StormborneLore

Tag: bible

  • After the Burning

    After the Burning

    Chronicles of Taranis / Thunorric Stormwulf
    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts

    The burning of the church was a sunrise to everyone who saw it. But to Thunorric, it was the opportunity he needed.
    In the confusion, he slipped the chains placed on him by the Sheriff of Tamworth. Then rode straight toward the shire of his birth. He was fully aware that he would now be hunted by the king’s riders. The Church, and any thief who wanted coin badly enough.

    His only hope for shelter was Rægenwine’s inn though even family can not be trusted. He never thought he would rely again on the man who betrayed him to the Romans. Then the man also betrayed him to the sheriff.

    He halted his horse on a green hilltop. Morning light poured through the trees, bathing the grass in gold.

    “War,” he murmured to the black stallion he’d stolen from a lord near Tettenhall Wood. “It’s going to be a wonderful day.”

    He urged the horse into Cannock Woods and vanished beneath the canopy.

    The Hunter in the Trees

    “Where there’s war, riot, and discord,” he muttered, “I’ll be front flank for all to see.”

    He found a small nook between the trees and dismounted, letting the stallion graze. The soft tread of his boots calmed him. A thin stream whispered nearby.

    He picked up a thick branch and began carving it into a weapon sharpening one end. Crossing another and moved quietly through the autumn leaves. When he spotted a deer drinking at the stream, a few swift blows brought the animal down. Soon a fire crackled beneath a great oak, and he began preparing the meat.

    “Cooked venison for now,” he said to himself, “and dried meat for days.”

    As he ate, he watched the woods for soldiers.

    His mind drifted to his brothers Dægan, Leofric, Eadric, and Rægenwine and to the nobles of Mercia and Wessex. All of whom would now curse his name. Demon. Devil. Stormwulf. Escaped again.

    He pictured the sheriff: a man of fifty, muscular and loud, barking orders with more anger than sense. Thunorric chuckled at the thought.

    But when he thought of his thirteen sons, his smile faded.
    The oldest five were old enough to serve. He’d given them his blessing.
    But the younger ones… they would have questions. Questions his brothers might not answer.

    The ache in his chest was sharper than any blade.

    Yet he was a wanted man a demon to the Church, a criminal to the king. After years of taking from the rich to feed villages starved by unfair taxes. He had earned little but their fear.

    The Black Shields his hidden movement would continue without him. They always had.

    He breathed in the scent of sweet leaves, wet earth, fungi, and old wood. All of which was fresher than the damp stinking cell the monks had held him in.

    He slept for a few hours. When he woke, dusk pressed against the trees.

    The Crossroads

    He mounted the stallion, wrapped a cloth over his face, and rode toward the crossroads. Where he had robbed the king’s carriages many times before.

    He spotted one now four horses, armed guards, and a noble family inside.

    Perfect.

    Thunorric burst from the treeline like a wolf, blade ready.
    The drivers panicked. One tried to lift a horn, but Thunorric struck first.

    He stabbed the driver in the arm and seized the reins, forcing the horses to halt.

    “Out. Yow get,” he barked.

    A beautiful lady froze as he pressed his blade to her neck.

    “Everything you’ve got. Hurry, or she dies.”

    “You can’t do this!” the older man shouted. “Do you know who I am?!”

    “Aye,” Thunorric said calmly. “But I don’t care. Give me what I want and live or I take it off your corpse.”

    “It’s him,” whispered one of the sons. “The demon.”

    In minutes, Thunorric had their clothes, weapons, and coin. He tied one of their horses to his saddle.

    “I’ll be kind,” he said with a smirk. “I’m only taking one.”

    As he rode away, the noble roared:

    “The king and the sheriff will hear of this!”

    Thunorric laughed.

    “Tell ’em the devil said vilis.”

    He galloped toward Moel-Bryn, changed into the stolen clothes, burned his old rags, cooked fresh meat. Then travelled through wind and rain toward Worcester.

    The Boy on the Road

    Just outside the city, a young man leapt from the shadows tall, muscular, dark-skinned, no more than sixteen winters old.

    “No one else here,” Thunorric said. “Just the Wolf of Rome. Alaric. Good to see your face. Any news?”

    “Plenty.” The boy’s Yorkshire accent was thick. “Your reward’s huge now. You’re declared outlaw.”

    “So?” Thunorric shifted his stance. “You going to take me down?”

    “Oh hell no.” Alaric snorted. “You’re the demon now. Staffordshire demon, some say Mercia demon. Others say death won’t let you rest. And besides I owe you my life. Figured if I warned you, debt’s paid?”

    Thunorric nodded once. “Debt paid. Thank you.”

    “May the gods be on your side,” Alaric called as Thunorric rode on.

    He reached his old home, washed, rested briefly, then rode west toward the Welsh border. Enough coin in his pocket to reach Spain if needed.

    Meanwhile at court, the half-naked noble boy from the robbed carriage arrived with his family. Guards tried not to chuckle.

    “Well then,” the king said, approaching, “dare I ask what happened?”

    “The demon,” the lord spat. “He stole everything and killed our driver.”

    Tamworth’s great hall echoed with uproar long before sunrise. Smoke curled along the rafters. The sheriff knelt before King Coenwulf, mud on his boots, throat bandaged.

    “The creature escaped your custody,” the king growled. “You let him burn an abbey and now he humiliates one of my lords.”

    “My lord… the storm”

    “The storm does not shatter bell towers,” Coenwulf snapped. “Men do.”

    “What do they call him now?”

    “Stormwulf, sire. Some say the Staffordshire demon. The Mercia demon.”

    Whispers spread. Hard men crossed themselves.

    Coenwulf did not.

    “Then let him be hunted,” he said. “Anyone who shelters him dies beside him. Anyone who brings me his head receives land, silver, and title.”

    He nodded to the scribe.

    “Write.”

    The vellum unfurled.

    “Let it be known throughout Mercia and the borderlands that Thunorric, called Stormwulf. outlaw and murderer, stands beyond the law of crown and Church.
    Taken dead or alive.
    Reward: one purse of gold for his body, two for his head.”

    A scarred hunter stepped forward.

    “I’ll bring your demon in chains.”

    Coenwulf nodded once.

    The hunt began.

    The Inn at the Border

    Thunorric crossed the last ridge before the Welsh border as dusk bled into the trees. The air tasted of rain and smoke.

    He approached the inn wedged between two standing stones. His brother Rægenwine’s inn the same man who had betrayed him twice.


    But Thunorric couldn’t blame him. The man had believed he was protecting the children.

    He tied the horse beneath the oak and stepped inside.

    Every sound died instantly.
    Tankards stopped in mid-air. Dice froze. The bard’s string snapped.

    “I’m not here for trouble,” Thunorric said, walking to the bar.

    Rægenwine looked up colour draining from his face.

    Thunorric lifted his hood just enough for the firelight to catch his eyes.

    “Rægenwine,” he said softly. “You’re forgiven.”

    “I… I didn’t expect that,” Rægenwine whispered.

    “Aye, well.” Thunorric stepped closer. “Don’t mistake forgiveness for trust.”

    “You have every right to hate me,” Rægenwine murmured.

    “I don’t hate you,” Thunorric said. “You did what you thought was right. Rome tricked you. They tricked many. But betrayal has a weight and you’ve paid more of it than you know.”

    Rægenwine swallowed. “You came back. That must mean something.”

    “It means the roads are crawling with hunters,” Thunorric said. “King’s men. Church men. Thieves hungry for silver. And I needed shelter only for an hour.”

    “You’ll have it,” Rægenwine promised. “I’ll turn away anyone who asks.”

    Thunorric’s smile was thin and dangerous.

    “If I wanted you dead, brother… you wouldn’t hear the door open.”

    Rægenwine bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to keep the children safe.”

    Thunorric exhaled. “Good. Now pour me a drink. The storm’s on my heels.”

    Rægenwine hurried, hands trembling.

    Thunorric turned to the Black Shields behind him.

    “Look after this inn,” he murmured. “And his family in my absence.”

    Just as the ale touched his hand, the door opened.

    Cold air.
    Wet leaves.
    Heavy, familiar footsteps.

    The Brothers Arrive

    Dægan and Leofric stepped inside.

    The inn froze again.

    Dægan tall, broad-shouldered, cloak the colour of storm-clouds, bearing the king’s mark.
    Leofric leaner, ink-stained hands, eyes like old winter, a scribe and warlock whose words carried as much weight as steel.

    Rægenwine bowed. “My lords… I didn’t know you were coming.”

    “You didn’t need to,” Dægan said calmly. “Where is he?”

    Leofric’s gaze drifted toward the back tables.

    “No need,” he murmured. “He’s here.”

    Dægan spotted him with the Black Shields.

    Thunorric didn’t turn.
    Didn’t flinch.
    Didn’t pause.

    “…and if you reach the ford by nightfall,” he said to the Shields, “light no fire. The hunters have dogs.”

    One Shield swallowed. “Wolf… your brothers”

    “I know,” Thunorric said. “I heard them the moment they stepped in.”

    He finally turned, smirking beneath his hood.

    “Well then,” he drawled, “if it ain’t the golden sons of Mercia.”

    Dægan stepped forward. “Brother, we need to talk.”

    Thunorric’s eyes gleamed.

    “About which part? The abbey burning? The king’s writ? Or the price on my head?”

    Leofric’s jaw tightened. “All of it. You’ve started a storm bigger than you realise.”

    Thunorric smiled slow and wolfish.

    “I didn’t start the darkest of storms,” he said.
    “I am the darkest of storms. Devourer of souls. Destruction at the end. Death and resurrection.”

    And the inn went silent the silence that comes before something breaks.

    ©2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All Rights Reserved.This work, including all characters, settings, lore, concepts, and text, is the original creation of E. L. Hewitt. No portion of this material may be reproduced, shared, reposted, copied, adapted, or distributed in any form. without prior written permission from the author.Unauthorized use, including AI reproduction of this text, is strictly prohibited.

    To read more on Taranis /Thunoric please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Iron Silence

    The Iron Silence

    The march south had stripped the world of meaning.
    Days blurred into rain and dust, dawn into dusk, until even time seemed shackled beside him.


    By the time they reached the Roman fort near Corinium, Taranis Storm no longer knew how many nights had passed.

    Only the rhythm of iron and boots. The murmur of Latin commands, and the distant echo of thunder in his bones.

    The fort loomed ahead stone and order built upon the bones of chaos.
    Walls cut sharp against the grey horizon, guarded by rows of pikes and men who moved like clockwork.
    To Taranis, it felt wrong. A place without wind, without life.

    Every sound was contained, controlled, sterile.
    Even the air smelled of discipline oil, smoke, and iron.

    The storm in him recoiled.

    They dragged him through the gates in chains. Soldiers gathered, curious and cautious. Some spat, others stared.
    Whispers followed him like ghosts daemon, barbarus, filius tempestatis.
    Son of the storm.

    He smiled faintly. They weren’t wrong.

    The cell they threw him into was little more than a pit of stone and shadow. The walls sweated damp, the floor slick with moss.


    Above, a slit of light cut through the dark too narrow to touch the ground.
    He sat in the half-dark, wrists raw and heavy with iron. The silence of Rome pressed close, cold and absolute.

    He did not pray.
    He waited.

    When the footsteps came, they came as they always did measured, deliberate, Roman.
    The door creaked open, spilling lamplight like a wound across the floor.

    Three entered.

    A centurion, broad and cold-eyed, his crimson cloak pristine even in the grime.
    A scribe, pale and thin, clutching a wax tablet as if it were a shield.


    And a woman cloaked, silent, her gaze as sharp as a blade. Her presence was wrong for this place; too poised, too knowing.

    “Taranis of the Stormborne,” the centurion began, voice clipped and ceremonial.

    “You stand accused of rebellion against Rome. The murder of imperial soldiers, and the disruption of trade along the Salt Road. Do you understand these charges?”

    Taranis raised his head. His hair hung in dark, tangled strands, but his eyes were steady the colour of gathering thunder.


    “I understand,” he said. “You’re afraid.”

    The scribe faltered mid-stroke. The centurion’s jaw tensed.
    Only the woman’s expression remained still.

    “You will answer with respect,” the Roman said.

    “I already have.”

    The blow came fast a strike across the face that turned his head with the sound of split skin.


    Taranis straightened slowly, blood sliding from the corner of his mouth.
    His stare did not break.

    The silence that followed was heavier than the hit.

    The woman stepped forward. When she spoke, her accent carried the soft inflection of the East Greek, or something older.


    “You fought well,” she said. “Even Rome admits that. There are ways to survive this. Serve us. Lead men under our banner. Take Roman land, a Roman name. You need only kneel.”

    Taranis smiled faintly, the expression more weary than cruel.


    “Rome offers gold to every man it fears. But my kind do not kneel. We weather.”

    She tilted her head slightly. “Weather breaks.”

    He met her eyes. “Only if it stops moving.”

    For the first time, something flickered in her expression curiosity, maybe even a trace of respect.


    The centurion, however, had no such patience. “Enough. He will be moved south to Londinium in three days. If he refuses Rome’s mercy, he will die as a slave.”

    The woman’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she turned away. “He won’t bend,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”

    They left him in the dark once more. The door slammed shut. The iron bolts fell into place.

    Taranis exhaled slowly. The air was thick with the scent of blood and damp stone.


    He tasted iron on his tongue metal, blood, defiance.


    The light from above had shifted again, sliding across the wall like the movement of time itself.

    He whispered, barely a sound.
    Not to gods, nor ghosts, but to the storm that still lived within his chest.
    It was quiet now, resting waiting.
    But it would come again.
    It always did.

    When the night settled deep, the sound of rain returned, gentle against the stones.


    In that rhythm, he found memory of his brothers’ faces in the torchlight. Drax’s steady eyes, Rayne’s trembling defiance, Draven’s silence.
    He had told them he would return.
    He intended to keep that promise.

    The fort around him slept in its illusion of control.


    But beyond the walls, clouds were gathering over the hills slow, patient, inevitable.

    The storm was not gone.
    Only waiting.

    © 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

  • Salt, Survival, and Roman Conquest in Britain

    Salt, Survival, and Roman Conquest in Britain

    A colorful hand-drawn illustration of a large symbol resembling a cross, outlined in vibrant colors including pink, purple, and green, set against a green background.

    When the Roman legions marched into Britain in AD 43 under Emperor Claudius, they did not find an empty land. They found a patchwork of proud tribes, each with its own rulers, gods, and customs.

    To the west of Watling Street lay the Cornovii, rooted in Shropshire and Staffordshire. To the south, around the salt-rich lands of Droitwich and Gloucestershire, stood the Dobunni. Both tribes would feel the weight of Rome’s advance.

    Salt and Survival

    Salt was life. It preserved food, healed wounds, and was as valuable as coin. The Romans renamed Droitwich Salinae and placed it under heavy control, taxing the salt trade and guarding it with military force.

    For the Celts, who had long drawn wealth from the brine springs, this was both a theft and an insult. To strike the salt routes was to strike at Rome itself.

    Resistance and Betrayal.

    Not all Britons resisted. Some tribal leaders saw the might of Rome and chose to make an alliance. They took Roman names, built villas, and dressed in the style of their conquerors.

    Others fought tooth and nail, their warriors painted, their gods called upon in the forests and on the hills. This clash between loyalty to tradition and the lure of Roman power split kin and tribe alike betrayal often hurt more than Roman swords.

    Gods of Two Worlds.

    The Romans rarely erased local gods. Instead, they blended them into their own pantheon.

    Taranis, Celtic god of thunder, was aligned with Jupiter, wielder of lightning.

    Sulis, worshipped at Bath, was merged with Minerva, goddess of wisdom.

    Even the war goddess Andraste found echoes in Roman Mars and Bellona.

    For many, this was a mask. Outwardly Roman, inwardly Celtic still. Temples rose with Latin names carved into stone, yet behind closed doors, the old rituals carried on offerings at sacred groves, whispered invocations at standing stones.

    Daily Life Under Rome.

    Markets bustled with pottery, wine, and oil imported from Gaul and Spain. Roman roads cut straight through the land, binding together forts, towns, and villas. Yet step off the road and you might still find Celtic roundhouses, farmers living as their ancestors had, and druids carrying wisdom that defied Rome’s order.

    Legacy.

    Celtic–Roman Britain was not either fully conquered or fully free. It was a place of merging, conflict, and uneasy coexistence. Rome imposed its order, but the spirit of the land the forests, the rivers, the stones still whispered the old names.

    For some, like the warriors of legend, this was a time of rebellion. For others, a time of survival. And for figures like Taranis Stormborne, also known as Storm caught between gods and men, Rome and Celt, it was the crucible that forged myths still told today.

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. 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.

  • A Child’s Destiny Unfolds

    A Child’s Destiny Unfolds

    My uncles and father stood within the sacred ring of fire. The smoke curling into the twilight sky as the elders sat in silence. Each wore the furs of their lineage, feathers braided with bone and bark, their eyes sharpened by decades of judgement. The fire crackled with unease not just heat, but the energy of something unseen, something stirring.

    Father stood tall, one hand resting on the haft of his ceremonial spear. He was prepared not just as a warrior, or chief, but as a father. A father standing between his blood and the storm.

    “Your son broke the sacred law,” spat Elder Bran, his voice like dry bark in winter. “He entered the hut of an ostracised man without escort. That law is older than your title, Chief Conan.”

    “He must be punished,” added Elder Tarn, slamming his staff into the scorched earth. “Compassion does not absolve disobedience. Rules are not bent for favoured blood.”

    A silence fell taut as a bowstring before Drax stepped ahead. Gaunt, but no longer wild, his words rang with clarity.

    “He saved my life.”

    Gasps and murmurs broke across the council. Even those who had long abandoned hope for Drax looked at him now with flickers of wonder, or wariness.

    “I would be dead if not for him,” Drax continued. “I felt it something leave me. A darkness burned away. I am… clear.”

    Lore moved to stand beside our father. “He is barely one year old,” he said. “Yet he speaks in tongues, walks like a hunter, and heals the broken with words no one taught him.”

    “This is what troubles us!” snapped Elder Ysra, rising in her many-layered cloak of ash and iron charms. “Power like this does not come without price. The last child marked by the storm brought famine, flood, and war.”

    “We do not know what mark he carries,” my father replied, eyes level. “But I will not see my son punished for compassion.”

    Ysra stepped ahead, face drawn like flint. “It was not just compassion. It was prophecy in motion. And prophecy unguarded is wildfire in a dry forest.”

    Behind them, Morrigan and Boldolph stood watch just beyond the fire’s reach. The black wolf growled low, a rumble of warning. while Morrigan’s gaze stayed fixed on the chief’s hut where Taranis slept, gripped by fever.

    The fire hissed and popped. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird called.

    Elder Bran raised his staff. “The child shall remain under close watch, isolated from others but housed within the chief’s care. He will be marked not as cursed, but as unknown. No more unsanctioned visits. If he breaches this again”

    “We will not exile a babe,” my father growled.

    “No,” said Ysra coldly. “But we may exile what grows inside him.”

    The flames danced higher, wind tugging at the circle as if the fire spirits themselves had stirred.

    Lore bowed his head slowly. “Then we shall walk the knife’s edge between reverence and fear. But mark my words if you turn on him too soon, you lose more than trust. You lose the only light left.”

    As the council slowly dispersed, dusk settled like a shroud. The camp held its breath. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet steps of retreating warriors broke the silence.

    Later, beneath the stars, young Nyx turned to our father. “So what happens now, Father?”

    “Isolation. No one speaks to him unless permitted. He’ll be watched not as punishment, but out of fear. They don’t understand what he is. And people fear what they do not understand.”

    “If we don’t talk to him… won’t that break him?”

    Conan’s voice was low. “That is what I fear most.”

    Just then, the elders returned with the boy. His fever had broken. Taranis walked unaided into the firelight, eyes drowsy but glowing faintly.

    “What is going on?” Conan asked, rising quickly.

    “He entered the eternal sleep,” Elder Ysra whispered. “But then… he came back.”

    Even the fire seemed to pause.

    Thank you for reading if you enjoyed please like, comment and subscribe for more.

    Futher Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

    The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

    Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.

    “No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”

    “Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”

    I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”

    I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.

    “We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”

    There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.

    “Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.

    “He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”

    “Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.

    Many moons passed.

    Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.

    But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.

    One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.

    Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.

    “L… Lore?” the baby said softly.

    I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”

    No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.

    Our parents rushed in.

    “Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”

    Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.

    “Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”

    “Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.

    “The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”

    “Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”

    “That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”

    “Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.

    “Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.

    “Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”

    I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”

    “Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”

    He paused, hiding his face bashfully.

    “You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”

    Time flew.

    Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.

    One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.

    “What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.

    “Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.

    “He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”

    Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.

    Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.

    “TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.

    “I heal!” he giggled.

    Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.

    We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

    Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.

    “I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”

    And in that moment, something ancient stirred.

    To be continued…

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
  • Stormborne: The Thirteenth Son and His Prophetic Naming

    Stormborne: The Thirteenth Son and His Prophetic Naming

    Abstract artwork depicting a mother and child figure in vibrant colors, with a celestial background and decorative elements.
    An artistic representation of a mother holding her baby, symbolizing love and protection, echoing the themes of warmth and celebration in the naming ceremony of Taranis Stormborne.

    The fire rose high, its heat warming us as we sang and danced around it.
    the Song of the Spirit carried on our voices.

    But beneath the music,
    there was a chill in the air,
    something wrong.
    something dark,
    as though a shadow had seeped into the world unseen.

    “My brother cried once, Father,” I said,
    pride swelling in my chest.
    “It was like he answered the thunder god himself.
    Even the wolves are silent.
    Even the dragon doesn’t strike.”

    I ran my fingers gently over Stormborne’s face.
    my baby brother, wrapped in warmth,
    calm in a world that seemed to hold its breath.

    Father War, chief of our people
    placed a strong hand on my shoulder.

    “I’ve noticed the strangeness too, Lore,” he said quietly.
    “But tonight we don’t fear each other’s company we embrace it.
    Tonight, my son, we celebrate.
    Tomorrow… we stand guard.”

    “Yes, Father,” I replied.
    “As you consider.”

    I stepped back and watched,
    as he and Mother approached the fire.
    They stepped ahead proud carrying Taranis wrapped in the freshly cut fox hide.
    its red fur a symbol of cunning and strength.

    War cleared his throat,
    lifted the baby high,
    and turned to face the tribe.

    “I name him Stormborne,” he said,
    “for he was born from the storm
    the thirteenth son, under thunder and fire.
    He will be a mighty warrior.”

    The people gathered close.

    One by one, they reached into the sacred ash. They marked the child’s forehead and chest black smudges to bind him to the tribe,to earth, flame, sky, and spirit.

    Food and drink flowed.
    Smoke curled into the sky.
    Even the animals gathered at the forest edge to witness the naming.

    So was born Taranis Stormborne
    the thirteenth son,
    the thunder child,
    and the one the winds would never forget.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Life and Prophecy: The Birth of Taranis Stormborne

    Life and Prophecy: The Birth of Taranis Stormborne

    Birth and Celebration

    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.

    The birth of Taranis Stormborne.

    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 Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded