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.
Original hand-painted design inspired by the ancient Tyr rune, symbolizing courage and the enduring spirit of the Stormborne.
(Original Hand-Painted Design by ELH)
The old runes spoke of courage, justice, and sacrifice. The path of Tyr, the god who gave his hand to bind the wolf.
To the Stormborne, this mark symbolized something deeper. The courage to face what must be faced, and to keep walking through the storm no matter the cost.
Each line in this piece was hand-drawn in layered bands of colour. Firming a shape reminiscent of the ancient Tyr rune bold, unwavering, rising upward.
The colours merge like dawn through mist. Gold for honour, blue for truth, and pink for the bloodline of storm and flame that endures through every age.
This painting stands for all those who fight unseen battles. Who rise each day despite the odds those who, like Tyr and the Stormborne before him. Walk the path not for glory but for what must be done.
Original artwork by Emma L. Hewitt (ELH)
Shop this design: “The Path of Tyr” is available now on Redbubble as art prints, apparel, and accessories.
A symbol of legacy and awakening, Lore Stormborne signifies the binding of ancestry and power across the Stormborne bloodline.
The central knotwork echoes the eternal connection between past and future. While the radiant colour rings mirror the energy of the storm expanding outward through time.
Artist’s Note: “Every line holds memory each thread of colour carries a name, a voice, a story passed down. This is where the Stormborne start.”
The night hung low, thick with ash and the faint glow of molten rivers. Taranis Stormborne stood at the cliff’s edge, listening to the pulse of the waves. Each roar of the sea carried a story, a whisper of what the Empire thought it can ignore.
The Black Shields moved silently across the ash-strewn plateau. Training not for spectacle, but for the unseen for strikes in shadows, patience, and loyalty forged in fire.
Exiles and criminals who had once bent to fear now moved with precision. Their eyes carrying the memory of chains and the promise of freedom.
A messenger arrived under the cloak of darkness, bringing news from beyond the sea. A small port town had whispered rumors of a golden-eyed warrior training men in secret. Shaping them into something Rome would not understand. Taranis did not smile. Rumors were the first arrows of war silent, deadly, and everywhere.
“Send scouts,” he instructed, his voice low, like distant thunder. “Learn what they fear, what they ignore. Rome has grown fat on ignorance, and we shall remind them of storms.”
In the volcanic caves, he spoke to the leaders of his order. Tracing the map of the Mediterranean with ash from the fire. Each mark represented a seed smuggled weapons, loyal exiles, slaves freed and sworn to secrecy. Each note in the symphony of rebellion.
Above, lightning split the sky. Taranis lifted his face, feeling the electric pulse in his veins, the same storm that had followed him from Britannia. “Soon,” he whispered, “the whispers will become cries, and the cries will echo through the Empire. Let them fear the shadow that bends, but never breaks.”
Far across the sea, Marcus and a handful of loyal men tracked the tales. Every report of a shadow in the hills, of soldiers who moved with impossible skill, brought unease to their hearts.
They did not yet know the full force of Taranis’ plan. But they sensed it, like the first stirrings of a hurricane, unseen but unstoppable.
On the island, fire and stone were the teachers, patience the tutor, and loyalty the currency. The Black Shields were no longer mere survivors; they were an omen, a promise carried in whispers across the waves.
The lines twist like fate each thread a path of fire and shadow. Where one brother rises, another falls, yet all are bound by the storm. This design represents Drax’s house strength, legacy, and the unbroken knot of blood.
Medium: Acrylic paint pens Theme: The Binding of Bloodlines Series: The Chronicles of Drax Stormborne
Artistic representation of Lore Stormborne, featuring intricate patterns and vivid colors, symbolizing his connection to ancient powers and storms.
Rain fell soft upon Emberhelm not in sheets, but in threads, weaving through the night like strands of memory. Each drop whispered against the walls, tracing paths down stone carved before empires rose. The air smelt of iron, damp moss, and prophecy.
Lore moved through the Hall of Echoes with deliberate silence. The torches burned low, their flames bending in strange rhythm, as though swayed by unseen breath. Beneath the central arch lay the dais of oath and upon it, the gold ring.
It shimmered faintly in the half-light, a pulse of life within metal. Not the glow of firelight, but of something older.
Lore hesitated before it. His reflection warped in its surface his eyes darker, sharper, his face marked by the faint runes of bloodline and burden. “The ring of storm and oath,” he murmured. “The bond of the five.”
He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed it, the hall sighed.
A low hum filled the air not from stone or wind, but from within.
Then came the voice.
“Brother…”
The word was barely sound more vibration, more memory. It coiled through him like smoke through glass.
“Taranis…” Lore whispered, his voice trembling. The name itself seemed to awaken something. The torches guttered. The shadows around the walls began to move not randomly, but with purpose, forming the faint outlines of chained figures, of men bowed beneath lightning.
The ring pulsed again, once, twice. Gold bled to storm-grey.
“Show me,” Lore said. “Show me where he walks.”
The pulse deepened and suddenly, the hall was gone.
He stood in mist. Iron gates loomed before him, slick with rain. Beyond them, sand bloodstained and torn an arena. He heard the roars of lions, the clash of blades, the chanting of a foreign crowd. And there, in the centre, Taranis bare-armed, chained, and unbroken. His eyes like stormlight.
“Still he stands,” Lore breathed.
The vision shattered like glass beneath a hammer. He was back in the hall, gasping, knees to the stone floor. The ring still glowed in his palm, its pulse slowing to match his heartbeat.
He knew then: his brother lived but the bond between them had stirred something greater. The old powers beneath the land the ones the druids had whispered of were waking again.
A new sound reached him. A voice, aged as winter bark.
“The ring calls the storm again,” said Maeve, the seer. She stepped from the shadowed archway, her staff crowned with raven feathers and iron charms. “You’ve felt it too the pulse of the deep earth, the cry of the stones.”
Lore rose slowly. “He lives. I saw him. Rome cannot hold him.”
Maeve’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “No but when the storm returns, it will not come gently. Bonds such as yours were not forged for peace. The land remembers its oaths, Lore Stormborne. The blood remembers. And blood always calls for blood.”
He turned toward the open window, where thunder rolled faintly beyond the hills. The storm clouds were gathering again not yet upon them, but coming.
“Then let it come,” he said softly. “We are Stormborne. We do not kneel to the Empire. We endure… and when the sky breaks, we rise.”
The gold ring flared once more, bright as lightning and somewhere far to the south, in a Roman cell slick with rain, Taranis felt it too.
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