Cancer – The Moon’s Tide explores the reflective and emotional nature of the water sign.
The layered lines and colours evoke ocean depths, shifting light, and the unseen pull of the moon. The rhythm that guides both sea and soul.Hand-painted in acrylics, part of the Zodiac Collection
by E.L. Hewitt / StormborneArts, celebrating the ancient connection between nature, stars, and spirit.
Like this piece? Explore the rest of the Zodiac Series or visit the shop to own your copy.
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.
By E. L. Hewitt — Stormborne Arts
Beneath the wind’s forgetting,
the sea keeps every name.
Two tides meet in silence,
each the other’s flame.
The moon pulls what was broken,
the shore recalls the pain.
Those who walk between them
are never quite the same.
For memory runs in water,
and truth sleeps in the deep .
wake not the storm’s reflection,
lest it wake what should not weep.
Double-Sided Rune Stones
Each of these stones is a true story-token, painted by hand and carrying dual worlds:
One side features a rune an ancient symbol steeped in Norse and Anglo-Saxon lore, each rune carrying its unique meaning.
The other side showcases my original art: landscapes, Celtic knots, flowers, suns, and symbols that breathe color and life into the rune’s energy.
Size: Approximately 2″ (~5 cm)
Medium: Acrylic paint and paint pens
Finish: Sealed for durability
Edition: Each one is signed, limited edition, and one-of-a-kind the colors and flow can never be precisely recreated.
These are offerings of gifts, blessings, and stories, each stone unique in its energy and meaning.
© 2025 Emma Hewitt – StormborneLore & StormborneArts. All rights reserved.
All artwork, paintings, rune stones, coasters, and writings here are original works by me. No part may be reproduced or used commercially without my written permission.
You’re welcome to share links for non-commercial purposes, with full credit to StormborneLore.co.uk.
The battle had turned.
Ash fell like snow across the field, and the cries of dying men echoed over blood-stained earth. Taranis stood at the crest of the hill, his blade soaked, his breath ragged, eyes scanning the fray. His cloak snapped behind him, storm-charged and wild.
Then he saw her.
A blur of red hair and steel.
She moved like fire unleashed cutting down two warriors with a rhythm so brutal it bordered on poetry. A deep scar crossed her cheek, fresh blood mingling with the old. Her spear spun once, twice, and buried itself in the chest of a man charging from behind.
She turned. Their eyes locked.
For a second, the war fell silent.
Taranis stepped forward. So did she.
They met in the no-man’s land between sides, blades raised not in anger, but instinct. Neither lowered their guard.
“You’re no foot soldier,” Taranis said, circling. “What are you?”
She didn’t smile, but her voice held a grin.
“I’m the reason you’re bleeding, warlord.”
He looked down. A shallow cut across his ribs. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I’d remember a woman like you,” he muttered, lowering his blade. “Name?”
“Nessa. And I don’t need saving.”
“I wasn’t offering,” he replied, “just watching the storm arrive.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think this is a storm?” She stepped closer. “You’ve not seen anything yet.”
Then — the horn blew. Her side was retreating. She looked over her shoulder, then back at him.
“I should kill you,” she said.
“You should,” Taranis agreed, “but you won’t.”
She held his gaze another heartbeat… then turned and ran, vanishing into smoke and flame.
He stood alone, the sound of her name still echoing behind his ribs like thunder.
A Week Later Riverbank Clearing
The village was in ruins blackened timbers, smoke curling from half-dead hearths. Survivors were few, and even they shrank from him as he passed. They whispered of a warrior woman who had held the bridge alone until the flames took her horse and half her shield arm.
Taranis followed the trail until it ended in a clearing by the river. And there she was.
Kneeling in the shallows, Nessa washed blood from her skin. Her armor was battered. Her shoulder bound with torn linen. But her spine was straight, and her hand never strayed far from the dagger at her hip.
“I should have known,” she said, not looking up. “Storms always return to the wreckage.”
Taranis didn’t smile.
“You survived.”
“I always do.” She rose, eyes sharp. “Here to finish what we didn’t start?”
He stepped forward. “I came to offer a truce.”
She scoffed. “Why? Because I didn’t kill you the first time?”
“No,” he said. “Because I want to know why you fight like a warrior, but bleed like someone with nothing left to lose.”
Her jaw clenched.
“You think you can read me, warlord? You think I’m one of your stories?”
“No,” Taranis said quietly, “but I know the look of someone trying to die just slowly enough to call it bravery.”
She drew her dagger, fast as lightning. Held it to his throat.
“Careful. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he said, unmoving. “Your people are scattered. Your command is gone. And yet you stood alone at that bridge for strangers.”
“That’s more than you’ve done lately,” she snapped. “You walk the land like a ghost and leave nothing behind but ashes.”
His hand rose not to his weapon, but to gently press her dagger aside.
“I’m tired of ghosts,” he said.
They stood there, breath mingling, battle-scarred and burning.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them lowered their guard.
But the space between them began to change.
“Besides I fight for those I deem worthy. That includes the people of Emberhelm.” Taranis smirked. “You’ve shown me you’re a friend of Emberhelm.”
He extended his hand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Taranis,” he said. “Who are you, my lady?”
“Nessa.”
That night, the people of Emberhelm feasted beneath the stars.
Lammas the first harvest was a time of bread and song, fire and gratitude. Children danced between torches, and the scent of roasted grain filled the cooling air. Drums echoed off the stones, old and deep, like the heartbeats of the land itself.
Taranis stood at the edge of it all, watching, half in shadow. Nessa leaned against a pillar beside him, arms folded, hair loose from its braid.
“I thought you’d be dancing,” he said.
“I don’t dance for tradition,” she replied. “Only for survival. Or joy.”
“Is this not joy?”
She looked around. The laughter. The flames. The peace however temporary.
“Maybe.”
A silence fell between them, not awkward, just heavy with the unspoken.
“Come with me,” she said at last.
No orders. No questions. Just a truth spoken plainly.
He followed.
They slipped from the celebration like ghosts, weaving through the orchard paths behind Emberhelm. The air was thick with ripening apples and the hum of distant music. When they reached the old stone lodge near the outer walls, she pushed the door open with one hand and led him in without a word.
There were no declarations.
No romance wrapped in flowers or oaths.
Only need.
Their bodies met like storm and flame fast, urgent, tangled with the memory of battle and the ache of survival. There was laughter when his armor refused to loosen, curses when her hair caught on his clasp, and a growl low in his throat when she bit his shoulder hard enough to mark.
Neither knew what the next day would bring. That was why it mattered.
That night, they made love like warriors with a fierceness born of loss and the tenderness of those who had bled for strangers.
Later, tangled in furs, the fire crackling low, she lay with her head against his chest.
“If I die tomorrow,” she murmured, “I’ll die warm.”
“You won’t,” he said, but his fingers curled tighter around her waist.
Outside, the stars burned cold and bright, and the first autumn wind began to stir.
He placed his hand gently on her belly.
“You and my son will live.”
The next morning, the Ring summoned Taranis.
The gold circle at the council stones shone under a pale sky. Thirteen seats twelve filled. Lore was already speaking when Taranis entered, his voice low but urgent.
As he took his place, Nessa moved through the old halls of Emberhelm alone, her instincts sharp. Her step slowed when she passed the northern storeroom. Voices carried.
Rayne.
“We wait until the snows. When the passes are blocked, and he’s far from Emberhelm, we strike. The Ring will fall without him.”
Another voice, unsure. “He’s your brother.”
“Which is why I know his weakness.”
Nessa froze, the words burning into her mind.
Betrayal was coming.
And she was carrying the only thing that might save him.
© 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.
FUTHER READING
They rode the wind before the fire,
Two shadows in the dying light.
Draven, bold with wrath in hand,
Rain, the whisper wrapped in night.
They vanished where the moors grow cold.
Where Black Claw banners stain the sky,
No horn was blown, no tale was told,
Only silence dared reply.
Some say the claw took brother’s breath,
Chained their spirits to the stone.
Others claim they walk the wilds,
Stormborne blood, but all alone.
Did the lightning call them homeward?
Did the wolves not hear their cry?
Taranis burns beneath their stars,
Yet still no answer from on high.
But we remember, night and flame,
Those brothers lost, not truly gone.
Until the final howl is sung
The Stormborne line goes on.
© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.
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 would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax
If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne
If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed
I once wore skin like warriors do,
A man of blade, of blood, of pride.
But pride turned sour, and wrath I knew,
Till wolf became the shape I hide.
My Morrigan, lost in fur and bone,
Her eyes still see the stars I swore.
We haunt the edge, we roam alone,
Two cursed hearts that hunt no more.
But when the babe was cast to pine,
Alone beneath the howling wind,
I made an oath this soul is mine.
I’ll guard him where no love has been.
Let fire fall, let time undo,
Let gods forget the names they gave.
So long as breath remains in you,
I am the shadow that will not cave.
The Naming
The women of the tribe had already begun preparing the celebration.
Only the finest foods would be offered on this special night the night of my brother’s birth.
In the woods, the younger children laughed as they filled baskets with berries, blackberries and raspberries, bilberries (wild blueberries).
elderberries (cooked only), hawthorn berries, rose hips, crab apples, and sloes from the blackthorn.
Their chatter echoed with pride
a new life meant strength for the tribe.
The women worked in quiet rhythm.
Hazelnuts, acorns (leached to remove tannins), beech nuts, pine nuts, and the seeds. Young leaves of nettles
were piled high beside bundles of wild garlic and sacred greens.
I saw my mother’s sister lay a sprig of rosemary at the fire. Not for seasoning but for blessing.
“Hey, young Lore,” someone called, grinning.
“You coming hunting? Father says we’re after red deer and boar, fox, grouse, even river salmon. Only the finest meats for your mother and father. A new chieftain has been born!”
“Father’s naming him tonight? I’m coming!” I said, breath quickening.
I tried to keep the smile off my face, but it broke through anyway.
I was seventeen — broad-shouldered, proud, still hungry to prove myself.
I grabbed my spear and cast a glance back at my brothers and father.
our father, stood straight as an ash tree his expression unreadable.
Part of him was already in the cave, beside my mother and the child.
The rest of him… watched the woods.
I ran to join the others, my heart pounding. Together, we hollered and sprinted into the deep forest
a forest older than memory.
But as our laughter faded behind us,
a silence settled.
And then…
that chill again.
Not the kind that comes with wind or storm. No, this cold was the kind that clung to your bones. The kind that made birds quiet and your breath feel too loud.
Something was watching.
But nothing moved.
Still, we pressed on.
The Naming Feast had to be worthy.
“I hope he survives,” I muttered, trying to sound casual but Nyx heard the worry in my voice.
“Drax is furious,” he said under his breath.“He thinks the prophecy’s come true.”
He didn’t say what the prophecy meant but we both knew the stories.
A child born under eclipse.
A name written in fire.
A brother… destined to break us or save us.
Suddenly, Nyx raised a hand.
A deer just ahead.
I nodded once, crouched low, and let my spear fly.
A perfect strike.
Nyx gave the bird-call whistle to alert his father. We hauled the carcass back to camp together.
The others returned soon after.
The fire was lit. The meat laid out.
Herbs were thrown onto the flames
and their smoke curled skyward.
in a spiral that reminded me of a dragon’s breath.
Tonight, my baby brother would be named.
But even as the tribe gathered in joy.
I couldn’t shake the feeling
that something was coming through the trees.
© written by ELHewitt
Further Reading
The rest of us stepped back.
Father’s eyes had changed
flashing a pale shade of red.
Thunder cracked as he stepped into the cave. Ready to lay eyes on Mother and the newborn she had fought to bring into the world.
We stood behind him in silence,
all of us but one.
One brother, whose eyes held no joy.
Only fear.
Only the taste of blood.
“Thirteenth son of the thirteenth son,” he muttered.
“Born during a storm… and an eclipse.
Even the dragons have fallen silent.
And the wolves, they’ve stopped howling.”
Just then, as if the forest itself heard hima sound split the trees in two.
Boldolph.
His howl rose like thunder turned voice,
a cry so powerful the very air seemed to flinch.
At his side stood Morrigan,
his bonded mate white as new snow.
She gave a low, haunting cry
and pressed her head gently against his.
Then the dragon stirred.
It lifted its head,
wings stretching wide like a storm reborn.
And with a roar that lit the sky,
it rose.
Fire molten and blinding
erupted from its throat,
painting the clouds in gold and crimson.
And there, across the eclipsed heavens, the name appeared.
TARANIS.
Burning.
Brilliant.
Undeniable.
As if the stars,
the storm,
and the breath of the gods themselves
had spoken as one:
This child is no curse.
He is chosen.
© StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Further Reading
They say it happened on the edge of the fire season. When the trees stood crisp as tinder and the sky was low with storm breath. The boy was no longer just a boy then not quite a man, not quite a ghost. They called him Taranis Stormborne, though none dared speak it aloud after what he did that day.
He had been wandering for days with Boldolph limping and Morrigan stalking ahead like a shade. Hunger bit at them, sharp and constant. The streams were low, and even the birds had gone quiet. But it was not food that found them first it was smoke.
Taranis crouched low in the bracken and smelled it before he saw it: the reek of burning pitch, not wildfire. Deliberate. He motioned with his hand, and the wolves flanked him in silence. Through the underbrush, he saw it the den.
Nestled beneath the roots of an ancient yew was a she-wolf, panting, bloodied, and gravid with life. Around her lay ash and ruin. Two men not of Taranis’s tribe circled the den with torches and stone axes. Laughing. Taunting.
One of them stepped too close, and the she-wolf lunged. He clubbed her across the snout, and she crumpled, still breathing. Taranis felt something stir in his chest something hot and ancient, older than exile.
“She has done no wrong,” he muttered to the wind. “Then why do I burn?”
He rose from the bracken like thunder. The wolves ran with him, all teeth and fury. The first man turned and Taranis’s spear was already flying. It found flesh.
The second man screamed, torch raised but Morrigan leapt, black shadow, and his cry was cut short. The woods howled then, louder than wolves, louder than any storm. A torch dropped. The dry brush caught.
Flame leapt into the canopy.
Taranis didn’t run.
He tore the yew’s roots apart with bleeding hands and dragged the she-wolf to safety. Boldolph howled into the fire’s roar, guiding him. He covered her with his own cloak and stood between her and the blaze, smoke pouring into his lungs.
When the fire passed, the glade was scorched, the sky blackened and the she-wolf was alive.
She gave birth beneath the ashes, three pups whimpering in the smoldering earth.
One with a streak of red across its back. One with golden eyes. One with fur white as ash.
They say those pups were no ordinary wolves. They say the Phoenix’s line began that night the fire born. The storm guided, the ones who would follow only him.
But when Taranis rose from the ruin. His face black with soot and eyes like lightning, the people stopped calling him cursed.
They called him something else.
Stormfire.
Brother of Wolves.
Protector of the Ashborn.
© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.
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