Tag: Cannock Chase

Harvesting Nature’s Gifts: The Journey of Lore

A vibrant, artistic depiction of a tree with colorful leaves set against a dark background, symbolizing the mystical elements of nature.

By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

Dawn came slow over Cannock Chase, the sky still holding tight to the colours of night.

Mist clung to the ground, pale as breath on cold glass. The trees stood quiet as watchers in old cloaks.

Lore walked barefoot through the wet grass, collecting what the earth offered.

Yarrow first pale and feathery, growing in shy clusters where the sunlight would later reach. Good for blood and fever, and for protection against spirits that lingered too close.

He cut it gently, whispering, “For the ones who yet breathe.”

Rowan bark next, peeling in thin curls beneath his knife. The tree shivered, though no wind touched it.

Rowan remembers, the old women used to say and Lore believed them.

Last came the resin pine tears hardened in the bark of a fallen giant, still sweet, still golden.

He held it to his nose, breathing in the scent of memory.
Smoke. Rain. Home.

Above him, the crows gathered.

Three at first.
Then five.
Then a dozen, their wings murmuring like pages turning.

They did not caw.
They simply watched.

Lore did not fear them.
The crows of the Chase were older than any Druid’s words.
Older than Rome’s roads.
Older even than the songs of the first tribes.

They followed him as he walked between the birches. Their trunks ghost-white, rising from the mist like bones of giants sleeping beneath the soil.

The air felt listening.

The trees breathed slow.

The old gods waited.

Lore spoke softly, almost too low to hear:
“Stormfather. Bound-Brother. Wild King. I hear you.”

The leaves stirred, though the air was still.

And then

A whisper.
Not with sound, but with bone and blood.

He rises.

Lore’s heart tightened.
No fear only certainty.

The crows took flight at once, black wings cutting the dawn sky. They flew south, toward the marsh track near Landywood, toward the low birches where the Black Shields rested.

Toward Taranis.

Lore closed his fist around the resin.

“The storm remembers,” he murmured.

And he followed the crows.

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

Thank you for reading.

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

If you want to read more about Lore please see Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

To follow Tarans The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 24, 2025
Taranis Stormborne: The Broken Road

By E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore

The dawn came slow and grey, dragging itself through the fog. As Taranis stood by the brook, cloak heavy with rain, listening to the groan of trees in the wind.

The men were stirring mud streaked, bone-tired, but still breathing.
Caedric coughed, spitting into the fire’s ash.

“Reckon we’ve outfoxed ‘em, lord. Romans don’t fancy these woods no more than wolves do.”

Taranis gave a crooked grin. “Aye, an’ I’ll keep it that way. Chase belongs to the storm, not the eagle.”

He slung his satchel, nodding north. “Pack up. We take the old path up past Wyrley Hill, through the firs. If the gods favour us, we’ll reach the ford ‘fore night.”

“An’ if they don’t?” muttered one of the younger lads.

Taranis looked over his shoulder, eyes pale as lightning. “Then we make ‘em.”

They set off through the trees, boots sucking at the mire, breath fogging in the cold. Above, the sky split in pale streaks of silver and white, like a scar the world hadn’t healed.

By midday, the Chase fell behind them and the road opened wide broken Roman stones, weeds clawing through the cracks.

Caedric slowed, squinting. “Watling Street, once. My da said it stretched all the way to the sea.”

Taranis ran a gloved hand over one of the stones. “Sea don’t matter. Storm reaches farther.”

He turned to the others. “Keep low. Scouts’ll be watchin’ the high ground.”

They crossed in silence, shadows sliding between the birch trunks. A crow cried overhead, sharp and lonely.

Then movement was seen over the ridge. A figure on the ridge, half-hidden by mist. A glint of bronze.

Caedric hissed, “Bloody Romans?”

Taranis lifted a hand, quieting him.
“Nah,” he said after a long look. “One man. Cloak’s too dark. Looks more like one o’ ours.”

The shape moved closer. A limp. Familiar.

“Taranis?” a voice called, rough as gravel. “By all that’s left o’ the gods, it is you.”

From the fog stepped an older warrior, scar cut deep across his jaw.
“Byrin,” Taranis breathed. “Didn’t think the storm’d spare you.”

Byrin laughed, short and hollow. “It near didn’t. Lost three good lads south o’ Salinae, an’ near my own arm with ‘em. But word spreadsfolk say you’re gatherin’ again. Stormborne, back from the grave.”

Taranis gave a small, weary smile. “Not the grave yet, though Rome keeps diggin’.”

He looked at his men mud-smeared faces, eyes bright with a spark that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Then it’s true,” said Byrin, glancing north. “You mean to march again?”

Taranis nodded. “Not march. Rise. Rome’s road breaks here our land, our law. Time we made ‘em remember.”

He drew a small blade, slicing a mark into the nearest stone a spiral, storm’s sigil.

Caedric watched, grinning. “Yow think they’ll see that, lord?”

Taranis met his gaze, voice low as thunder.

“Aye. An’ when they do, they’ll know the storm’s still breathin’.”

The wind rose, carrying the scent of rain and ash.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered deep, slow, and close.

:

© 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.

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

If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

Author’s Note

The Black Country dialect woven through this story carries the sound of the land Taranis once called home old speech born from forge and field.

Where words still echo the rhythm of hammers, storms, and stories told by firelight.

Much of The Broken Road is inspired by the landscapes around Cannock Chase, Wyrley, and Watling Street places where the ancient and modern meet in the same mist.

In those quiet corners, the past never quite sleeps, and the storm still remembers its name.© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

October 21, 2025
Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

The mists of Cnocc clung low across the fields when Taranis turned north.
Rain soaked the cloak across his shoulders, each drop heavy as guilt. Behind him, the standing stones of the old circle faded into grey half memory, half warning.

A handful of men followed, what was left of the Black Shields. Some limped. Some bled quietly into the mud. Yet none complained.

They cut through the marsh track at Landywood, the ground sucking at their boots.

“Bloody mire,” grumbled one of them Caedric, a smith from the Chase. “If Rome don’t catch us, we’ll drown in the bog.”

Taranis gave a faint smile. “Better the bog than their chains. Least the land buries its dead with honour.”

The men laughed, low and rough, their voices carrying through the mist.
Overhead, crows turned circles against a sky bruised with stormlight.

By midday, they reached the edge of Cannock Chase. The trees rose dark and close, their branches whispering in the wind.

Here, the old tongue lived still the rustle of leaves. Carried the same sounds as the words once spoken in Mercia before Rome built her roads.

“Best not light a fire,” said another man. “The smoke’ll draw ‘em down Watling Street.”

Taranis shook his head. “The legions keep to stone. They fear what grows wild. That’s our road, not theirs.”

They made camp near the brook, the water brown with silt.

Taranis knelt, washing his hands, watching the red earth swirl away downstream.

He thought of Drax his brother in law and blood. Who wasvstanding in that Roman armour like a stranger wearing their father’s ghost.

“Praefect Drax,” he muttered. “You walk in the eagle’s shadow now. But one day, even eagles fall.”

As the others settled, Taranis sat alone beneath a birch tree. The thunder rolled again to the south, echoing over the hills of Pennocrucium.

He closed his eyes and let the sound find him not as omen, but as promise.

“Let Rome march,” he said softly. “The storm remembers.”

By nightfall, the brook had gone still only the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves broke the quiet.

The Black Shields huddled beneath the birches.Their cloaks steaming faintly where the rain met the last of the day’s warmth.

A small fire burned low, more ember than flame. They sat close to it, speaking little. The world had shrunk to mist and memory.

From the shadows, a young scout pushed through the undergrowth, mud streaking his face.

“Riders,” he whispered, breath sharp with fear. “South o’ Watling Street. Legion banners silver eagle, red field. A dozen strong, maybe more.”

Taranis looked up, his eyes catching what light the fire still gave. “Which way?”

“East,” said the boy. “Toward Pennocrucium.”

That word hung like ash. Rome’s fort Drax’s post.

Caedric spat into the fire. “Then your brother’s hounds are sniffin’ their trail back home.”

“Mind your tongue,” Taranis said, but without heat. “Drax walks a path I wouldn’t, but he walks it for his sons. Rome holds chains tighter than iron.”

The men nodded. They’d all felt those chains some on their wrists, some around their hearts.

The fire popped softly. Rain whispered down through the canopy, finding its way to the coals.

“Shall we move?” asked Caedric.
“Not yet.”

Taranis rose, brushing mud from his knees. “If they ride to Pennocrucium, they won’t look for us here. And if Drax stands where I think he does, he’ll turn them aside before dawn.”

He turned his gaze toward the south, where the hills of Cnocc faded into night.

The stormlight there flickered once a pale flash through the clouds.

“See that?” murmured one of the men. “Thunder over Penn. He’s sendin’ you a message, I reckon.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “Aye. Or a warning.”

He knelt by the fire and drew a spiral in the dirt the old mark, the storm’s sign.

“Tomorrow we move north,” he said. “Watling Street’s theirs, but the woods are ours. We’ll strike where the road breaks near the old fort make Rome remember who walks her border.”

The men grinned, weary but alive again.
For a heartbeat, the fire caught, burning bright as dawn.

Above them, thunder rolled once more.
It sounded like a heartbeat slow, vast, unending.

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.

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

If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 19, 2025
Drax Stormborne: A Journey Beyond Empire

The last of the rain had faded, leaving the courtyard of Pennocrucium slick with light. Drax stood with his men, issuing orders for the road north, when a shout broke the morning calm.

A boy no more than ten came running from the treeline. Bare-foot and wild-eyed, his breath tearing in the cold air. The guards moved to intercept, but Drax raised a hand.

The child stumbled to a halt before him, clutching a scrap of parchment tight against his chest.

“He said to give you this,” the boy gasped.

“Who?” Drax asked.

The boy only pointed back toward the woods. “The man with the scars. He said you’d know.”

A chill heavier than the rain settled over the praefect. Slowly, Drax took the parchment. The wax seal bore a spiral mark the Ring of the Stormborne.

He turned the seal over in his palm, the crimson wax cracked and flaking like old blood.

“Did he say anything else?”

The boy shook his head. “Only that the sea’s not where he’s coming from anymore.”

Drax looked up, scanning the mist beyond the walls.
“Go home, lad,” he said quietly. “And tell your mother to keep her doors barred tonight.”

When the child was gone, Drax broke the seal. The message inside was written in a firm, weathered hand one he had not seen since the exile.

Brother,
If Rome still owns your heart, it will soon own your sons. The storm has left the sea. Meet me where the law ends and the wild begins at Cnocc.
— T.

Drax folded the letter and slid it into his cloak. Around him, his men watched, waiting for orders.

“Mount up,” he said finally. “We ride before sunset.”

“Sir?” his aide asked. “The boy”

“Forget the boy.” Drax’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon, where thunderclouds gathered over the hills.
“Remember the name.”

The road north was half-swallowed by mist.
The horses hooves splashed through the puddled ruts. The sound muted beneath the weight of silence that followed them from Pennocrucium.

Drax rode ahead, the sealed parchment still heavy in his cloak. Each mile drew him closer to the hill he had sworn never to see again Cnocc. the place Rome had called untamed and his people had called sacred.

Behind him, his men rode uneasily. They had fought rebels, pirates, and ghosts of empire. But none of them knew what to do with silence that breathed like a living thing.

“Sir,” Maren said quietly, drawing level with his father. “We’re far past the patrol lines. There are no markers, no forts… not even smoke from farms.”

“There used to be farms,” Drax replied. “Before the Empire burned them.”

The boy said nothing more.

They reached the crest by dusk. The land opened out before them rolling forest and wet moor. Scattered with standing stones like broken teeth in the earth. The wind smelled of peat and lightning.

A movement caught Drax’s eye a flicker among the stones. A man watching, cloaked and hooded.

Drax reined in. “Hold.”

The riders stopped. The watcher didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a horn old, carved from a blackened ram’s horn and blew once, low and deep. The sound rolled through the mist like thunder in a cave.

Within moments, others appeared half a dozen figures stepping from the treeline. The shields blackened, armour mismatched, but each bearing the spiral mark upon their arms.

The Black Shields.

Maren’s hand went to his sword. “Father”

“Wait.”

Drax dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil. He walked ahead alone until the leader stepped out a woman. Tall and scarred, with iron rings braided through her dark hair.

“Praefect Drax Stormborne,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or do you answer to Rome only now?”

Drax studied her face. “I answer to my blood when it calls me by name.”

She nodded once. “Then the storm welcomes you home.”

From behind her, two men carried something between them a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, heavy and dark. They laid it at Drax’s feet.

He knelt, unwrapping it. Inside lay a Roman helm scorched, the crest torn away and beneath it. A bronze medallion marked with the eagle of the Twelfth Legion.

Maren’s breath caught. “That’s”

“Proof,” Drax said softly. “That my brother isn’t bluffing.”

The woman met his gaze. “Taranis waits at the standing circle by dawn. He says he’ll speak to you not the Praefect, not the lawman. The brother.”

Drax rose slowly, rain dripping from his cloak. “Then he shall have both.”

Thunder rolled again closer this time, echoing through the hollow hills.

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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 want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

October 16, 2025
Unrest in the Lower Wards: A Roman Saga

The rain had not stopped since Caerwyn. Each morning it slicked the cobblestones of the fort. washing dust and ash into the gutters, as though Rome cleanse itself of guilt.

Praefect Drax Stormborne stood beneath the awning of the garrison, watching the centurions drill in the yard below. The sound of shields and iron echoed against the mist, rhythmic, hollow, and far too familiar.

“Word from the coast?” he asked without looking.

His aide the same grey-eyed veteran who had once served under him at Cannock stepped ahead. “None yet, sir. But reports spread through the camps. They say a ship found half-burned near the cliffs. No bodies. Just marks on the hull.”

“Marks?”

The man nodded. “A spiral carved deep into the wood. Like a storm-ring.”

Drax’s hand tightened around the railing. The symbol of the old clan. The one Rome had forbidden.

Behind him came the sound of boots lighter, hesitant. His second son, Maren, saluted awkwardly. “Father, the magistrate awaits. There’s unrest in the lower wards. They want judgment from the lawman.”

“The lawman,” Drax murmured. “Tell them the law doesn’t bend to whispers.”

“But it bends to Rome,” Maren said quietly.

Drax turned, eyes hard. “Careful, boy.”

The silence between them held the weight of unspoken things of oaths broken and storms returning. Drax looked at the lad and saw both his past and his punishment.

Finally, he exhaled. “Your uncle stirs the seas. I’ll not have him stir the streets as well. We hold the line.”

Maren hesitated, then stepped closer. “And if he calls us brother, not enemy?”

Drax looked past him, toward the horizon where thunder still rolled over the coast. “Then I’ll answer him as both.”

A horn sounded from the walls. Another patrol missing along the northern road.

Drax drew his cloak, the Roman crimson dulled by rain. “Have the riders ready by dusk,” he said. “We go to Pennocrucium The Empire claim the law but the storm still knows my name.”

The thunder rolled again, closer this time, shaking the banners loose from their poles. The banners of Pennocrucium hung limp in the rain Rome’s edge of order against the wild heart of Pennocrucium .”

The rain eased to a whisper by dawn. Mist lay low over the road, a grey ribbon winding north through the pines.

Drax rode at the front of the column, his cloak heavy with last night’s storm. The standards of Rome sagged in the wet, crimson turned dull and earth-brown.

Behind him, twenty riders moved in silence. Men who had followed him through three campaigns and would follow him into a fourth. Even if none of them knew whose banner they truly served anymore.

The track narrowed as they neared the Chase. Crows wheeled above, their cries lost in the fog. Somewhere beyond the mist lay Pennocrucium the old land, the hill once sacred to his kin. Before Rome built its roads through the heart of it.

At his side, Maren broke the quiet. “They say the woods here are haunted.”

“They are,” Drax said. “By memory.”

The boy frowned, unsure if it was jest or truth.

By noon, they reached the stone marker where the Roman paving gave way to mud and root. There Drax reined in, eyes narrowing at the shape half-buried in the verge. An old shield, blackened by time, its boss marked with the faint spiral of the Stormborne ring.

“Leave it,” Drax murmured as one of the soldiers bent to lift it. “The dead have earned their ground.”

From the treeline came the sound of a horn low, distant, old.
Not Roman.

The men stiffened. Maren’s hand went to his blade.

Drax only listened. The tone carried memory, not threat a call. One he had not heard since he was young enough to run barefoot across the Chase. A day when he named the wind his brother.

He turned to his son. “We camp here. No fires. No noise.”

“Sir?”

“They’ll come to us,” Drax said. “The Black Shields never forgot the way home.”

As the mist thickened, he dismounted and placed a hand on the wet earth. Beneath his palm, the ground hummed faintly the old song of the storm returning.

“If Taranis walks these woods,” he whispered, “then I’ll find him before Rome does.”

Thunder rolled somewhere far off not from the sea this time, but from the hills.

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 want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

October 16, 2025
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

July 3, 2025
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.

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July 3, 2025
The Bitter Berry

Isolation

The punishment was isolation not exile, not quite. Taranis, though still only a babe by the tribe’s reckoning, was watched but not spoken to. No brothers played with him. No mother’s lullaby wrapped him in comfort. He was to be observed, not nurtured. Fed, but not spoken to. Cared for, but not loved.

It was said the elders feared what he would become. A child with glowing hands who healed a broken mind just as easily break others, they whispered.

And so, silence fell over him like a second skin.

But the boy the boy did not stop being hungry.

On the third day of his confinement, Taranis wandered just beyond the shadow of the chief’s hut.
He was old enough to walk, too young to know danger. And he was hungry.

He saw berries.

They gleamed with dew, small and red like droplets of blood upon the brambles. They looked like the ones Nyx used to give him in summer. He plucked them, popped one in his mouth, and smiled.

Within minutes, the world tilted.

Taranis clutched his belly, his body shaking. His legs gave way as a cry tore from his throat not of pain alone, but of betrayal.

The world blurred. The air thickened. He vomited violently and collapsed into the underbrush.

From the edge of the village, Nyx saw the fall.

“FATHER!” she screamed, racing ahead before any guards stop her. “Taranis! Taranis!”

Conan came running, as did Lore and Boldolph, the great black wolf. Lore scooped the child into his arms, his skin already burning with fever again, his lips pale and trembling.

“What’s he done?” Lore cried.

“Berries,” said Morrigan softly from the tree line. “The bitter kind. Poisonous to children.”

Nyx was sobbing now, her hands over her mouth. “He didn’t know. He was hungry. He was hungry and no one fed him.”

Father turned to the elders, fury flashing in his eyes.

The elders said nothing.

That night, the laws were rewritten.

Taranis would not be left alone again. He would still be watched, still be studied but never again forgotten.

Because even a stormborn child needs more than destiny to survive.

He needs kindness.
He needs love.
And above all…

He needs to eat.

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

June 30, 2025
Legends of Taranis: The Fire Within

Whisper not his name too loud,
Lest storms descend and fire shroud.
The child who walks ‘twixt wolf and flame,
Was never born to live the same.

His cradle rocked in winds that roared,
His breath was thunder, wild, untoward.
At one moon old, he called the stars
At two, he broke his brother’s bars.

The elders spoke with furrowed brows,
“This one will break our sacred vows.”
But in his hands, a light did grow,
Too pure to burn, too fierce to slow.

He healed the sick with dragon’s grace,
And sorrow fled his glowing face.
Yet fear, like roots, took hold and spread
“He brings both blessing… and the dead.”

Some say his eyes hold forest lore,
The wolves’ old grief, the fae-folk’s war.
Some say his blood recalls the flame
Of gods who walked with no true name.

What tribe can hold a storm so wide?
What fire endures when fear must hide?
So mark these words on bark and bone,
The Stormborne never walks alone.

For when the wind begins to wail,
And branches sing a deathless tale,
Look not for mercy, shield, or guide.
The fire within the child will rise.

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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 29, 2025
Born of Flame, Brother of Wolves

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.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this please like, comment and subscribe.

Also if you wish to read more stories of Taranis please go to.

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 26, 2025