StormborneLore

Tag: Chronicles of Taranis

  • After the Burning

    After the Burning

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The Hunter in the Trees

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

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

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

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

    As he ate, he watched the woods for soldiers.

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

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

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

    The ache in his chest was sharper than any blade.

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

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

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

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

    The Crossroads

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

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

    Perfect.

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

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

    “Out. Yow get,” he barked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    As he rode away, the noble roared:

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

    Thunorric laughed.

    “Tell ’em the devil said vilis.”

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

    The Boy on the Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “My lord… the storm”

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

    “What do they call him now?”

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

    Whispers spread. Hard men crossed themselves.

    Coenwulf did not.

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

    He nodded to the scribe.

    “Write.”

    The vellum unfurled.

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

    A scarred hunter stepped forward.

    “I’ll bring your demon in chains.”

    Coenwulf nodded once.

    The hunt began.

    The Inn at the Border

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

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


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

    He tied the horse beneath the oak and stepped inside.

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

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

    Rægenwine looked up colour draining from his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Thunorric’s smile was thin and dangerous.

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

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

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

    Rægenwine hurried, hands trembling.

    Thunorric turned to the Black Shields behind him.

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

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

    Cold air.
    Wet leaves.
    Heavy, familiar footsteps.

    The Brothers Arrive

    Dægan and Leofric stepped inside.

    The inn froze again.

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

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

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

    Leofric’s gaze drifted toward the back tables.

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

    Dægan spotted him with the Black Shields.

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

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

    One Shield swallowed. “Wolf… your brothers”

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

    He finally turned, smirking beneath his hood.

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

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

    Thunorric’s eyes gleamed.

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

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

    Thunorric smiled slow and wolfish.

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

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

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

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

  • Taranis Stormborne: The Broken Road

    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.

  • The Crone

    The Crone

    Written by

    emma.stormbornelore
    in

    The moon shone in the darkest of nights as I gathered the herbs.Around my cave herbs of healing yarrow and nettle being the most used by our clan.

    Only eight winters ago the leader of claw clan approached me. My son in custody I see him a bone chain around his neck.

    “What do you want Clun?” I asked the small balding man dressed in simple furs .

    “We promise no harm to the children,” said the tall man wrapped in makeshift coats. He thrust a small vial towards me “You’ll have your son by sunrise. Just brew a sleeping draft. Put Camp Utthar to sleep.”

    I hesitated. The chief of Utthar had been good to us took my family in when no one else would. But River was my son. My blood. My only hope my future what else I do?

    I nodded slowly but looked to my boy a sadness stirred in me. Ad i gathered berries, roots, sacred herbs and stirred them into the pot by firelight. That night, the warriors, the women, the children… all fell into deep, enchanted sleep.

    So deep was the sleep that no one stirred when the men of Clun entered the encampment. As The Clun men crept in silent as shadow, savage as flame.

    I watched from the trees as my eldest, Ryn, was dragged into camp forced to witness the massacre. His voice was broken when he turned to me:

    “What did you do, Mother?!”Ryn cried

    A silent attack killing women children and men who remained within the camp. Fifty men died that night warriors hunters their wives and children.

    “You promised you’d leave the children” I cried

    I was aware that utther wife had been taken to a local cave. A safe place where she would give birth when the time was right.

    “Foolish old lady, why would we leave our enemies children? When they will grow to seek vengeance” Clun smirked riding away

    I was left staring at the devastation . The next days passed and the Chief returned from battle, his warriors behind them. The chiefs horn was heard and his sons replied with the wolfs howl. But they ran with newborns in their arms Boldolph leading the charge.

    Time froze the wind stilled as boldolph approached his father

    “They came in the still of night no one would wake up. The claw killed all of then father and she helped” boldolph replied as if giving his report

    Suddenly the screams came

    “Take her! Bind her!” Raven shouted.
    “She betrayed the family! Everyone’s dead! Mother’s alive but in labour!”

    One of the wounded men pointed at me with blood on his chest.

    “We heard her whispering with the Clun.
    She brewed the sleeping draft… then brought death upon us.”

    I turned and ran wishing for cover ducking from branches and jumping over roots from trees. The sound of hounds barking after me my heart racing beating like the drums. The hounds found me first. The men were not far behind.

    They bound me in ropes and dragged me back to camp, fear pounding through my veins like war drums. Then he came…

    Boldolph stood at seven feet tall.
    “Let me have her,” he growled but his eyes softened when they found Morrigan, his wife, weeping with in a cave

    “Lox is dead she did it” morrigan said

    “We have her,” a man spat, dragging me by the hair.i screamed trying to fight against the men holding me

    The chieftain stood tall.

    “Whitehair, you have betrayed your tribe. Look around you. This is your doing you butchered them in their sleep.” The cheiftan said “Take her to the rocks. Strip her name. Cut her nose and tongue. Then bind her and take her far from here.”

    The punishment was swift.

    The curse came faster.

    Before they dragged me away, my final spell shattered the night:

    “May your line suffer,
    May your form twist,
    Until one born cursed by storms,
    Breaks the wheel with mercy and fire.”

    And then, the transformation.

    As I was dragged out I could hear the howls of pain and anguish from boldolph and his mate morrigan. as Boldolph the giant, and Morrigan the gentle, were torn from flesh and given fur. Wolves. Forever cursed.

    Later, bound and broken, I was dragged to the sacred stone. They beat me. Stripped me of sound. My nose. My tongue. My name.

    Blindfolded, I was taken to lands unknown far beyond the reach of kin or mercy.

    But my magic remains.
    So does the curse.
    And the storm is not yet done.

    I could still taste blood.

    The salt of my torn tongue. The copper of betrayal. The earth where they left me bound, blindfolded. my hands lashed with nettles so tightly i still bear scars decades later.

    They called it mercy.

    But mercy would have been death.

    Instead, they gave me exile: cast beyond the sacred stones with only the breath in my lungs. The curse they feared more than her voice.

    Ad i crawled for days dragging my broken body through marsh and thorn. Wolves circled but did not bite. Ravens flew overhead but did not cry. And the spirits… the spirits walked with me.
    I did not die i became something else.

    Something older than their laws.

    As i found shelter in the hollow of a tree once used by midwives. A place where blood had been spilled in both birth and death. There, pressed my palms to the bark, and for the first time in weeks, i did not feel pain.

    Only power.

    It rose from the roots. From the bones buried deep the old ones, the forgotten, the nameless. Their stories rushed into me like a storm tide.

    And over time i remembered my own name.

    Not the one they spat when they cursed me. Not the one the elders tore from the village scrolls.

    But the one my mother gave me beneath the silvery moon.

    “Cceridwyn,” whispered, mouth bleeding, lips cracked.

    As the Years passed more people feared me. As i walked among the bones now, barefoot and veiled. My form barely seen except by those on the edge of death or madness. Her tongue never healed. Her voice never returned. But her curse… her curse remained intact.

    And more potent than ever.

    For every 13th child born of her bloodline, a sign would come:
    A sickness no healer cure.
    Eyes the colour of stormlight.
    A voice that spoke truths no one taught.

    The 13th of the 13th would be the end or the beginning.

    She waits still.
    Her bones lighter now, her spirit heavier.
    Watching as the stories repeat,
    as her great-grandson walks into the same woods where she once crawled.

    Taranis.
    The boy with the storm in his chest.

    The one they tried to exile, like her.

    But this time…
    the storm remembers.

    © written and created by ELHewitt

  • The Silent Rebellion

    The Silent Rebellion

    “Taranis is our baby brother, no matter what some think,” Drax growled, his voice low and edged with iron. His gaze locked on Rain across the firelight, sharp enough to cut stone. “You betrayed him when he was a child and you betray him now.”

    Rain’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak. The silence stretched between them, thick with memory and regret.

    The old priest, Maeron, lifted his hand gently. “He forgives you, Rain,” he said, his tone weary yet steady. “He wanted Drax, Draven, and Lore to know he will endure what they give him. So that you three will survive. He says to make choices that will keep you all safe and your people.”

    Drax’s expression did not soften, though his eyes flickered with something that have been pain. “He forgives far too easily.”

    Maeron inclined his head. “Forgiveness is not weakness, my lord. It is the weapon of those who can’t be broken. The Romans won’t rule forever. Prepare for what comes next.”

    At the edge of the fire, Caelum shifted uneasily, his young face caught between fear and pride. “But what about my uncle’s meals?” he asked suddenly. “Uncle was exiled from the Circle years before they caught him. I was a baby then. Now I’m fourteen he shouldn’t be forgotten again.”

    The words silenced the hall. Even Rain, for all his bitterness, not meet the boy’s gaze.

    Drax rose slowly, the firelight glinting off his scars. “He will not be forgotten,” he said at last. “Not while the storm still bears our name.”

    “But won’t they strip him of his name?” Caelum pressed, voice trembling now. “If Rome erases it, how will anyone know he lived?”

    Drax looked down at his son the fire’s glow. Reflected in the boy’s wide eyes and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

    “Names can be taken,” he said quietly. “But legacies can’t. The Romans think power is carved in stone. Ours is carved in memory.”

    He turned back to Maeron. “Tell him that. Tell him Emberhelm remembers.”

    The priest nodded, rising to leave. But before he turned, his gaze swept the circle of men gathered in the hall. “When the storm returns,” he said softly, “I hope you are ready to stand beneath it.”

    When Maeron’s footsteps faded into the night, the hall remained silent. The storm outside broke, rain hammering against the shutters like the echo of distant drums.

    Drax stood by the window long after the others had gone. He could not see the fort from here, but he could feel it the iron cage that held his brother. The empire pressing closer each season. Yet as lightning flashed over the valley, he smiled grimly.

    Because storms, no matter how long they’re caged, always find their way home.

    The road to Viroconium was slick with rain. Drax rode beneath a low sky, his cloak heavy with water, the wind biting at his face. Beside him, Maeron’s hood was drawn deep, the priest’s silence carrying the weight of things better left unspoken.

    When they reached the outskirts of the Roman fort, the air stank of smoke and iron. The rhythmic clash of hammers and the cries of soldiers echoed through the mist. But above it all, there was another sound low, strained, human.

    Drax reined his horse sharply, his eyes narrowing.

    At the edge of the square, raised above the mud and the murmuring crowd. Hung a man bound to a crude wooden cross. Blood streaked his arms, his body marked by lashes and bruises. His hair clung to his face in the rain. But the set of his jaw the defiant lift of his head was unmistakable.

    Taranis.

    Drax’s heart clenched as the legionnaire stepped forward, spear in hand. “He struck a guard and tried to run,” the man said stiffly. “By Roman law, the punishment is public display.”

    “Law,” Drax echoed, his voice quiet, almost a whisper but Maeron flinched at the tone. “You call this law?”

    The soldier hesitated, but before he could respond, Maeron laid a hand on Drax’s arm. “Careful,” he murmured. “The walls have ears.”

    Drax dismounted, boots sinking into the mud. He walked forward until he stood before the cross, rain washing the grime from his face. Taranis raised his head slowly, eyes bloodshot but burning with that same inner fire that no empire could snuff out.

    “Brother,” Drax whispered.

    Taranis gave a faint, broken smile. “You shouldn’t have come.”

    “And leave you to the crows?” Drax’s voice cracked like thunder. “Never.”

    Maeron stepped forward, murmuring Latin prayers under his breath for the watching soldiers. Though his words were laced with druidic meaning ancient phrases meant to shield, not to save. His fingers brushed the iron nails that bound Taranis’s wrists. “These are not deep,” he said quietly. “They did not mean to kill him. Only to shame.”

    Taranis’s laugh was hoarse. “They can’t shame what they don’t understand.”

    The centurion appeared, cloak heavy with rain. “This man belongs to Rome,” he declared. “You will step back, Lord of Emberhelm.”

    Drax turned slowly, the weight of centuries in his gaze. “And yet Rome forgets whose land it stands upon.”

    The centurion stiffened. “Do you threaten?”

    “No.” Drax’s tone softened to a dangerous calm. “I remind.”

    The priest raised his hands quickly. “My lord only seeks mercy,” Maeron said. “Let him pray with his brother before the gods.”

    After a pause, the centurion gestured sharply. “You have one hour.”

    When the soldiers withdrew to the gatehouse, Drax knelt beside the cross. The rain had turned to sleet, stinging against his skin. “Hold on,” he murmured. “We’ll get you down when the watch changes.”

    Taranis shook his head weakly. “No. Not yet. If you cut me down, they’ll know you came. They’ll burn Emberhelm.”

    “Then let them come,” Drax growled.

    But Taranis only smiled faintly. “Storms must wait for the right sky, brother.”

    Maeron placed a hand on Drax’s shoulder. “He’s right. Endurance, not rage. That is his rebellion.”

    Drax bowed his head, jaw clenched. He hated the wisdom in those words. He hated that Taranis could still smile through chains and nails.

    As dusk fell, lightning cracked beyond the hills, white and wild. The storm gathered again over Viroconium.

    And though Rome saw only a prisoner’s suffering. Those who remembered the old ways knew the truth:
    A storm had been crucified and still, it did not die.

    Further Reading

    The Chronicles of Drax

  • Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 2

    Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 2


    The mist churned with the heavy breath of the earth. It was a blanket of silence, thick as the sorrow that weighed on the air. The warriors stood, unsure whether to kneel or fight to greet their kin, or strike at their curse. There had been no warning, no word of Taranis’s return. He had simply appeared the shadows parting to reveal him like a storm-born god.

    Taranis stood tall in the heart of them, his broad shoulders cut against the rolling mist. The wolves at his side. Boldolph, his red-eyed companion, a shadow of night itself, prowled silently beside him.

    Morrigan, a beautiful white wolf, ever the ghost, her eyes glittering like twin embers. Moved with the grace of wind, barely disturbing the earth beneath her paws.

    Above them, the storm was waiting watching. Tairneanach and Pendragon, the dragons, were not of this earth. But they lingered in the skies, their wings beating the air like the rhythm of war itself.

    He did not call for battle. He did not raise a spear. He simply let the storm guide his steps. The weight of his presence alone seemed to shift the land. The earth trembling as though it too remembered what the boy now a man had become.

    The warriors of his homeland, who had once been his brothers. Now looked upon him with a mixture of awe, fear, and guilt. Lore, his older brother, stood before him, his face shadowed with grief and anger. There was no joy in his eyes, only the harsh weight of lost years and lost family.

    “You return, Taranis. But what have you come back to?” Lore’s voice cut through the stillness. There was no warmth in his tone. Only a coldness that ran deep, a layer of resentment that not be overlooked.

    Taranis’s voice, nonetheless, was steady as thunder in the distance, resonating with the storm that had followed him for years. “I return for blood,” he said. “Not just for yours, but for mine.”

    A wave of motion the clash of steel, the growl of beasts. But it wasn’t just the tribe who sought war. From the far ridge, a war band of strangers approached, their figures shrouded in shadow. They were not just raiders.

    These men had come for something more like. They had heard the legends of the boy who had been cast out. The one who had walked through the storm. They had come to test the power of the Stormborne bloodline.

    Taranis didn’t wait. He swept ahead, his blade gleaming like the edge of the storm, glowing with fury. Boldolph leapt alongside him, his jaws snapping at the air. A creature of black shadow and red fire, creature of his own making. Morrigan, ever the shadow, darted forward like a streak of vengeance. her white fur glowing as if the moon itself had poured through her.

    The first strike landed. Taranis’s blade cut through the flesh of his nearest foe with the ease of wind through the trees. Blood sprayed from the wound, but it wasn’t just mortal men he was fighting. The storm answered him, the air vibrating as if the heavens themselves would break apart.

    The Storm Unleashed
    Taranis fought as though he was the very storm itself. Each swing of his blade cutting through flesh like lightning raking the sky. His movements were fluid, practiced not from years of training, but from something older. He had become the storm, the blade in his hand merely an extension of his fury.

    Boldolph was a black shadow beside him. His jaws closing around an enemy’s throat, tearing through flesh like a force of nature. Morrigan struck with the elegance of wind, swift and deadly, cutting through men. As though they were nothing more than smoke in the air.

    Her eyes burned with the same fire that danced in Taranis’s chest. Morrigans presence was a reminder of the wildness that had shaped him.

    The warriors of the rival tribe faltered under the weight of the storm that followed Taranis. The mist, which had once cloaked them in mystery. As it began to burn away, replaced by a swirling cloud of rage and prophecy. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the clash of steel mingling with the roar of dragons in the sky.

    Above them, the dragons spiraled, their forms flickering in and out of the thunderclouds. Pendragon, the King of Dragons, seemed to grow in size with each heartbeat of battle. His wings tearing through the air like the flaps of fate itself.

    Tairneanach, the storm dragon, called down bolts of lightning, sending the enemy scattering in terror. He was not of the world below. But his power filled it with such force that even the mightiest warriors. were little more than ants beneath his gaze.

    Lore, still standing firm at the edge of the battlefield, shouted over the chaos, his voice tinged with fear,.

    “Taranis! This battle is ours to win, but not with blood alone. The storm has a price.”

    Taranis glanced at his brother, the bond between them still intact despite the years of separation. Lore’s face was etched with worry, and Taranis saw the doubt in his eyes. They had fought together once, long ago. But the battlefield was different now, and so were they.

    Taranis nodded, raising his sword to the sky. Pendragon roared, and the ground trembled beneath them. The clash of steel and the roar of dragons echoed across the hills as the battle raged on.

    The Turning Point
    Taranis had always fought for survival, but now he fought for something more his legacy. This battle was more than a struggle for land or tribe. It was a struggle for what would stay of the Stormborne name. The tribe, his family, and the ancient bond of blood and storm were all tied to this moment.

    Drax, his brother, caught sight of him in the thick of the battle. Their eyes met across the chaos. Drax had once been the fierce, unrelenting warrior, the protector. But now, his eyes were full of something else hesitation.

    Taranis fought his way toward him, cutting through the enemy like a force of nature. When he reached Drax, there was a moment of stillness the battlefield paused, the winds held their breath.

    “You fight as a man, Taranis,” Drax said, his voice rough with emotion, his sword slick with blood. “But you’ve never known the price of victory.”

    Taranis’s eyes flashed with a fire of their own. “Victory isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”

    Drax, understanding in that moment what Taranis meant, raised his sword. “Then let us give,” he said, and together they turned. Fighting back to back, cutting through the enemy ranks with a power born of blood, storm, and flame.

    The End of the Storm


    The battle raged on for what felt like eternity, but slowly, the enemy forces began to break. The storm that had followed Taranis, fierce and untamed, began to recede as the last of the rival warriors fell.

    The sky cleared, the clouds parted, and the first rays of sunlight broke through. casting a strange glow over the blood-soaked earth.

    Taranis stood midst the chaos, bloodied but unbroken, his sword raised to the heavens. Pendragon and Tairneanach circled above, their forms still haunting the skies as their presence faded with the storm.

    Lore and Drax stood beside him, their faces full of silent grief and reluctant pride. The cost had been great, and the blood of their brothers stained the earth beneath them.

    But the Stormborne bloodline had endured. Taranis had returned and with him, the legacy of the Stormborne would live on. No longer a whispered legend, but a truth written in blood, storm, and flame.

    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 Awakening of a Charmed Hero

    The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

    There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.

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

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

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

    Many moons passed.

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

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

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

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

    “L… Lore?” the baby said softly.

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

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

    Our parents rushed in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    He paused, hiding his face bashfully.

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

    Time flew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.

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

    “I heal!” he giggled.

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

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

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

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

    And in that moment, something ancient stirred.

    To be continued…

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded