A hand-painted 30×30 cm canvas alive with colour, myth, and Celtic design.
The dragon rises against a backdrop of starlight and water, framed with knotwork corners that anchor the scene in ancient tradition. Its wings shimmer with leaf-veins, binding earth and sky, while the stars remind us of the stories written above.
Every brushstroke carries the spirit of folklore the dragon as guardian, dreamer, and storm-bringer, the knots as eternal bonds.
Acrylic painting of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, showcasing vibrant seasonal colors and an ethereal moonlit ambiance.
The tree stands eternal, roots bound deep in the earth, branches reaching into the sky a bridge between worlds, a keeper of memory.
Painted on a 30x30cm acrylic sheet, this one-of-a-kind artwork captures the spirit of Yggdrasil, the World Tree of Norse and Celtic lore.
Each colour shift in its leaves carries the changing seasons of life — birth, growth, loss, and renewal. Under moonlight, its form glows with a presence that is both ancient and ever-living.
This piece is not just art, but a reminder of the ties.
A colorful hand-painted piece encouraging viewers to engage with the content, featuring a bright sky, sun, and grassy landscape.
Hand-painted disc showcasing vibrant abstract designs inspired by Celtic knotwork and mythology.
This acrylic-painted disc carries the spirit of Celtic knotwork and storm-born colour.
Each piece I create is a one-of-a-kind original, shaped by myth, lore, and imagination. No two stones, coasters, or canvases are ever alike each holds its own voice, a spark of history reborn in paint.
Stormborne Arts is my way of weaving ancient legend into modern craft. From runes to trees of life, wolves to woven knots, every piece carries the mark of storm and soul.
A vibrant painting depicting a colorful tree beneath a bright blue sky, symbolizing life and renewal.
Rest Beneath the Tree
At last they came to the tree.
It rose from the earth as though the hill itself had forced it skyward roots tangled deep, bark silvered with age, branches spread wide like the arms of a giant blessing or warning all who passed beneath. The ground around it was hushed, as if even the wind dared not trespass too loudly here.
Storm staggered to its shade and lowered himself to the roots. The weight of his wounds and weariness pressed him down, yet the tree seemed to hold him as gently as a cradle. He breathed slow, leaning against the trunk, and for the first time since the hill of ashes he felt his heart’s trembling ease.
The others made camp nearby, but left him undisturbed. Brianna spread her cloak by the fire, her eyes flicking often toward where he lay. Cadan tended the embers, muttering half-prayers, half-jests. The boy slept curled by the packs, his face still wet with the salt of grief.
Storm closed his eyes.
The world changed.
The tree shone with light, its roots glowing as though molten, its crown alive with whispering voices. Wolves circled him in the half-dark Boldolph and Morrigan among them, their eyes like coals, their howls joining others long gone. Above the branches wheeled Pendragon and Tairneanach, wings stirring thunder in a sky that was not a sky.
The gold ring gleamed on his finger once more. Its weight was not a burden but a bond. And the tree’s voice, deep as the earth itself, rolled through his marrow:
Rest, child of storm. The road is not ended. Every root remembers. Every leaf bears witness. You are bound to us, as we are bound to you.
Storm reached out and pressed his palm to the bark. He felt its strength answer, steadying his own. When his eyes opened, dawn was breaking.
Brianna stood ready with her blade. Cadan was already packing. The boy stirred from sleep.
Storm rose slowly, his body aching but his spirit steadier, and gave the tree one last look. The mark of his hand remained upon the trunk, a faint glow where blood and dream had mingled.
Ash fell like snow across the field, and the cries of dying men echoed over blood-stained earth. Taranis stood at the crest of the hill, his blade soaked, his breath ragged, eyes scanning the fray. His cloak snapped behind him, storm-charged and wild.
Then he saw her.
A blur of red hair and steel. She moved like fire unleashed cutting down two warriors with a rhythm so brutal it bordered on poetry. A deep scar crossed her cheek, fresh blood mingling with the old. Her spear spun once, twice, and buried itself in the chest of a man charging from behind.
She turned. Their eyes locked.
For a second, the war fell silent.
Taranis stepped forward. So did she.
They met in the no-man’s land between sides, blades raised not in anger, but instinct. Neither lowered their guard.
“You’re no foot soldier,” Taranis said, circling. “What are you?”
She didn’t smile, but her voice held a grin.
“I’m the reason you’re bleeding, warlord.”
He looked down. A shallow cut across his ribs. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I’d remember a woman like you,” he muttered, lowering his blade. “Name?”
“Nessa. And I don’t need saving.”
“I wasn’t offering,” he replied, “just watching the storm arrive.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think this is a storm?” She stepped closer. “You’ve not seen anything yet.”
Then — the horn blew. Her side was retreating. She looked over her shoulder, then back at him.
“I should kill you,” she said.
“You should,” Taranis agreed, “but you won’t.”
She held his gaze another heartbeat… then turned and ran, vanishing into smoke and flame.
He stood alone, the sound of her name still echoing behind his ribs like thunder.
A Week Later Riverbank Clearing The village was in ruins blackened timbers, smoke curling from half-dead hearths. Survivors were few, and even they shrank from him as he passed. They whispered of a warrior woman who had held the bridge alone until the flames took her horse and half her shield arm.
Taranis followed the trail until it ended in a clearing by the river. And there she was.
Kneeling in the shallows, Nessa washed blood from her skin. Her armor was battered. Her shoulder bound with torn linen. But her spine was straight, and her hand never strayed far from the dagger at her hip.
“I should have known,” she said, not looking up. “Storms always return to the wreckage.”
Taranis didn’t smile. “You survived.”
“I always do.” She rose, eyes sharp. “Here to finish what we didn’t start?”
He stepped forward. “I came to offer a truce.”
She scoffed. “Why? Because I didn’t kill you the first time?”
“No,” he said. “Because I want to know why you fight like a warrior, but bleed like someone with nothing left to lose.”
Her jaw clenched. “You think you can read me, warlord? You think I’m one of your stories?”
“No,” Taranis said quietly, “but I know the look of someone trying to die just slowly enough to call it bravery.”
She drew her dagger, fast as lightning. Held it to his throat.
“Careful. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he said, unmoving. “Your people are scattered. Your command is gone. And yet you stood alone at that bridge for strangers.”
“That’s more than you’ve done lately,” she snapped. “You walk the land like a ghost and leave nothing behind but ashes.”
His hand rose not to his weapon, but to gently press her dagger aside.
“I’m tired of ghosts,” he said.
They stood there, breath mingling, battle-scarred and burning. Neither of them moved. Neither of them lowered their guard.
But the space between them began to change.
“Besides I fight for those I deem worthy. That includes the people of Emberhelm.” Taranis smirked. “You’ve shown me you’re a friend of Emberhelm.”
He extended his hand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Taranis,” he said. “Who are you, my lady?”
“Nessa.”
The Night of Lammas.
That night, the people of Emberhelm feasted beneath the stars.
Lammas the first harvest was a time of bread and song, fire and gratitude. Children danced between torches, and the scent of roasted grain filled the cooling air. Drums echoed off the stones, old and deep, like the heartbeats of the land itself.
Taranis stood at the edge of it all, watching, half in shadow. Nessa leaned against a pillar beside him, arms folded, hair loose from its braid.
“I thought you’d be dancing,” he said.
“I don’t dance for tradition,” she replied. “Only for survival. Or joy.”
“Is this not joy?”
She looked around. The laughter. The flames. The peace however temporary. “Maybe.”
A silence fell between them, not awkward, just heavy with the unspoken.
“Come with me,” she said at last.
No orders. No questions. Just a truth spoken plainly. He followed.
They slipped from the celebration like ghosts, weaving through the orchard paths behind Emberhelm. The air was thick with ripening apples and the hum of distant music. When they reached the old stone lodge near the outer walls, she pushed the door open with one hand and led him in without a word.
There were no declarations. No romance wrapped in flowers or oaths. Only need.
Their bodies met like storm and flame fast, urgent, tangled with the memory of battle and the ache of survival. There was laughter when his armor refused to loosen, curses when her hair caught on his clasp, and a growl low in his throat when she bit his shoulder hard enough to mark.
Neither knew what the next day would bring. That was why it mattered.
That night, they made love like warriors with a fierceness born of loss and the tenderness of those who had bled for strangers.
Later, tangled in furs, the fire crackling low, she lay with her head against his chest.
“If I die tomorrow,” she murmured, “I’ll die warm.”
“You won’t,” he said, but his fingers curled tighter around her waist.
Outside, the stars burned cold and bright, and the first autumn wind began to stir.
He placed his hand gently on her belly.
“You and my son will live.”
Whispers in the Dark.
The next morning, the Ring summoned Taranis.
The gold circle at the council stones shone under a pale sky. Thirteen seats twelve filled. Lore was already speaking when Taranis entered, his voice low but urgent.
As he took his place, Nessa moved through the old halls of Emberhelm alone, her instincts sharp. Her step slowed when she passed the northern storeroom. Voices carried.
Rayne.
“We wait until the snows. When the passes are blocked, and he’s far from Emberhelm, we strike. The Ring will fall without him.”
Another voice, unsure. “He’s your brother.”
“Which is why I know his weakness.”
Nessa froze, the words burning into her mind.
Betrayal was coming.
And she was carrying the only thing that might save him.
StormborneLore 