Category: FolkLore,

  • The Enigmatic Black Leaper: A Tale of Freedom and Myth

    The Enigmatic Black Leaper: A Tale of Freedom and Myth

    A dramatic illustration of the Black Leaper, a mythical black horse, leaping above a tranquil lake surrounded by green trees, with a sun shining in the sky above.
    The Black Leaper soaring over the serene lakes of Chistlyn, embodying the spirit of freedom and magic.

    They say that if you stand by the lakes of the Chistlyn at sunrise. Before the mist has fully lifted, before the birds dare to break the quiet you hear it.

    A single, heavy exhale.
    Like the world itself taking a breath.

    From the tree line emerges the Black Leaper. A spirit-steed older than the villages around Cannock Chase, older than the Forest Kings, older even than the Stormborne line.

    Its coat is the colour of midnight after rain, slick and shifting like a storm cloud gathering its strength.

    When it moves, the air warms with the scent of wet grass and pine sap. The ground trembles just enough to remind you that it is real.

    Some say the Leaper was once a war horse belonging to a forgotten chieftain.

    A beast so fiercely loyal that it refused to pass on when its master fell. Others whisper that it is no creature of this world at all. But a guardian born from the lake’s deepest waters, shaped from moonlight, fog, and old magic.

    Whatever the truth, one thing is certain:
    the Black Leaper does not walk. It flies.

    Witnesses speak of the thunder of hooves striking the earth for only a heartbeat. Before the creature rises, soaring over lakes and treetops in a single, impossible leap.

    Many who see it feel a sudden pull in their chest . As if the horse carries every unspoken longing for freedom with it.

    This artwork captures the creature in that moment between worlds.
    When the sun glows warm on its back, the wind twists its mane into wild ribbons. The forest watches in held breath as the guardian crosses the sky.

    Some believe the Leaper appears only to those who feel trapped or lost.
    Others say it is a sign of protection, a reminder that the path ahead is wider than it seems.

    Authors Note : Chistlyn is the Anglo Saxon name for what is now known as Cheslyn Hay.

    For the artists or those interested. The drawing was drawn using Ohuhu Markers on A4 plain paper.

    I wonder if the Black Leaper passed you by, what would it be urging you to run toward. Or away from?

    Thank you for reading, if you have enjoyed this story or like the illustrations. Please support me by liking and follow.

    Further stories can be found at

    Chronicles of Draven

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Unlocking Ancient Powers: Lore Stormborne’s Awakening

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    You can find more art on

    Stormborne Arts

  • 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

  • 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

  • Whispers from the Sea

    Whispers from the Sea

    Written by
    emma.stormbornelore

    The wind off the coast carried a strange scent that morning salt, smoke, and something older.


    Drax Stormborne stood upon the cliffs of Caerwyn. His cloak drawn tight, eyes narrowed toward the southern horizon where the sea met the clouds. The gulls wheeled low, uneasy, their cries sharp against the stillness.

    Behind him, his second-in-command approached, boots crunching on frost-slick stone. “Another ship’s gone missing,” the man said quietly. “Roman, they say. A patrol near Carthage. The reports claim a storm took it.”

    Drax didn’t turn. “A storm,” he repeated, voice low. “Or something that wears its name.”

    The man hesitated. “You think it’s him?”

    For a moment, only the wind answered. Then Drax’s gloved hand closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers tracing the worn leather grip. “Taranis never drowned easy,” he murmured. “If the Empire bleeds at sea, then he’s drawing the blade.”

    He moved to the edge of the cliff, gazing down at the waves hammering the rocks below. The sea had always been Rome’s pride a wall of conquest, a promise of control. But now it whispered rebellion.

    “Send word to the northern outposts,” Drax said. “Quietly. Tell them the Black Shields move again. No banners. No noise. Just watch the tide.”

    The officer nodded and left, his footsteps fading into the mist.

    Alone, Drax drew his sword, holding it toward the sea. The steel caught the dawn light, flashing gold for a heartbeat like lightning beneath the clouds.

    “Brother,” he said softly, as the first drops of rain began to fall. “If the storm returns… then so do I.”

    The thunder answered, rolling like distant drums of war.

    The Empire called it weather.
    The Stormborne called it warning.

    © 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.

  • Transformative Stone Age Fish Recipe from Worcestershire

    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.”

  • Rayne: Master of Shadows and Discord

    Rayne: Master of Shadows and Discord

    They call him the storm, the unbroken one, but they do not see the cracks beneath the surface. I do. I have always seen.

    From the shadows of Rome’s streets to the secret alleys where whispers become currency, I move like a shadow with purpose. The Black Shields rise under Taranis, but they are not invincible and I am patient. One misstep, one flicker of hesitation, and the scales will tip.

    My brothers do not trust me nor should they. Loyalty is a chain, and I have never been bound. Drax enforces law. Lore watches omens. Taranis commands storms. And I… I navigate the spaces in between, sowing discord where it will serve me best, testing their strength, and waiting for the moment the tide shifts in my favor.

    Rome believes in its security, its arenas, its chains. Let them. I move unseen, the quiet question mark, the shadow that unsettles even the bravest hearts.

    “Every storm has a fissure. Every chain a weak link. And I will find them.”

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  • Echoes of War: Secrets of the Ash-Strewn Shore

    Echoes of War: Secrets of the Ash-Strewn Shore

    Whispers Across the Sea

    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.

    © 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.

    further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Exile and Legends: The Story of Taranis and His Chains

    Exile and Legends: The Story of Taranis and His Chains

    The Echoes of Chains

    A hundred years had passed since the storm was bound.


    A hundred winters since Taranis Stormborne’s chains had sung beneath Rome’s hand yet still, his name whispered across the camps and the courts like a ghost too proud to fade.

    In the hall of the Legion’s veterans, laughter rose among the embers.
    Drax, Draven, and Lore sat together with old friends, all bound by immortality, all marked by the centuries. The world had changed around them Rome had fallen, risen, and reshaped itself but some wounds did not age.

    “They want to see how far they can push him before he dies,” one of the legionnaires said, swirling wine dark as blood in his cup. “The Empire’s still obsessed with him. Calls him champion now.”

    Draven’s brow arched. “Champion?” he repeated, half with scorn, half with disbelief. “The Emperor’s champion? Then he’s no prisoner he’s a prize.”

    Another man leaned closer, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face. “Word is they’ll grant him exile. An island of his own. Somewhere the storms never touch.”

    Lore laughed softly though there was no warmth in it. “Exile,” he said. “Rome’s mercy always comes wrapped in iron.”

    Marcos older than them all, though untouched by time raised his cup. “Your brother’s no man anymore,” he said quietly. “He’s a story they can’t kill. A weapon they don’t understand.”

    The hall fell silent. Only the fire spoke a low hiss, a breath of smoke curling upward.

    A woman’s voice, cool as silver, broke the quiet. Calisto, immortal like the brothers, leaned against the pillar’s shadow. “Calisto owns your brother now,” she said. “Gladiator. Slave. Sold to noble women to keep their beds warm and their secrets buried.”

    Draven’s hand tightened on the table. “You speak lies,” he growled.

    Marcos shook his head slowly. “Not lies. Rome believes a man can be broken if he’s humiliated long enough.” His eyes darkened. “They never understood what blood he carried.”

    Drax stared into the fire, jaw set like stone. “Then they’ve forgotten what happens when storms remember,” he murmured.

    Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the hills distant, but coming closer.

  • The Long Game

    The Long Game

    “Mother, Father,” Caelum said quietly, his small hands trembling as he stepped into the firelight. “I saw him. My uncle chained in every way. I gave him the bowl of food.”

    The words fell like stones into still water. Even the fire’s crackle softened, as if the hearth itself held its breath.

    Lady Maerin rose from her chair, skirts whispering against the flagstones. “You saw him?” she whispered. “How, Caelum? How did they let a child so near?”

    Caelum swallowed hard. “The guards… they didn’t care. Uncle Marcos said it would ‘toughen me.’ He said I should learn what happens to men who defy Rome.” His gaze darted to Drax. “But Uncle Taranis he wasn’t broken, Father. Not like they said.”

    Drax’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists against the edge of the table. “Go on,” he said, voice low.

    Caelum’s eyes glistened in the glow of the fire. “He was hurt… bleeding. But he looked at me and smiled. He told me not to cry. He said” the boy’s voice faltered, “he said you’d come for him. That you’d want to. But he warned me… he said if you launch a rescue, they’ll make everyone suffer. If he escapes, they’ll make us all suffer. He said” Caelum’s voice broke. “He said to play the long game.”

    A silence followed that seemed to swallow the world.

    Lady Maerin’s breath hitched. “He’s thinking of us, even now,” she whispered. “Even in chains.”

    Drax rose slowly, the fire casting bronze and gold across his face. He moved to the window, where the mist pressed thick against the glass. Outside, thunder murmured faintly across the hills. He stared toward the south toward the Roman fort where his brother sat in chains.

    “The long game,” Drax repeated, the words rasping like steel drawn from a scabbard. “He means patience. Observation. Wait… and strike when the empire’s eyes are elsewhere.”

    Caelum nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “He said storms don’t break, Father. They change the sky.”

    A small, aching smile ghosted across Drax’s lips. “Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like him.”

    Behind him, Maerin’s voice was brittle as frost. “And what will you do, my lord? Wait… while they bleed him dry?”

    Drax turned, shadows shifting across his face. “I’ll do what he asks. For now.” His eyes hardened. “But when the storm comes when it truly comes not even Rome will stand in its path.”

    Lightning flashed through the mist. Illuminating the valley below and for a heartbeat, the clouds took the shape of wings unfurling above Emberhelm.

    Caelum hesitated before speaking again. “Father… are they poisoning Uncle Taranis?”

    Drax turned sharply. “What?”

    Caelum’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s not eating what they give him. He said the food tastes wrong.”

    The fire crackled louder then, as if stirred by an unseen wind. Drax’s gaze darkened.


    “Then Rome has already begun its slow killing,” he said softly. “But storms, Caelum…”


    He looked toward the thunder rolling in the distance.


    “…storms have a way of purging poison from the earth.”