As the others settled, Taranis sat alone beneath a birch tree. The thunder rolled again to the south, echoing over the hills of Pennocrucium.
He closed his eyes and let the sound find him not as omen, but as promise.
“Let Rome march,” he said softly. “The storm remembers.”
By nightfall, the brook had gone still only the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves broke the quiet.
The Black Shields huddled beneath the birches.Their cloaks steaming faintly where the rain met the last of the day’s warmth.
A small fire burned low, more ember than flame. They sat close to it, speaking little. The world had shrunk to mist and memory.
From the shadows, a young scout pushed through the undergrowth, mud streaking his face.
“Riders,” he whispered, breath sharp with fear. “South o’ Watling Street. Legion banners silver eagle, red field. A dozen strong, maybe more.”
Taranis looked up, his eyes catching what light the fire still gave. “Which way?”
“East,” said the boy. “Toward Pennocrucium.”
That word hung like ash. Rome’s fort Drax’s post.
Caedric spat into the fire. “Then your brother’s hounds are sniffin’ their trail back home.”
“Mind your tongue,” Taranis said, but without heat. “Drax walks a path I wouldn’t, but he walks it for his sons. Rome holds chains tighter than iron.”
The men nodded. They’d all felt those chains some on their wrists, some around their hearts.
The fire popped softly. Rain whispered down through the canopy, finding its way to the coals.
“Shall we move?” asked Caedric. “Not yet.”
Taranis rose, brushing mud from his knees. “If they ride to Pennocrucium, they won’t look for us here. And if Drax stands where I think he does, he’ll turn them aside before dawn.”
He turned his gaze toward the south, where the hills of Cnocc faded into night.
The stormlight there flickered once a pale flash through the clouds.
“See that?” murmured one of the men. “Thunder over Penn. He’s sendin’ you a message, I reckon.”
Taranis smiled faintly. “Aye. Or a warning.”
He knelt by the fire and drew a spiral in the dirt the old mark, the storm’s sign.
“Tomorrow we move north,” he said. “Watling Street’s theirs, but the woods are ours. We’ll strike where the road breaks near the old fort make Rome remember who walks her border.”
The men grinned, weary but alive again. For a heartbeat, the fire caught, burning bright as dawn.
Above them, thunder rolled once more. It sounded like a heartbeat slow, vast, unending.
A colorful illustration depicting a quaint Tettenhall Woods Prefab surrounded by a vibrant garden, representing the warmth of the Black Country dialect and local culture.
It’s a proper cowd one out there this Sunday, so what better day to dive into a new post?
Today, it’s a little disclaimer about the language that features in my stories…
Author’s Note: The Tongue of the Land
While the Black Country dialect does not belong to the Roman period. It is used within these stories to represent the voice of the common people. The humble folk who stood beside Taranis, shaped by soil, storm, and memory.
The dialect itself descends from Old English. First spoken between 1100–1300 CE, and remains alive in parts of the West Midlands today.
The earlier language spoken in Roman-era Mercia has long been lost, leaving no written record.
By using this dialect, I seek not historical precision but continuity.. To let the living voice of the land speak through its past.
To those who do not understand the dialect…
“Ow bist, bab?” means “How are you, love?”
“It’s a proper cowd one out there” translates to “It’s really cold outside.”
So all together:
“How are you, love? It’s a really cold one out there this Sunday, so what better day to dive into a new post?”
The Black Country dialect has a warmth and rhythm all of its own . It’s how my grandparents and neighbours spoke, and how the land itself still seems to talk on quiet days.
It’s the same voice I hear when I write of the Stormborne. Ordinary folk shaped by wind, stone, and rain, who carry the old sounds onward through time.
Artistic representation of the ram, symbolizing renewal and courage, surrounded by vibrant colors representing the cycles of nature.
Beneath layers of violet, gold, and sea-blue, the ram emerges ancient, patient, eternal.
His horns spiral like thunder caught mid-turn, his eyes fixed on horizons where storms are born and broken.
In pagan tradition, the ram is the bringer of light. Aries, the first fire, the strength that awakens spring.
In the Stormborne mythos, he is remembered as the Ram of the Storm Gate. The guardian of renewal and courage, carved into the stone circles of Cnocc long before Rome came. When the storms gathered over Mercian hills, the people raised his sign to call for dawn’s return.
“He stood between the fire and the sky. With horns bright with thunderlight and when all else fell silent, the Ram did not kneel.”
Each line of colour marks the turning of the seasons. Purple for winter’s shadow, amber for fire reborn, blue for the rivers that feed the land.
This piece honours the ancient balance between chaos and calm strength drawn not from conquest, but from endurance.
Abstract artwork by E. L. Hewitt, showcasing layered strokes of blue, teal, and violet that symbolize the balance between intuition and reason in the Stormborne Arts series.
The piece symbolizes balance between two forces intuition and reason, dream and waking, reflection and motion. Each layered stroke in blue, teal, and violet mirrors the shifting tides of the Stormborne world calm above, powerful beneath.
In the lore, water is memory every drop holding echoes of what once was. This design draws from that idea: the mirrored currents of fate that shape both sea and soul.
Painted and designed by E. L. Hewitt, part of the Stormborne Arts series exploring elemental symbols and their mythic resonance.
Dawn crept slow over Cnocc, a thin gold edge behind the rain clouds. Mist clung to the standing stones, turning the world to shadow and breath.
Drax waited alone within the circle, his Armour dark with dew. Around him, the forest held its silence not even the birds dared speak before the storm.
A shape emerged from the trees. Bare-headed, cloak torn by wind, eyes bright with the same lightning that lived in the sea.
“Taranis,” Drax said quietly.
“Brother.”
They faced each other across the stones, a dozen paces apart soldier and exile, lawman and outlaw, blood and storm.
“You sent the boy,” Drax began. “You risked Rome’s wrath to deliver a letter. Why?”
“Because words still travel where armies can’t,” Taranis replied. “And because you needed to see the truth before Rome writes it for you.”
Drax’s hand went to the hilt at his belt, but he did not draw. “The truth is that you lead rebellion.”
“The truth,” Taranis said, stepping closer, “is that Rome rots from within. You see it, even in Pennocrucium the taxes, the prisons, the wards rising against their own peacekeepers. You know their order is just another storm wearing iron.”
“Law keeps the world from tearing itself apart.”
Taranis smiled faintly. “Then tell me, brother which law spared our people?”
The question hung like a blade between them.
Drax’s voice dropped. “You’ll bring ruin on every soul north of the wall.”
“And you’ll call it justice when the legions do it first.”
Lightning cracked behind the hills, casting their faces in white fire. For a heartbeat, they were children again mud on their hands, the taste of rain on their tongues.
Then it was gone.
Drax exhaled slowly. “If I turn my back on Rome, they’ll come for my sons.”
“Then send them to me,” Taranis said. “I’ll keep them safe and teach them what it means to be Stormborne.”
Drax met his brother’s gaze, every oath and scar warring inside him. “You ask too much.”
“I ask what blood demands.”
The wind rose, carrying the scent of thunder and pine. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a horn sounded Roman, sharp and close.
Taranis looked toward it, then back at his brother. “You didn’t come alone.”
Drax’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”
“You always had a choice.”
He turned, cloak whipping in the wind, and vanished into the mist.
Drax stood amid the stones, thunder rolling like a closing gate. For the first time in years, he no longer knew which storm he served.
The horn still echoed when Drax turned toward the ridge. Rain came again sharp, cold, unending washing the footprints from the mud where his brother had stood.
From the southern slope came the sound of Armour. The steady rhythm of Roman discipline: shields clashing, orders barked, hooves grinding stone.
Centurion Varro rode up through the mist, helm crested, voice clipped. “Praefect! You were told to wait at the lower ford. Our scouts saw movement rebels, by the look.”
Drax said nothing. His men shifted behind him, uneasy under the Centurion’s glare.
Varro’s gaze swept the clearing. “You’ve been here long, sir?”
“Long enough.”
“Any sign of the outlaws?”
Drax’s hand brushed the rain-darkened hilt of his sword. “None that concern Rome.”
Varro frowned. “Sir?”
“Withdraw your men to the ridge. If they move through the forest, they’ll spook what they can’t catch.”
Varro hesitated, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “The Governor will want a report.”
“He’ll have one,” Drax said, voice like iron. “But not from you.”
Varro opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He saluted stiffly and wheeled his horse. The soldiers followed, vanishing into the haze.
When the last sound of their march had gone, Drax turned back to the standing stones. The mist seemed thicker now, the air charged and whispering.
He drew his sword not for battle, but for memory. The blade caught a sliver of light and, for a heartbeat, reflected the spiral carved into the nearest stone.
From the forest edge came a faint flicker of movement a figure, hooded and still. Not Taranis, but one of his kin. She raised her hand, palm out, the mark of the storm inked in black across her skin.
A silent vow.
Drax sheathed his sword. “Tell him,” he said quietly, though she not hear, “that I won’t be his enemy again.”
The woman vanished into the fog.
Behind Drax, Maren approached, cloak dripping. “Father… what will you tell Rome?”
“The truth,” Drax said, mounting his horse. “Just not all of it.”
As they rode back toward Pennocrucium, thunder rolled once more not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The storm was awake again.
The last of the rain had faded, leaving the courtyard of Pennocrucium slick with light. Drax stood with his men, issuing orders for the road north, when a shout broke the morning calm.
A boy no more than ten came running from the treeline. Bare-foot and wild-eyed, his breath tearing in the cold air. The guards moved to intercept, but Drax raised a hand.
The child stumbled to a halt before him, clutching a scrap of parchment tight against his chest.
“He said to give you this,” the boy gasped.
“Who?” Drax asked.
The boy only pointed back toward the woods. “The man with the scars. He said you’d know.”
A chill heavier than the rain settled over the praefect. Slowly, Drax took the parchment. The wax seal bore a spiral mark the Ring of the Stormborne.
He turned the seal over in his palm, the crimson wax cracked and flaking like old blood.
“Did he say anything else?”
The boy shook his head. “Only that the sea’s not where he’s coming from anymore.”
Drax looked up, scanning the mist beyond the walls. “Go home, lad,” he said quietly. “And tell your mother to keep her doors barred tonight.”
When the child was gone, Drax broke the seal. The message inside was written in a firm, weathered hand one he had not seen since the exile.
Brother, If Rome still owns your heart, it will soon own your sons. The storm has left the sea. Meet me where the law ends and the wild begins at Cnocc. — T.
Drax folded the letter and slid it into his cloak. Around him, his men watched, waiting for orders.
“Mount up,” he said finally. “We ride before sunset.”
“Sir?” his aide asked. “The boy”
“Forget the boy.” Drax’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon, where thunderclouds gathered over the hills. “Remember the name.”
The road north was half-swallowed by mist. The horses hooves splashed through the puddled ruts. The sound muted beneath the weight of silence that followed them from Pennocrucium.
Drax rode ahead, the sealed parchment still heavy in his cloak. Each mile drew him closer to the hill he had sworn never to see again Cnocc. the place Rome had called untamed and his people had called sacred.
Behind him, his men rode uneasily. They had fought rebels, pirates, and ghosts of empire. But none of them knew what to do with silence that breathed like a living thing.
“Sir,” Maren said quietly, drawing level with his father. “We’re far past the patrol lines. There are no markers, no forts… not even smoke from farms.”
“There used to be farms,” Drax replied. “Before the Empire burned them.”
The boy said nothing more.
They reached the crest by dusk. The land opened out before them rolling forest and wet moor. Scattered with standing stones like broken teeth in the earth. The wind smelled of peat and lightning.
A movement caught Drax’s eye a flicker among the stones. A man watching, cloaked and hooded.
Drax reined in. “Hold.”
The riders stopped. The watcher didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a horn old, carved from a blackened ram’s horn and blew once, low and deep. The sound rolled through the mist like thunder in a cave.
Within moments, others appeared half a dozen figures stepping from the treeline. The shields blackened, armour mismatched, but each bearing the spiral mark upon their arms.
The Black Shields.
Maren’s hand went to his sword. “Father”
“Wait.”
Drax dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil. He walked ahead alone until the leader stepped out a woman. Tall and scarred, with iron rings braided through her dark hair.
“Praefect Drax Stormborne,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or do you answer to Rome only now?”
Drax studied her face. “I answer to my blood when it calls me by name.”
She nodded once. “Then the storm welcomes you home.”
From behind her, two men carried something between them a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, heavy and dark. They laid it at Drax’s feet.
He knelt, unwrapping it. Inside lay a Roman helm scorched, the crest torn away and beneath it. A bronze medallion marked with the eagle of the Twelfth Legion.
Maren’s breath caught. “That’s”
“Proof,” Drax said softly. “That my brother isn’t bluffing.”
The woman met his gaze. “Taranis waits at the standing circle by dawn. He says he’ll speak to you not the Praefect, not the lawman. The brother.”
Drax rose slowly, rain dripping from his cloak. “Then he shall have both.”
Thunder rolled again closer this time, echoing through the hollow hills.
Colorful wooden sign inviting readers to like and subscribe, featuring a sunny landscape design.
The rain had not stopped since Caerwyn. Each morning it slicked the cobblestones of the fort. washing dust and ash into the gutters, as though Rome cleanse itself of guilt.
Praefect Drax Stormborne stood beneath the awning of the garrison, watching the centurions drill in the yard below. The sound of shields and iron echoed against the mist, rhythmic, hollow, and far too familiar.
“Word from the coast?” he asked without looking.
His aide the same grey-eyed veteran who had once served under him at Cannock stepped ahead. “None yet, sir. But reports spread through the camps. They say a ship found half-burned near the cliffs. No bodies. Just marks on the hull.”
“Marks?”
The man nodded. “A spiral carved deep into the wood. Like a storm-ring.”
Drax’s hand tightened around the railing. The symbol of the old clan. The one Rome had forbidden.
Behind him came the sound of boots lighter, hesitant. His second son, Maren, saluted awkwardly. “Father, the magistrate awaits. There’s unrest in the lower wards. They want judgment from the lawman.”
“The lawman,” Drax murmured. “Tell them the law doesn’t bend to whispers.”
“But it bends to Rome,” Maren said quietly.
Drax turned, eyes hard. “Careful, boy.”
The silence between them held the weight of unspoken things of oaths broken and storms returning. Drax looked at the lad and saw both his past and his punishment.
Finally, he exhaled. “Your uncle stirs the seas. I’ll not have him stir the streets as well. We hold the line.”
Maren hesitated, then stepped closer. “And if he calls us brother, not enemy?”
Drax looked past him, toward the horizon where thunder still rolled over the coast. “Then I’ll answer him as both.”
A horn sounded from the walls. Another patrol missing along the northern road.
Drax drew his cloak, the Roman crimson dulled by rain. “Have the riders ready by dusk,” he said. “We go to Pennocrucium The Empire claim the law but the storm still knows my name.”
The thunder rolled again, closer this time, shaking the banners loose from their poles. The banners of Pennocrucium hung limp in the rain Rome’s edge of order against the wild heart of Pennocrucium .”
The rain eased to a whisper by dawn. Mist lay low over the road, a grey ribbon winding north through the pines.
Drax rode at the front of the column, his cloak heavy with last night’s storm. The standards of Rome sagged in the wet, crimson turned dull and earth-brown.
Behind him, twenty riders moved in silence. Men who had followed him through three campaigns and would follow him into a fourth. Even if none of them knew whose banner they truly served anymore.
The track narrowed as they neared the Chase. Crows wheeled above, their cries lost in the fog. Somewhere beyond the mist lay Pennocrucium the old land, the hill once sacred to his kin. Before Rome built its roads through the heart of it.
At his side, Maren broke the quiet. “They say the woods here are haunted.”
“They are,” Drax said. “By memory.”
The boy frowned, unsure if it was jest or truth.
By noon, they reached the stone marker where the Roman paving gave way to mud and root. There Drax reined in, eyes narrowing at the shape half-buried in the verge. An old shield, blackened by time, its boss marked with the faint spiral of the Stormborne ring.
“Leave it,” Drax murmured as one of the soldiers bent to lift it. “The dead have earned their ground.”
From the treeline came the sound of a horn low, distant, old. Not Roman.
The men stiffened. Maren’s hand went to his blade.
Drax only listened. The tone carried memory, not threat a call. One he had not heard since he was young enough to run barefoot across the Chase. A day when he named the wind his brother.
He turned to his son. “We camp here. No fires. No noise.”
“Sir?”
“They’ll come to us,” Drax said. “The Black Shields never forgot the way home.”
As the mist thickened, he dismounted and placed a hand on the wet earth. Beneath his palm, the ground hummed faintly the old song of the storm returning.
“If Taranis walks these woods,” he whispered, “then I’ll find him before Rome does.”
Thunder rolled somewhere far off not from the sea this time, but from the hills.
StormborneLore 