Tag: British folklore

  • 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

  • The Weight of Emberhelm

    The Weight of Emberhelm

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    The fires in Emberhelm burned low, their glow tracing the hall’s carved beams in dull amber. Outside, wind howled through the moors, carrying the echo of the horn that had once called the clans to war. Now it was only memory.

    Lord Drax Stormborne sat alone in the council chamber, a single goblet of wine untouched beside him. The maps and missives lay strewn across the oak table. Roman reports, messages from border scouts, pleas for grain from villages too frightened to send men to market.

    He had not slept. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams brought Taranis.

    His brother’s face haunted him not in death, but in defiance. Bound, bloodied, yet unbroken. There was strength in that memory, but guilt too.

    “You always were the fire,” Drax murmured, voice low. “And I the stone that smothered it.”

    A faint shuffle broke the silence. Caelum lingered at the doorway, unsure if he was welcome. “Father,” he said softly. “Marcos sent word. The Romans will move east toward the river forts. He says it’s only a patrol.”

    Drax’s lips curved into something that have been a smile. “Marcos says many things to make Rome sound smaller than it is.”

    He rose, the movement slow, heavy with sleepless weight. “Tell the men to prepare rations, but not weapons. We will not meet them with steel not yet.”

    Caelum hesitated. “Uncle Taranis wouldn’t wait.”

    “No,” Drax said, turning toward the window, where mist swirled over the dark moorlands. “He would burn the world to free one man. I must keep the world standing long enough for him to have one to return to.”

    The boy nodded but did not understand. Few ever would.

    Drax rested his hands on the cold stone sill, the wind tugging at his hair. Somewhere beyond the horizon, his brother still fought, still endured. And Drax the eldest, the anchor bore the burden of every storm that raged beyond his reach.

    “Forgive me, brother,” he whispered to the wind. “I keep the hearth burning, not because I’ve forgotten you… but because I know you’ll come back to it.”

    Further Reading

    The Chronicles of Drax

  • Drax the Dragonball.

    Drax the Dragonball.

    A Stormborne Skysport!

    The sun dipped low over the hills, turning the sky the colour of old bronze. A warm wind blew across the half-built hillfort, stirring the campfire embers and the occasional ego.

    Out from the shadow of the forge strutted Drax, shoulders broad, beard wild, and eyes gleaming with mischief.

    “I’m riding Pendragon,” he announced to no one and everyone. “You can’t be the only rider, runt.”

    Taranis, seated by the fire with a hunk of roasted meat in hand, didn’t even flinch. He just raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure Pendragon will love that.”

    From the ridge above, the mighty dragon shifted. Pendragon, ancient and noble, snorted in what can only be described as pre-emptive disappointment.

    Next to him, Tairneanach. The younger storm dragon, lowered his head as if already bracing for whatever chaos was about to unfold.

    Drax clapped his hands. “Let’s fly, beasts!”

    “Hey Pendragon, Tairneach,” Taranis called, struggling not to laugh. “Drax thinks he’s got wings.”

    With an exaggerated swagger. Drax tried to climb up Pendragon’s massive side promptly slipping and landing flat on his back with a grunt.

    Pendragon groaned like a disgruntled horse and used his wing like a shovel. As he started lifting Drax back onto the saddle with a firm thwap.

    “Thank you!” Drax wheezed, trying to sit upright. “See? We’re bonding!”

    Pendragon gave Tairneanach a long look. The younger dragon’s eyes gleamed. The mischief had begun.

    With a mighty roar, the dragons launched into the sky, wings tearing through the clouds. At first, it was majestic. Drax whooped with delight, arms raised, his braids flying.

    “This is incredible!” he bellowed. “I am one with the storm!”

    And then Pendragon did a barrel roll.

    Drax did not.

    He flew off the saddle like a sack of meat and bellowed curses all the way down.

    “OH YOU BLOODY SCALY!”

    Before he could hit the ground. Tairneanach swooped in like a feathered bolt of lightning. Catching Drax by the back of his tunic with a precise claw.

    “Thanks!” Drax wheezed again, now dangling like a trussed boar over a bonfire.

    But the game wasn’t over.

    Pendragon arced around and opened his claws mid-air. Tairneanach, with a playful screech, tossed Drax into the air like a sack of barley.

    “WHAT IN THE STONE-FORSAKEN” Drax spun mid-air.

    Pendragon caught him.

    Then tossed him again.

    Taranis stood below, hands on hips, watching the two dragons play catch with his brother.

    “This is fine,” he muttered. “Completely normal.”

    The wolves Boldolph and Morrigan lay nearby watching with what only be described as smug amusement. Morrigan even wagged her tail once.

    Up above, Drax was shouting at both dragons.

    “NOT THE EARS! I NEED THOSE! I’M A COMMANDER, DAMMIT!”

    But they didn’t listen.

    Pendragon looped. Tairneanach flipped. Drax flailed.

    Eventually, they deposited him gently but with zero dignity onto a hay bale just outside the fort walls. He rolled off, dizzy, covered in ash, and missing one boot.

    Taranis walked over and offered him a hand.

    “Still think you’re a rider?”

    Drax groaned. “I think… I’ll stick to walking.”

    As Taranis helped him up. Pendragon landed behind them with a smug puff of smoke. while Tairneanach gave a playful chuff and nudged Drax’s remaining boot onto his head.

    “Great,” Drax muttered. “Now they’re comedians too.”

    Taranis grinned. “Just be glad they like you. If they didn’t, you’d be inside a mountain right now.”

    Drax groaned again, then started laughing. “Alright, alright dragons win.”

    And from that day on, the fort echoed not only with the sounds of battle and building but with laughter.

    Because sometimes, even a Bloodbound Commander needs to get tossed around by dragons to stay humble.

    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

  • Building the Hillfort: A New Era Begins

    Building the Hillfort: A New Era Begins

    The hillfort rose like a scar upon the earth raw, unfinished, powerful in its promise.

    Stones clattered as men worked shoulder to shoulder. Logs were rolled into place, lashed with thick rope and secured by wedges of bone and bronze. Children ran between the scaffolds, delivering water or watching with wide eyes as their future took shape.

    It was a day like no other.

    The sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden sheen across the half-built wall. Birds circled above, uneasy. The animals in the nearby woods had gone silent.

    Sir Gael, the oldest warrior among the fort’s guardians, paused to wipe sweat from his brow. His grey-streaked beard was heavy with dust. He glanced upward, his hand stilled mid-motion.

    “Commander Drax,” he said, his voice strangely calm. “Look.”

    Drax turned his shoulders broad, his eyes as sharp as the spear he carried.

    Above them, the sky split.

    A roar echoed across the valley not of wind, nor beast, but something far older. The builders dropped their tools. The children froze. Heads tilted toward the heavens.

    The clouds churned as if afraid. And from them, something vast and terrible descended.

    A dragon.

    Wings wide as the river’s span. Scales that shimmered with green, gold, and a glint of crimson. Pendragon, King of the Sky. A creature from legend — spoken of in firelit whispers and dream-songs passed down by the Flamekeepers.

    And on his back rode a man.

    Tall. Armoured in blackened bronze. A red cloak fluttered behind him like a banner of blood and flame. His grey eyes gleamed with the fury of storms.

    Taranis Stormborne.

    The exiled boy. The returning myth. The High Warlord.

    Sir Gael dropped to one knee. The others followed not out of fear, but reverence.

    “Is it truly him?” someone whispered.

    A small girl tugged at her father’s tunic. “Daddy… is he the one the Seer spoke of?”

    Her father a scarred builder named Halvor looked to Drax for guidance.

    Drax did not speak at first.

    He simply nodded.

    “It’s possible, young one.”

    The dragon roared again. Pendragon spiralled downward, his wings churning the air so fiercely that dust clouds rose from the hilltop. Yet the High Warlord stood unshaken upon his back, one hand on the saddlehorn, the other raised in greeting.

    He did not fall.

    Not once.

    He rode the wind like it was his birthright.

    When Pendragon finally landed upon the high ridge, silence followed. Even the wind dared not move.

    Taranis slid down with the ease of a seasoned warrior. His boots hit the ground with a thud like thunder. Behind him, the dragon crouched, its golden eyes watching all with quiet fire.

    Drax stepped forward.

    “Taranis,” he said, voice cracking. “You’ve returned.”

    Taranis nodded. “And you’ve begun.”

    He looked past his brother to the rising fort, half-finished but brimming with hope.

    “Stone and sweat,” he said. “It’s a good beginning.”

    Lore emerged next from the shadows, staff in hand. “The prophecy breathes,” he said.

    “It was written: When sky and fire meet the hill. The son shall return to shape the land with storm and blood.”

    A murmur passed through the gathering crowd.

    Taranis took a slow breath, then turned to the workers.

    “I am no king,” he said, voice deep and sure. “I do not bring crowns or glory. I bring a future. A place for the broken and the brave. A shield for our young. A fire for our old.”

    He lifted his sword.

    “This land this fort will stand not just for the Stormborne. It will stand for all who remember. For those cast out. For those who bled. We rise not to conquer, but to endure.”

    Cheers broke across the hilltop.

    Some wept. Others simply stared, mouths open, unsure if they stood in a dream or waking world.

    The children gathered near the dragon’s feet, staring up in awe. Pendragon blinked slowly and lowered his head so they touch his scaled snout.

    The girl from before her name was Marla reached out, fingers trembling.

    “He’s warm,” she whispered.

    Sir Gael stood beside Drax, smiling through his years.

    “I thought the stories were just that,” he said. “Stories.”

    “Some stories,” Lore said, “are simply waiting for the right time.”

    That night, fires were lit along the hilltop. The beginnings of the wall gleamed in the torchlight, casting long shadows over the land. Meat was roasted. Bread was broken.

    At the centre sat the brothers Stormborne Taranis, Drax, and Lore their heads bent together, planning the days to come.

    Boldolph and Morrigan, the sacred wolves, lay on either side of the war table. Watchful. Silent.

    Above them, high in the sky, Pendragon remained perched. His wings wrapped around the star-streaked air like a guardian angel of old. Next to the dragon was a black dragon

    “They fought with us and now they returned “

    “I’m staying as long as needed ” taranis knelt to the children “this beast us pendragon and that ones Tiarneach “

    The hillfort was far from finished.

    But something greater had begun.

    Hope.

    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 : lThe 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

  • The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale

    The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale

    A Ghostly Encounter 2

    A round painted stone featuring a landscape with trees, grass, and a bright blue sky with a sun.
    A painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape with trees and a sun, contrasting the eerie atmosphere of the forest.

    The air was wrong.

    Callum Hargreaves opened his eyes to silence so deep it pressed against his chest. No engines in the distance. No birdsong. No radio crackle.

    Only the trees. And the damp earth beneath him.

    He sat up slowly, wincing. His body felt heavier, like the atmosphere itself had thickened. The forest wasn’t just quiet it was ancient. The trunks were massive, rough with moss and lichen, and the undergrowth twisted in ways he didn’t remember. Even the colours seemed muted. More… real. Older.

    His phone was dead. No signal. Not even a flicker of battery life.

    The feather was still in his hand.

    White. Burnt at the edge.

    He stood, breath visible in the still air. The mist clung low to the ground, like it was trying to hide something.

    The stone was gone. The path was gone.

    He turned full circle. No trails. No signs. Just forest. Endless.

    “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Get your bearings. Pick a direction. Stay calm.”

    But as he moved ahead, he noticed something.

    There were no footprints. Not his. Not animals. No trash. No broken branches. Nothing that said people had ever been here.

    Except one thing.

    A shape in the clearing ahead barely visible in the haze.

    It was another stone.
    Taller. Deeper carved. The same symbol as before a spiral, or a horn, or… something.

    At its base, a small pile of bones. Clean. Arranged in a ring. And at the centre, an ash-blackened tooth.

    A round painted stone featuring an abstract mountain design with a spiral shape, placed on a textured dark fabric.
    A vibrant painted stone featuring a spiral design, symbolizing mystery and connection to nature.

    Callum backed up a step.

    A low growl rippled through the silence.

    His eyes snapped up.

    A wolf stood across the clearing.

    It wasn’t moving. Just watching.

    Eyes like molten gold. Fur dark and matted. Muscles tensed, but not ready to strike.

    Behind it… a second figure. Not a wolf.

    Human.

    Massive. Silent. Cloaked in furs. A silhouette against the trees.

    Callum couldn’t breathe.

    He blinked.
    And they were gone.

    Just trees again. Just mist.

    But the whispering had changed.

    Not words anymore.

    A name.

    One he didn’t know.
    One he couldn’t pronounce.

    But it curled in his head like smoke:
    Taranis.

    To be continued…

    From the Author

    I grew up visiting the Chase, walking the woods and hearing the stories. Have you experienced anything unusual in woods? The whispers among the trees?

    If you enjoyed this please read part 1

    Read more: The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale
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    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Secrets of the Haunted Chase

    The Secrets of the Haunted Chase

    A Ghostly Encounter

    A round, hand-painted stone depicting a landscape with trees and a sun, resting on a dark fabric surface.
    A hand-painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape, featuring trees and a bright sun, symbolizing a connection to nature.

    They always said the Chase held secrets. Over the years rumors of ghost sightings, lost children, lights that danced just out of reach.

    But Private Callum Hargreaves had grown up nearby. He’d run through these woods with scraped knees and muddy boots, long before he wore the army’s green.

    He used to love the quiet, the peacefulness that the woods brought.

    Tonight, it felt wrong.

    The mist had rolled in fast, blanketing the forest floor. Dusk bled into night like ink in water. Callum’s breath fogged in front of him not from cold, but from the weight in the air.

    His squad had finished training hours ago, but he hadn’t gone back. He couldn’t. Not yet. His thoughts were loud again memories knocking like fists on the inside of his skull.

    “Just walk it off,” he muttered, his voice low. “Like always.” he told himself.

    He followed an old deer track or maybe just instinct into the dense pines. The kind that made their own darkness even before sunset. The ground was soft, smelling of wet leaves and something older.

    He paused.

    There at the base of a gnarled tree was a stone. Half buried, bone coloured. Not shaped by nature. Carved. Faint, but deliberate.

    Callum crouched. A breeze touched his neck, oddly warm.

    “Someone put this here.”

    A round painted stone with abstract designs in purple and yellow on a gray background, encircled by a green rim, resting on a dark fabric surface.
    A mysterious token featuring a swirl design, symbolizing the secrets of the woods.

    He brushed aside the moss. A symbol. A swirl or a horn. Beside it a feather. White. Slightly scorched at the edge. When he reached out to touch it.

    The air twisted.

    Like the world held its breath.

    He blinked. Once.
    The trees around him… changed.

    Taller. Closer. Ancient.

    No wrappers underfoot. No footprints. No signal bars. The forest felt closer, like it was listening.

    Then came the whisper.

    Not from behind him.
    Not from the side.

    From below.

    “He’s returned…”

    The voice wasn’t human but it wasn’t wind either. It filled his ears like rising water. Callum staggered back, instinct flaring.

    The stone was gone.
    The trail behind him, vanished.
    Even the smell was different no exhaust, no cordite, just wood smoke and something sharp: iron? sweat? blood?

    “No. No, no what is this?”

    He turned toward where the training grounds should’ve been.

    Nothing.

    Just trees.
    And silence.
    And the whispering louder now. Familiar. Calling him by name without speaking it.

    And then… a howl.

    Low. Echoing.

    Not quite wolf. Not quite human.

    Callum’s breath caught. He gripped the feather tight in his palm.

    To be continued…

    © written and created by ELHewitt

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  • Taranis and the Wolves: A Tale of Mysticism

    Taranis and the Wolves: A Tale of Mysticism

    Tale of Storms and Shadows

    A stylized tree with multicolored leaves, depicted against a dark background with a yellow moon. The trunk is textured and twisted, and the artwork features vibrant hues like purple, red, and white.
    A vibrant, stylized tree under a dark sky, adorned with colorful leaves and a glowing moon, symbolizing the intertwining of nature and mysticism.

    Taranis had wandered for three days since his exile. Taranis wore no furs now., just the old stag-hide wrap and the necklace his mother had pressed into his palm with shaking fingers.

    He ate roots and river water,. Asheand slept like a fox with one ear open and his back to a tree.

    That night, a full moon watched the world from behind broken cloud. The forest lit with silver veins. Taranis crouched low near a hollow oak, flint blade across his lap. He had not lit a fire. Fire betrayed you. Fire drew eyes.

    But still eyes found him.

    Two pairs.

    One black, one white.

    Both wolves. Both silent. Both watching from the mist beyond the briar.

    He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

    The white one larger, its coat matted with burrs stepped ahead. A long scar dragged across its eye, but the eye still burned red. Not the red of rage, but of knowing. Of memory.

    The smaller wolf circled left. Her coat was black as smoke and moved like shadow even under moonlight.

    Still, Taranis did not move. This was not a hunt. Not a threat. This was a test.

    When the white wolf sat, the black one joined him.

    They stared.

    And then they spoke.

    Not aloud not in the way people do but in the marrow of his bones. In the beat of his pulse. In the dreams he hadn’t yet had.

    “You carry the storm. Not all storms destroy.”

    He blinked. He gripped the flint tighter.

    “We are not what we seem. Nor are you.”

    A stylized painting of a black wolf howling against a backdrop of a crescent moon and vibrant blue sky, with hints of purple and pink. The wolf features a decorative symbol around its neck.
    A striking depiction of a black wolf howling at the moon, surrounded by vibrant blues and purples, evoking a sense of mystery and wilderness.

    Then, the black wolf Boldolph moved first. He stepped to the base of the hollow tree and pawed at the ground. When he pulled back, there was something in the soil. A ring of old stones. A feather. A scrap of iron, ancient before iron had names.

    The white wolf Morrigan touched it with her snout.

    And in a moment that split the world like thunder, they changed.

    Two wolves became two people. Not naked, not fully human, but forms caught between part smoke, part bone, part memory. She bore a crow’s wing in her braid. He had a jaw shaped not by age, but by sorrow.

    Taranis did not flinch. The storm inside him had seen worse. Had survived worse.

    Morrigan reached ahead and laid the feather at his feet.

    “Blood forgets. But stone remembers. You are carved already.”

    Boldolph raised his hand, three fingers missing. Still, he gestured not in threat, but in oath.

    “This forest sees you. You are not alone.”

    And just like that, they were wolves again.

    Gone into the mist.

    Only the feather remained.

    And the storm inside Taranis? It no longer howled alone.

    © written and created by ElHewitt

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