Category: Chronicles of Taranis

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

November 1, 2025
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

October 28, 2025
Taranis Stormborne: The Broken Road

By E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore

The dawn came slow and grey, dragging itself through the fog. As Taranis stood by the brook, cloak heavy with rain, listening to the groan of trees in the wind.

The men were stirring mud streaked, bone-tired, but still breathing.
Caedric coughed, spitting into the fire’s ash.

“Reckon we’ve outfoxed ‘em, lord. Romans don’t fancy these woods no more than wolves do.”

Taranis gave a crooked grin. “Aye, an’ I’ll keep it that way. Chase belongs to the storm, not the eagle.”

He slung his satchel, nodding north. “Pack up. We take the old path up past Wyrley Hill, through the firs. If the gods favour us, we’ll reach the ford ‘fore night.”

“An’ if they don’t?” muttered one of the younger lads.

Taranis looked over his shoulder, eyes pale as lightning. “Then we make ‘em.”

They set off through the trees, boots sucking at the mire, breath fogging in the cold. Above, the sky split in pale streaks of silver and white, like a scar the world hadn’t healed.

By midday, the Chase fell behind them and the road opened wide broken Roman stones, weeds clawing through the cracks.

Caedric slowed, squinting. “Watling Street, once. My da said it stretched all the way to the sea.”

Taranis ran a gloved hand over one of the stones. “Sea don’t matter. Storm reaches farther.”

He turned to the others. “Keep low. Scouts’ll be watchin’ the high ground.”

They crossed in silence, shadows sliding between the birch trunks. A crow cried overhead, sharp and lonely.

Then movement was seen over the ridge. A figure on the ridge, half-hidden by mist. A glint of bronze.

Caedric hissed, “Bloody Romans?”

Taranis lifted a hand, quieting him.
“Nah,” he said after a long look. “One man. Cloak’s too dark. Looks more like one o’ ours.”

The shape moved closer. A limp. Familiar.

“Taranis?” a voice called, rough as gravel. “By all that’s left o’ the gods, it is you.”

From the fog stepped an older warrior, scar cut deep across his jaw.
“Byrin,” Taranis breathed. “Didn’t think the storm’d spare you.”

Byrin laughed, short and hollow. “It near didn’t. Lost three good lads south o’ Salinae, an’ near my own arm with ‘em. But word spreadsfolk say you’re gatherin’ again. Stormborne, back from the grave.”

Taranis gave a small, weary smile. “Not the grave yet, though Rome keeps diggin’.”

He looked at his men mud-smeared faces, eyes bright with a spark that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Then it’s true,” said Byrin, glancing north. “You mean to march again?”

Taranis nodded. “Not march. Rise. Rome’s road breaks here our land, our law. Time we made ‘em remember.”

He drew a small blade, slicing a mark into the nearest stone a spiral, storm’s sigil.

Caedric watched, grinning. “Yow think they’ll see that, lord?”

Taranis met his gaze, voice low as thunder.

“Aye. An’ when they do, they’ll know the storm’s still breathin’.”

The wind rose, carrying the scent of rain and ash.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered deep, slow, and close.

:

© 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.

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

If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

Author’s Note

The Black Country dialect woven through this story carries the sound of the land Taranis once called home old speech born from forge and field.

Where words still echo the rhythm of hammers, storms, and stories told by firelight.

Much of The Broken Road is inspired by the landscapes around Cannock Chase, Wyrley, and Watling Street places where the ancient and modern meet in the same mist.

In those quiet corners, the past never quite sleeps, and the storm still remembers its name.© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

October 21, 2025
Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

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.

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.

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

If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 19, 2025
Taranis and Drax: The Clash of Empires

The river carried him through the marshes like an old friend whispering secrets of home. The oar bit into the brown water, steady, unhurried. Ahead, smoke rose in thin curls Roman campfires. His brother’s camp.

Taranis smiled faintly. Drax always did love his rules and rituals.

He pulled the boat onto the bank, the mud sucking at his boots, and paused to listen. The faint clang of armor, the laughter of children. The low murmur of Latin prayers so out of place in this land of bog and stone.

Then he saw him.
Drax, standing by the fire, cloak draped in perfect folds, a soldier carved out of duty itself.

“Hello, brother,” Taranis called, his voice light but carrying weight enough to stir the air.

Drax turned, hand on his sword. Typical.

“Taranis. Show yourself.”

“Why?” he asked from the shadows. “So you can look at me and scowl like the Roman you’ve become?”

The words were easy, but his chest ached as he stepped ahead. He had dreamed of this moment through a hundred lonely nights on the island his brother alive, unbroken.

“I see you have sons,” he said softly. “And a fine uniform. Praefect now, are we? Rome’s loyal hound.”

Drax’s eyes hardened. “You acknowledge their law, then?”

“I acknowledge survival,” Taranis said. “But I bow to no empire.”

His gaze flicked toward the boys—curious, brave, full of questions. One of them smiled at him, and for a moment, the years fell away. He saw his brother laughing beside him on the cliffs above Letocetum. Before the legions came, before blood was traded for banners.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Drax said.

“I didn’t come for Rome.” He met his brother’s eyes. “I came for what’s left of us.”

The words hung between them, raw and quiet.

The youngest boy tugged at Drax’s cloak. “He doesn’t look like a villain, father.”

Taranis almost laughed. “No, lad. Villains rarely do.”

Then thunder rolled, deep and distant, like memory returning.

Drax looked to the horizon, and Taranis knew he felt it too—the pull of storm and blood.

“The storm’s coming,” one soldier muttered.

Taranis turned toward them, eyes bright with mischief and grief.
“No,” he said. “The storm’s already here.”

He stepped back into the trees, the forest closing around him.
When the boy’s voice called after him—“How did you escape the island?”—he turned once more, smiling through the rain.

“I built a boat,” he said simply. “Remember that when the world tries to cage you.”

Then he was gone.

Behind him, the Roman camp crackled in the rain, and his brother’s name lingered on the wind.

Stormborne.
Once curse, always kin.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

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

October 15, 2025
From Chains to Legends: The Rise of the Black Shields

The Storm Returns

The tide was retreating when they found the broken chains. The sight of melted iron through as if struck by lightning.

“Gods preserve us,” whispered one of the guards, stepping back. “No blade have done that.”

Tiberius knelt beside the scorched links. “He didn’t break free,” he muttered. “He shed them.”

The centurion barked orders.,Sending riders to the northern watch and ships to sweep the channel. But even as they moved, the sky began to darken. The wind shifted, dragging the scent of iron and rain across the water.

“He’s gone home,” Tiberius said at last. “Back to the place Rome never tamed.”

“To Britannia?” asked the young guard again, voice shaking.

“Aye,” said the older legionary. “And if the stories are true, every storm between here and there will answer his call.”

From the cliffs, they can see the faint shimmer of the sea calm for now, but seething beneath.

The Emperor’s standard flapped once, hard enough to snap its pole.

“Should we tell the mainland?” the centurion asked.

Tiberius stood slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Tell them nothing. Let them think he drowned. If the gods favour us, maybe they’ll believe it.”

But none of them truly did.
Even as the orders went out, the men felt the pressure in the air, that strange stillness before thunder. Somewhere far to the north, in the heart of Britannia, the wind began to rise.

“What if he’s caught out there commander?”

Tiberius didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed on the sea, the horizon split between light and shadow.

“If he’s caught,” he said finally, “then the sea itself will break first.”

The young guard frowned. “You speak as if he’s a god.”

Tiberius turned to him, his face hard. “You weren’t here when they brought him in chains. You didn’t see the storm that followed. The ships burned before they reached the harbour. No oil, no fire arrows, just lightning, and him standing in the rain, laughing.”

The guard swallowed, his knuckles white around his spear.

Another soldier older, scarred, voice low spat into the dirt. “Men like that ain’t gods. They’re reminders. Rome builds, Rome burns, and the earth keeps its own count.”

Thunder rolled far out to sea, deep and slow.

“Get word to the docks,” Tiberius ordered. “Seal the forges. Lock down the armoury. And if the Emperor asks…”
He paused, eyes narrowing.
“…tell him the storm never left the island.”

The men scattered to obey, but above them, the gulls were already fleeing inland.

The wind picked up again not from the west, but the north.
And on the water, beneath a bruised sky, something vast and dark moved with purpose.

Taranis stood at the prow of the small boat, the sea hissing beneath its hull as if warning him back.
He only smiled.

The wind carried the scent of earth his earth and beyond the mist. The cliffs of Britannia rose like the bones of old gods. Behind him, the island of exile vanished into shadow. Before him lay vengeance, memory, and the ghosts of his kin.

“Home,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”

His brothers would be the first. Drax, bound by Rome’s gold and law; Rayne, lost between loyalty and freedom. Then the old comrades, the broken men who once bore the wolf upon their shields.
The Black Shields would rise again not as soldiers. But as something Rome can not name and never kill.

He shifted his weight, watching the distant shoreline of Letocetum take shape through the fog.

Beyond that lay the salt pits of Salinae. The forests near Vertis, the villages that still whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.

“Word travels faster than ships,” he said to the empty wind. “By the time I step ashore, they’ll already know.”

Lightning rippled across the far horizon, faint but deliberate, as though the heavens themselves answered.

He gripped the tiller and laughed quietly to himself not with joy. But with the fierce certainty of a man who had waited too long to be mortal anymore.

When the first gulls circled overhead and the shore drew near, Taranis whispered the words that had haunted his exile.

“Rome fears the storm. Now it will remember why.”

The tide carried him in. Somewhere in the fort at Rutupiae Drax Stormborne turned toward the sea. With a feeling of dread, without knowing, that the storm had come home.

Thank you for reading.

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

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

October 14, 2025
Blood and Oath

The sun stood high as Praefect Drax Stormborne lingered beside the fire, cloak folded tight against a thin breeze.

“Hello, brother,” a teen voice said, and Drax’s hand went to the hilt of his sword before he turned.

“Taranis, show yourself now,” he said, keeping his tone even.

“Why? So you can look at me and scowl?” Taranis’s voice came from the trees. “I’m fine here, where you can’t see me but I can see you. I see you have children now, and you look smart in the Roman uniform of their law-men.”

“You acknowledge that, brother?” Drax asked, eyes narrowing.

“I acknowledge,” Taranis replied, stepping from the shade with a faint smile. “but I do not bow not to you, my liege, nor to your Roman overlords. We all do what we must to survive.” He paused, then added, quieter, “But try anything and I’ll snap your men like twigs.”

A small boy tugged at Drax’s sleeve. “Father, who is he?” the child asked.

“Is he a barbarian, father?” another eight-year-old whispered, peering toward the tree-line.

“Julius that’s our uncle Taranis?” a smirking boy offered. “The legendary gladiator Lupus… wasn’t he exiled?”

Drax let the questions run off him like rain. He studied Taranis as if measuring a blade. Blood and oath pulled between them one brother in Roman order, the other a storm wearing man’s skin.

The campfire crackled, throwing sparks into the brittle afternoon air. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath two brothers standing on opposite shores of the same river.

Taranis tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.
“Exiled, yes,” he said softly. “But storms don’t vanish, brother. They wait for the right sky.”

Drax said nothing. His men shifted uneasily, hands brushing spear shafts, glancing between the prefect and the outlaw.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Drax murmured finally. “Rome watches even the wind that bends near me.”

“I’m not here for Rome,” Taranis replied,. his gaze flicking toward the boys proud, uncertain, wearing their father’s steel in miniature. “I came to see what became of the man I once followed into the fire.”

“You followed because you had no choice,” Drax snapped, voice sharp enough to cut the air.
“And you bowed because you wanted one,” Taranis countered.

Silence fell again. The forest around them seemed to lean closer, listening.

Julius, the youngest, tugged at Drax’s sleeve.

“Father… he doesn’t look like a villain,” the boy whispered.
“No,” said Drax quietly, eyes still locked on Taranis. “That’s what makes him dangerous.”

Taranis laughed then, low and bitter. “Dangerous? I bled for this land before Rome knew its name. If danger is survival, then yes I am a danger.”

A faint roll of thunder trembled beyond the horizon. Both men turned toward it, instinctively.

“Storm’s coming,” said one of Drax’s soldiers.

Taranis met his brother’s eyes one last time.
“No, soldier,” he said, voice like wind through iron. “The storm’s already here.”

He vanished into the trees before anyone move. leaving only the fading echo of his words and the scent of rain.

Drax stood long after he was gone, until his eldest spoke softly:
“Will we see him again, Father?”

Drax’s jaw tightened. “If the gods have mercy or none at all.”

The thunder answered for him.

Julius started to run after his uncle.

“No, child,” Drax called, voice tight.

Taranis turned, the stormlight catching on the scars that crossed his jaw. He knelt so his eyes met the boy’s.
“Your place is with your father,” he said softly. “He’s a good, honourable man.”

Julius frowned. “How did you get off the island?”

Taranis’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “I built a boat.”

He rose, cloak stirring in the wind as thunder growled again in the distance.
“Remember that, boy when the world cages you, build your own way out.”

Then he was gone once more, the forest swallowing him whole.

Drax stood in silence, watching the trees sway. His men busied themselves with meaningless tasks tightening straps, banking the fire anything to avoid the weight in the air.

The prefect’s eyes lingered on the path his brother had taken.
“Stormborne,” he murmured, the name a curse and a prayer all at once.

Above them, the first drops of rain began to fall.

Thank you for reading if you enjoyed this story. Please like subscribe and follow for more.

Futher reading

The Chronicles of Drax

The tales of Rayne

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

October 13, 2025
Transformative Stone Age Fish Recipe from Worcestershire

A Survival Meal from Severn Valley.

Taranis’s journey south, inspired by Stone Age foraging along the Severn Valley in ancient Worcestershire.

As Taranis wandered deeper into exile, he crossed the ancient paths of what we now call Worcestershire a land shaped by rivers, caves, and sacred woodlands. The Severn Valley offered not only shelter, but food: fish from clean waters, herbs from wild meadows, and woodlands dense with fuel.

This meal marks a turning point when hunger gave way to skill, and the boy began to understand the land, not fear it.

Whole small fish (e.g. trout, sardines, or mackerel) 2 £2.00–£3.00
Lemon or vinegar (optional) 1 tbsp £0.10
Salt ¼ tsp £0.05
Fresh herbs (wild garlic, rosemary, thyme) 1 tbsp £0.20
Oil or animal fat 1 tsp £0.05
Flatbread or root mash (optional side) — £0.20–£0.50

Estimated Total Cost: £2.60–£4.00
(Serves 2 — ~£1.50–£2.00 per portion)

Stone Age version:

Catch fish from stream or river. Clean and season with gathered herbs and a dash of salt.

Wrap in leaves (dock, burdock) or skewer whole and cook over embers, turning slowly.

Serve with roasted roots or foraged greens.

Modern method:

Preheat grill or pan. Clean fish, season inside and out with herbs, salt, and lemon/vinegar.

Lightly brush with oil or animal fat.

Grill for 4–5 mins per side or until crisp and flaky.

Serve with flatbread, salad, or root veg.

Fish: Omega-3s, protein, brain and heart health

Fresh herbs: Antioxidants, anti-inflammatory properties

Optional lemon/vinegar: Aids digestion and preservation

🔄 Ingredient Substitutions
Fish → firm tofu (vegan) or mushrooms (grilled)

Wild herbs → store-bought thyme, parsley, dill

Side: roasted parsnips or potatoes for a modern twist

📖 Suggested Story Pairing
Best paired with:
“The Hollow Howl” or “The Crossing” (a future post of Taranis crossing into new lands) moments when survival becomes instinct, and fear becomes focus.

This is the meal of transformation not feasting, but claiming life back one bite at a time.
The boy who was cast out now learns to live.

© StormborneLore. Recipe written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

A heartfelt thank you message from StormborneLore, inviting readers to support and engage with the storytelling experience.

If you recreate this recipe, tag #StormborneLore so I can see your version.”

October 12, 2025
The Resilient Sea: Taranis’s Defiance Against Rome

The sea was restless that night, black as iron and twice as cold. Taranis Stormborne stood at the prow of the ship, his cloak heavy with salt and rain. Behind him, the Black Shields moved in silence, their faces hidden, their oars cutting through the water with a rhythm older than empire.

Rome’s ships had been sighted near Carthage a patrol too far from home, too confident. This voyage was not conquest, but message.

Lightning split the horizon. Taranis lifted his gaze toward the thunderclouds, their light catching the gold in his eyes.

“Do you fear the storm?” one of the younger soldiers whispered.

Taranis’s answer was soft, almost drowned by the wind.
“I am the storm.”

The first Roman galley loomed ahead, torches guttering in the wind. The Black Shields struck swift and silent, grappling hooks biting wood, blades flashing in the rain. No horns, no cries only the sound of waves breaking and chains rattling as old fears were unmade.

By dawn, the sea was calm again. The Roman ship burned behind them, its mast sinking like a dying pillar of the old world.

Taranis watched the smoke fade into the clouds. “Let them think it was lightning,” he said. “Let them think the gods themselves strike against their arrogance.”

He turned back toward the island, where fire and training awaited. The storm had passed but the Empire would wake to the scent of rain and know its name.

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

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

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October 11, 2025
Secrets of the Western Marches: A Tale of War and Loyalty

The dawn broke pale and brittle over the Western Marches. Mist clung to the hillsides like the remnants of a long-forgotten battle. The scent of wet earth hung thick in the air.

Drax Stormborne rode alone, the wolf badge at his breast glinting faintly in the weak light. Each hoof beat a steady rhythm against the quiet of the land.

Reports had come from the southern villages. Whispers of movement along the coast, smuggled supplies disappearing into the night, and the black shields stirring in secret. Rome called it rebellion. Drax called it preparation.

He paused at the ridge, scanning the valley below. The smoke curled from chimneys, thin and innocent. Yet he saw in it the same threads of tension that had always followed his family. Every glance, every movement, was a calculation an unspoken war between loyalty, law, and blood.

A courier approached, riding hard across the hill track. Drax reined in his horse. The rider’s eyes were wide with urgency, breath steaming in the cold morning.

“High Sheriff,” the courier gasped, bowing slightly. “The exiles… they’ve moved. South, toward the old Roman fort. But there are… signs. Traps, and sentries placed where none should be.”

Drax’s jaw tightened. He dismounted slowly, brushing mud from his cloak. “And our men?”

“Silent,” the rider said. “They wait, as you instructed. Patient. Watching.”

Drax nodded, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility press upon him. Patience, observation, action the long game. His thoughts flickered to Taranis, chained in distant Rome. Memories of the oath that bound him not just to the Empire, but to family. To storm.

He turned to the courier. “See to it that no one moves without my signal. Keep the villages safe. Let Rome believe all is still. But let our shadow fall across the fort when the time is right. The storm will not wait forever.”

Lightning fractured across the distant sky, a whisper of thunder rolling over the hills. Drax lifted his gaze and felt it stir through him, golden and alive. The storm was patient, and so would he be.

For when the winds finally tore through the land, nothing not even Rome would withstand it.

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

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment.

your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

October 10, 2025