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Tag: Cannock Chase legends

  • The Storm and the Dead: A Tale of Ancient Legends

    The Storm and the Dead: A Tale of Ancient Legends

    (Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)

    The horn had fallen silent, yet the earth still trembled; a low, steady hum rose from beneath the Chase. Mist rolled thick as wool, swallowing the trees and turning the air into a breathless white.

    Thunorric stood at the front, sword low; blood dried dark along the edge. Behind him, Dægan and Leofric formed a narrow line, each facing the shapes that crept from the fog.

    The dead men of Pennocrucium did not walk; they drifted, armor clinking faintly as if echoing battles that had never ended. Some still bore their Roman crests; others had the crude marks of tribes that had long forgotten their names.

    Leofric’s voice broke the silence.

    “They remember their banners, but not their peace.”

    One of the dead stepped forward; a centurion, helm cracked, eyes like dull embers.

    “We marched for empire,” the corpse rasped, “but Rome fell, and the gods turned their faces. The barrow called, and we answered.”

    Thunorric’s grip tightened on his hilt.

    “Then hear me now. You have no master left; not Rome, not the storm, not even death itself. Rest your arms.”

    The ground shuddered. The lead soldier’s skull tilted as though considering the words. “And who commands the storm now?”

    Lightning split the mist; not from the sky, but from the blade itself. It burned white, then blue, throwing every figure into ghostly relief.

    “I do,” Thunorric said.

    The flash tore through the field like a living thing, cutting through bone and rust. When the light faded, the mist began to thin; where the soldiers had stood, only ash remained, stirred by the soft breath of dawn.

    Leofric knelt, pressing his hand to the ground.

    “You’ve bound them.”

    Thunorric sheathed his sword with a quiet rasp.

    “No. I reminded them who they were.”

    The wind rose once more, sweeping through the trees; not in warning this time, but like a sigh of relief.

    Dægan crossed himself, the habit of old Rome still clinging to him. “And if the barrow wakes again?”

    Thunorric turned toward the faint light creeping over the hills.

    “Then we’ll wake with it.”

    Copyright Note


    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

    Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:


    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    Chronicles of Draven

    Chronicles of Drax

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

  • Stormwulf’s Legacy: Bloodlines and Battles Reawakened

    Stormwulf’s Legacy: Bloodlines and Battles Reawakened

    (Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)

    “They say Daddy’s a savage,” James said, peering up at his older brothers and uncles clustered near the hearth.

    “Yeah?” Rægenwine asked, turning from the counter with a half-grin. “So, kids what’s your names, then?”

    The tallest boy straightened, shoulders square. “I’m Harold,” he said. “Mother was from the islands south. Said we had the sea in our blood.”

    “Sea, eh?” Rægenwine nodded. “Explains the loud voices.”

    A shorter lad stepped ahead, freckles bright against soot-streaked skin. “I’m Bram. Da says I take after him.”

    “Then gods help us all,” Rægenwine muttered.

    The youngest, barely more than a child, piped up from behind his brothers. “Name’s Wulfie. Da says I’m the fastest.”

    Thunorric chuckled from his bench, voice rough but proud. “Fastest to eat, more like.”

    The boys laughed; the sound eased something heavy in the room.

    Leofric smiled faintly, setting his quill aside. “Stormwulf’s brood,” he said quietly. “Born from thunder, raised in mischief.”

    “Aye,” Rægenwine said, pouring fresh ale for the older two. “Let’s just hope they grow wiser than their da.”

    Thunorric’s grin widened. “No chance o’ that,” he said. “But they’ve never had to steal, or draw steel and that’s more than I had.”

    Silence followed, soft but full. The fire cracked, throwing gold across their faces. Outside, the crows stirred in the trees and somewhere in the distance, a single horn blew low and long.

    The laughter faded as the horn sounded again. This time closer this time deep, mournful, rolling through the mist like thunder that had lost its way.

    Rægenwine’s hand froze halfway to his cup. “That weren’t no huntin’ horn.”

    Leofric rose, eyes narrowing. “It’s Roman in pitch but the cadence… that’s Saxon.”

    Dægan stepped toward the door, the old Roman discipline returning to his shoulders. “A warning, or a call.”

    Thunorric pushed himself upright, steadying against the bench. “Either way, it’s for us.”

    He looked toward his sons Harold, Bram, Wulfie, and James. But something ancient flickered in his eyes, pride, and fear in equal measure.

    “Rægenwine,” he said. “Get the lads below. If it’s a fight, I’ll not have them caught in it.”

    “Aye,” the innkeeper muttered, already herding them toward the cellar door. “Never peace long in this place.”

    Outside, the horn sounded a third time shorter now, urgent. The rain began again, a thin hiss against the shutters.

    Dægan lifted the bar and stepped into the courtyard. Mist rolled thick as smoke, curling between the trees. Shapes moved beyond the hedge slow, deliberate, too many to count.

    Leofric joined him, clutching a staff instead of his quill. “I’ll not write this one,” he murmured. “I’ll live it.”

    Thunorric followed, sword in hand, cloak dragging through the mud. “Then we stand as Storm-kin once more,” he said, the old fire rising in his voice. “Law, ink, and steel against whatever gods come knockin’.”

    The horn fell silent. Only the rain answered.

    A fourth sound rose from the woods not a horn this time,. But a long, low wail that carried no breath of man or beast. The rain faltered as if listening.

    Leofric’s grip tightened on his staff. “That’s no war cry.”

    Thunorric’s gaze swept the treeline. “Aye. That’s the sound of the barrow waking.”

    Rægenwine froze halfway down the cellar steps. “Don’t jest, lad. Not tonight.”

    But the air had changed. Smoke from the hearth drifted sideways, drawn toward the door, as though something outside was pulling it. The fire hissed then flared blue.

    “Gods preserve us,” Leofric whispered. “The gate’s open.”

    From the fog came shapes first shadows. Then clearer forms: figures in torn cloaks, faces pale as ash, eyes like dim embers. The dead soldiers of Pennocrucium men who’d died beneath Roman banners, left unburied when the empire fell.

    Their armour rattled faintly, not in march but in memory.

    Dægan stepped ahead, voice low but steady. “I buried you myself,” he said. “Why rise now?”

    The lead figure halted, half his face gone to rot, the other still wearing the iron discipline of a centurion. “Because Rome forgot us,” the dead man rasped. “But the storm remembers.”

    Thunorric’s sword gleamed in the blue firelight. “Then you’ve come home, brother,” he said. “And this time, you’ll find your peace.”

    The dead looked at one another, uncertain as if the word peace was one they’d long forgotten.

    Then the horn blew once more a sound from both worlds and the dead advanced.

    Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.

    Futher Reading

    Rægenwine’s Inn: A Gathering of Legends

    The Law and the Storm

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    Chronicles of Draven

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

  • The Aftermath

    The Aftermath

    (Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 430 AD)

    The rain had softened to a whisper by the time they carried Thunorric back to Rægenwine’s Inn.

    Mud clung to their boots, streaked dark with blood and ash. Behind them, the Chase lay heavy and silent, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.

    Rægenwine threw open the door.
    “Get him to the hearth,” he ordered. “And mind that floor it’s new.”

    They laid Thunorric on a bench near the fire. The outlaw was pale beneath the soot, breath rasping shallow. His cloak was soaked through, half-torn, the linen beneath blackened where blood had seeped through the binding.

    Leofric crouched beside him, his right hand bound where the Saxons had taken the quill fingers. He tried to help but winced when his wrist trembled.
    “Hold still,” he said quietly, voice cracking.

    “Always tellin’ me that,” Thunorric muttered, managing a faint smirk.

    Dægan pressed a cloth to the wound, jaw tight.
    “You should’ve let me handle it.”

    “You’d have talked ’em to death,” the outlaw rasped.

    “Better than bleeding for it.”

    “Maybe,” Thunorric whispered, eyes flicking toward the fire, “but the world don’t change through words, brother. It changes when someone dares to move first.”

    Leofric looked between them, the candlelight trembling in his hand.
    “And yet without words, no one remembers why it mattered.”

    The silence that followed was heavy thicker than smoke.

    Rægenwine broke it with a sigh.
    “Gods save me, you two’ll argue even when one of you’s dyin’.”

    Thunorric laughed once a short, broken sound that still carried warmth.
    “Not dyin’, just tired.”

    Outside, the storm grumbled one last time before fading into the hills.
    Eadric stood at the door, watching the mist roll through the trees.
    “They’ll be back,” he said. “Saxons don’t like losin’.”

    “Then they’ll find us waitin’,” Dægan said.

    Leofric met his gaze.
    “How many storms can we survive?”

    “As many as it takes,” the lawman replied.

    James sat by the wall, knees tucked to his chest, eyes wide in the flicker of the fire. He’d seen battles in stories, never in flesh.


    His father looked smaller now, human, but somehow more powerful for it . Not because he couldn’t die, but because he refused to.

    Leofric reached across the table with his left hand, placing a quill beside the parchment.
    “Rest,” he said softly. “The story will keep till morning.”

    Thunorric closed his eyes, and for a moment, it was quiet enough to believe him.

    James stirred from his place by the hearth, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
    “Will Da be well?” he asked, voice small but steady.

    Thunorric’s eyes flickered open, a tired grin crossing his face.
    “Ah’m awlroight,” he rasped. “Takes more’n a Saxon spear to stop your old man.”

    James nodded, though his lip trembled. He reached for his father’s hand, small fingers curling around calloused ones.
    For a moment, even the fire seemed to soften its crackle.

    Rægenwine watched from behind the counter, muttering,
    “Ain’t nothin’ that’ll kill a Storm-kin not till the world’s ready.”

    The boy smiled at that, and the brothers exchanged a glance that said more than words ever.

    Author’s Note

    After the chaos of The Law and the Storm. This quiet chapter shows what comes after the fight. When strength gives way to silence and survival becomes its own courage. The Storm-kin endure not because they can’t die, but because they refuse to fade.

    Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Chronicles of Draven

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

  • An Artistic Journey with Boldolph the Black Wolf

    An Artistic Journey with Boldolph the Black Wolf

    An artistic depiction of a black wolf howling at a crescent moon against a vibrant blue background, featuring bold brushstrokes and colorful accents.
    A vibrant illustration of Boldolph the black wolf howling at the moon. Embodying the mischievous spirit of the character from the poem.


    (As sung by the kitchen fires)

    Boldolph the black wolf sniffed the stew,
    His belly growled: “This meat will do!”
    He tiptoed past the snoring men,
    And dipped a paw in the broth again.

    Morrigan caught him, gave a glare,
    “You thieving pup, don’t you dare!”
    But Boldolph smirked with sausage pride,
    And gobbled half the pot inside.

    The cooks awoke to clatter and howl,
    The stew was gone, the bowl was foul.
    They found a trail of bones and crumbs,
    And one big wolf with sleepy gums.

    Now every night the guards are warned,
    “Keep watch on Boldolph, ever adorned.
    For if you blink or turn your back,
    He’ll steal your soup and leave no snack!”

    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.

  • The Wrath of Stormborne: A Quest for Honor

    The Wrath of Stormborne: A Quest for Honor


    They came in mist, in blood-wrought rage,
    Across the vale, like beasts uncaged.
    But we stood where thunder walked,
    Where dragons soared,

    and stormwinds talked.

    My blade was not of iron born,
    But forged in exile, grief, and scorn.
    Each swing a vow, each cry a flame,
    Each drop of blood a brother’s name.

    The wolves ran silent, swift, and black,
    With fire and frost upon their track.
    Boldolph’s howl split sky from bone,
    While Morrigan’s eyes turned hearts to stone.

    And high above, the storm unfurled,
    Two dragons circled round the world.
    Pendragon roared with fire’s breath,
    While Tairneanach sang deathless death.

    Lore called the old names from the flame,
    And Drax, my blood, carved through the shame.

    Together we storm’s chosen three
    Unleashed the wrath no foe flee.

    Yet still I asked, mid blade and cry,
    “Must kin be lost so we rise?”
    But fate gave silence, not reply
    And storms don’t pause to question why.

    Now all is still. The earth, it weeps.
    Our fallen sleep in warrior’s sleep.
    The skies remember what we gave.
    The Stormborne rose and stormed the grave.

    © 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

  • Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 3

    Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 3

    The Brothers Reunited.


    The sun broke through the bruised clouds, casting shafts of gold over the bloodied field. Smoke curled from the remnants of fires, and bodies friend and foe lay strewn like broken oaths across the grass. The storm had passed, but silence hung thick as grief.

    Taranis stood still, sword lowered, his chest heaving. Blood streaked his arms, his face, even his hair but none of it slowed him. His eyes, grey as thunderclouds, scanned the chaos. Not for more enemies, but for the ones who had once called him brother.

    A shape moved through the mist. Then another.

    Lore came first tall, limping, one eye swollen shut. His armor was scorched, his left arm dripping crimson. But his voice was whole when he said, “You came back, little storm.”

    Taranis didn’t speak. His jaw clenched as he looked at Lore, then at the shadow beside him. Drax emerged next, sword still slick with blood. A gash crossed his temple, but his stance was steady. They looked older. Harder. But not strangers.

    “I thought you were dead,” Taranis said at last.

    Drax shrugged. “We thought the same of you. For a long time.”

    Lore stepped closer. “The others… they didn’t make it. The sickness. The blades. The fire.”

    Taranis’s voice cracked. “None of them?”

    Lore shook his head. “Only us.”

    A long silence passed, broken only by the wind rustling the torn banners on the hill.

    Taranis turned, scanning the field again. “I need to see them.”

    Drax put a hand on his shoulder. “They’ve been gone a long time, Taranis. But you weren’t forgotten. Even when the tribe cursed you, some of us still believed.”

    Lore added quietly, “Mother asked about you. Before the fever took her. She said… if the wind howled in the right way, she still hear your voice in the trees.”

    Taranis closed his eyes. The wolves at his side sat in silence. Above, the dragons had vanished, leaving only smoke trails where the storm had passed.

    Then, slowly, he knelt.

    He didn’t weep. But he placed his blade flat against the soil and whispered words. Only the wind would carry a farewell, a promise, a mourning for all he had lost.

    Lore and Drax stood beside him, the last of the Stormborne bloodline. No longer divided. No longer boys.

    Brothers. Survivors.

    And builders of something new.

    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

  • The Storm Dragon and Flame Father: Tales of Taranis

    The Storm Dragon and Flame Father: Tales of Taranis


    Tairneanach and Pendragon Spirits of Storm, Fire, and Fate

    A colorful illustration featuring a mythical dragon in a vibrant landscape adorned with swirling leaves and celestial elements, representing Tairneanach and Pendragon, alongside intricate Celtic knots in the corners.
    A vibrant illustration of Tairneanach, the Storm Dragon, embodying the elements of fury and prophecy amidst a colorful backdrop.

    The Storm That Watches


    They say a great wyrm once roamed Biddulph Moor. A beast of smoke and sky, hunted by men with spears of bronze and fear in their bellies. But no man killed it.

    The creature rose into the thunderclouds and vanished, taking the storm with it.

    The next day, nothing grew on the moor but blackened heather.

    That wyrm became Tairneanach, the Storm Dragon not a creature of fire, but of prophecy. His breath is wind. His scales shimmer like wet slate. He is the first when a child is born under an omen sky. The last to vanish when a soul is cast out unjustly.

    “He is not tamed. Not ridden. He chooses.”
    Whispered in the dreams of outcasts and seers.

    He spoke once to Taranis, though none saw him but the moon. And ever since, storms gather when the boy is near.

    Pendragon the King of the First Flame.


    Before the first stone stood upright, before wolves wore names, there was Pendragon the Flame Father.
    He does not fly in the sky, but in the bloodline of heroes.

    His heart is fire, but his wisdom is older than heat. Some say he shaped the bones of the land. Others say he waits beneath the earth, dreaming.

    He is the King of Dragons, but he does not rule — he remembers.

    Pendragon comes not in rage, but in reckoning. When a soul is weighed against fate itself, he is the one who tips the scale. He appeared in the old hills beyond Cannock. Curled in flame and sorrow when the first chieftain died protecting a starving tribe. That fire still burns in the soil.

    The Blood Oath of the Stormborne
    It is said the Stormborne line carries both marks:

    The Eye of Tairneanach

    vision, fury, and unnatural storms

    The Flame of Pendragon

    mercy, fire, and legacy

    Taranis bears both.
    He is not just watched by dragons he is of them.


    Tairneanach: Name derived from Irish/Scottish Gaelic tairneanach meaning “thunder.”

    Pendragon: Traditional Welsh/British title, here re-imagined as the Flame Father, not a king by rule but by spirit.

    This lore blends:

    The Biddulph Dragon (real Staffordshire tale)

    Knucker folklore & storm-serpent myths

    Cannock Chase legends & draconic omens

    © StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

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    Follow Taranis stories at The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded


  • The Crone’s Lament

    The Crone’s Lament

    My tongue they stole,

    my nose they maimed,
    For secrets whispered and magic named.


    They feared the truth,

    that dripped like rain,
    That power born in pain brings flame.

    I bore no sword, I cast no stone,
    Yet still they cast me out alone.
    Bound and blind, I crossed the moor,
    With curses trailing like wolves at the door.

    “Let the thirteenth child suffer my fate,”
    I spat through blood at the village gate.
    “Let every line remember me,
    When thunder walks and wolves run free.”

    But still I mourn, though wrath was mine
    The babes I lost, the bloodline’s line.
    I gave the curse to stars and skies,
    Yet I too break when a child cries.

    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.

  • 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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