Beneath the hill the silence waits,
its heart of light unshown.
Each colour marks a life once lived,
each echo carves a stone.
The arch is more than passage
it’s promise, vow, and keep.
For those who cross in reverence
wake what should not sleep.
E. L. Hewitt, Stormborne Arts
Roots in shadow, deep they wind,
Binding earth to blood and time.
Branches blaze where sun and moon
Kiss the sky in red and rune.
Leaves of gold and leaves of flame,
Each one whispers Stormborne’s name.
Wolves lie sleeping at its base,
Dragons coil through time and space.
Circle silver, circle stone,
Mark the heart the gods have sown.
Life unbroken, death denied,
Storm’s own oath, the tree provides.
By Elhewitt
Further Reading
Beneath the yew where shadows creep,
Old gods stir in their ancient sleep.
Wind through branches, low and deep,
Carries secrets the earth will keep.
The raven circles, black wings wide,
The wolf runs silent by my side.
The stream remembers, the hills confide,
That nothing of spirit can truly hide.
Time bury, kings fall,
The cross rise, the legions call.
Yet still the oak, the ash, the hall
Of memory holds us, one and all.
So walk the path where twilight sings.
Where death is end, yet also brings
The turning wheel, the flight of wings
The soul reborn in endless rings.
© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.
Where the moon hides his face
and the wind smells of rain,
rides the man with no name
on the blood-dark plain.
No banner he bears,
no kin’s colours to show,
yet the fire in his eyes
makes the battle-wolves know.
He strikes in the fords,
and the rivers run red,
he burns the long spears
where the warriors bled.
The ships in the harbour
find flame in the tide,
and the gates of Dun Rath
stand broken and wide.
By feast hall or fort,
none escape from his hand,
for the Black Shield rides
where the outlaws stand.
Ask not his name,
nor the oath he has sworn,
for the storm takes the rider
and leaves only the morn.
© 2025 StormborneLore – From the Bardic Archives of Caernath
Hear me, hearth-folk and warriors,
for I speak of the High Warlord who walks the storm.
His name is Taranis Stormborne,
breaker of oaths, rider of wolves
whose eyes burn like embers.
He has raided the corn
from the winter barns,
struck down chiefs
beneath the peace banner,
and set fire to groves where the gods were honoured.
The druids name him outlaw;
the kings demand his head on a spear.
Yet the warbands whisper,
his name in the night,
and some would follow him,
even into the jaws of death.
If his banner rises in your valley,
bar your gates and guard your herds,
for where the Stormborne passes,
the thunder will follow and the land will not rest.
For Rayne and the Healers of Dawn
If I fall, let me fall,
where the light still touches bark,
where elderflowers whisper secrets,
to the bees who dare return.
I will not fight with flame.
I have no sword but kindness,
no shield but truth.
My wounds are many,
but I dress them with honey.
Even the broken bloom
if the morning is gentle enough.
We do not strike first
we remember.
We remember what it was like
to be left behind,
and we vow never
to let another wake alone.
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
By Elhewitt
I was chained but not broken,
beaten but not bowed.
The fire marked my silence,
the storm made it loud.
I do not kneel for tyrants,
nor gods who curse the flame.
My name was born in thunder
and I rise to wear that name.
Let them come with shackles,
with blades and masks of war.
I have walked through death already
and I do not fear it anymore.
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
further Reading
They buried him where the roots run deep,
beneath a sky that would not speak.
No stone, no name, no parting word
just silence where the storm once stirred.
But we are not gods,
nor men who flee.
We are wolves,
and wolves still see.
I smelled his blood.
I heard his cry.
I knew the truth,
he did not die.
They called him beast,
then cast him low
but ash does not forget the glow.
So we dug with fang,
with heart, with howl,
we marked the traitors, bone and soul.
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
They said he was born of a storm,
but I found him in chains,
skin split by the lash,
eyes empty, yet still watching.
They called him exile.
They called him cursed.
They called him meat for wolves.
But wolves do not howl for cowards.
He did not beg.
He did not speak unless commanded.
Even when the whip cracked bone,
he stood until he dropped.
I gave him no mercy,
only water, only duty.
And still, he rose.
He refused the kill.
Said, “No one’s worthless.”
In that moment,
he was worth more than the son of kings.
I do not love the boy.
But I will make him a blade.
The gods have already tempered his soul.
I am only the fire.
© 2025 E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore.co.uk
Further Reading
They say he walked from firelight,
With ash upon his skin,
A blade of bone across his back,
And fury deep within.
Not born of storm or gentle dawn,
But hammered in the night,
He came with eyes like hollow coals,
That burned without a light.
The slaves all knew his heavy tread,
It echoed like a drum.
No chain he wore upon his wrists,
Yet none dared see him come.
He did not speak of mercy,
Nor weep for those who bled,
But every boy he trained in war,
Would rise where cowards fled.
His voice, they said, could bend the spine,
And set the strong to heel,
Yet once they saw him face the dark,
They whispered he could feel.
A storm stood waiting at his door,
A curse upon his name,
Yet Grael did not flinch or fall,
He taught the dark to shame.
They built no shrine in Grael’s name,
No songs the bards recite,
But in the hearts of those he forged,
He walks with them through fight.
©2025written and crested ELHewitt All rights reserved.This poem is part of the StormborneLore collection.No part of this work may be reproduced, copied, or distributed without permission, except for brief quotations with proper credit.
Further Reading
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