Tag: Draven

The Whisper of Old Magic: A Journey Through Emberhelm

A vibrant artistic depiction of a stylized object, blending intricate designs with bright colors, invoking themes of lore and magic.

The Quiet Flame

The wind that swept over Emberhelm carried no warmth, only the ghost of fire long spent. I stood where the circle had once been whole, where twelve stones still defied the weight of empire, and one lay split a wound upon the land.

The others had gone. Drax to fury, Draven to silence, Rayne to his choices, and Taranis to chains. I remained, bound not by steel but by memory. It was not courage that kept me here; it was knowing that something sacred had been broken and that it was not yet done with us.

The Romans called this valley conquered. They built their roads and forts as if they could hammer meaning from earth and stone. But meaning does not bow to empire. It whispers, it lingers, it waits. And I have learned to listen.

I knelt beside the thirteenth stone, tracing the crack with my fingers. The split hummed faintly, as though it still remembered the storm that birthed it. I could almost hear Taranis’s voice beneath the wind, a murmur of thunder too distant to strike.

“Brother,” I whispered, “if the storm is caged, does the sky mourn its silence?”

A shadow passed across the ridge perhaps a hawk, perhaps a sign. In the old days, I would have asked the druids for meaning, but now I was the only one left to ask.

Rayne’s betrayal still cut deep, though part of me understood it. He had always been the one to see the long game, the patient serpent coiled beneath the waves. I did not forgive him, but neither could I condemn him fully. Perhaps this is how the gods feel when they look upon men weary, knowing, endlessly disappointed.

Night crept over the hills. I lit no fire; the Romans watched for smoke. Instead, I watched the stars, the same constellations our ancestors had trusted when the world was still young. Somewhere beyond those lights, I felt the pulse of something waking old magic, stirring beneath stone and soil, called forth by blood and betrayal alike.

The Circle was broken, yes. But its power had not vanished; it had merely changed shape. The storm that once lived in Taranis’s heart now whispered through the bones of the earth. I could feel it gathering, quiet but sure, as if the land itself prepared to rise.

In that silence, I spoke the old words not prayer, not spell, but remembrance. A promise carved into breath:

“When the storm returns, it will not ask who was loyal. It will ask who remains.”

The air stilled. Even the night seemed to listen.

And somewhere, far to the west, thunder answered.

October 6, 2025
Unraveling Secrets: Rayne’s Silent Journey

The Weight of Silence

The morning broke pale and cold, a thin mist rolling across the fields like a ghost that had forgotten its name. My horse shifted beneath me, uneasy. The world felt quieter than it should have been not the quiet of peace, but the kind born from expectation. Something waited ahead.

I had traveled for weeks now, keeping to forgotten roads, trading false names and favours for shelter. Rome’s messengers had ceased for a time, and that silence was heavier than any command. I began to wonder if I had been released… or abandoned.

At night, when the campfire dwindled, I caught myself tracing the symbol of the Ring into the dirt a circle broken clean through. No matter how many times I erased it, my hand drew it again. Habit or guilt, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

Rumours reached me in fragments: a rebellion rising in the north, whispers that Drax had taken to leading the scattered tribes, and that Lore had vanished into the mists of the west, chasing prophecies no man could name. Draven was silent. And Taranis…
Taranis had become a legend again.

They said he had escaped Rome’s chains, that his eyes burned brighter than ever, that lightning followed where he walked. I did not believe all of it but I wanted to. The world is easier to bear when its ghosts refuse to stay buried.

One night, beneath a blood-red moon, I reached the edge of the marshlands near Ravenmere. The air there was heavy, each breath tasting of iron and old secrets. The ruins of an outpost stood crooked against the skyline Roman stones built upon older foundations. It felt… familiar.

Inside, beneath moss and dust, I found carvings of the Circle faint, half-effaced by time. Words I had spoken in another life echoed in my memory: “We are the Ring. Bound by oath, unbroken by fear.”

I knelt, running my hand over the stone, feeling the groove of each line.
“I broke it,” I whispered. “But perhaps it was already breaking.”

Something stirred in the shadows not human, not beast, but presence. A warmth against the air, like breath drawn from memory itself. For the first time since Emberhelm, I felt the Ring respond.

A whisper, faint but unmistakable, rippled through the ruin.
“The Circle is never broken, only divided. The storm remembers.”

I rose slowly, the hairs on my arms prickling. Whatever force had once bound us had not died it waited, fragmented, patient. And now, it was calling.

When I rode from Ravenmere at dawn, I carried no banner, no ally, no command. Only purpose.

The Ring was broken but not gone.
And if Taranis still lived, if the others still walked their paths… then the storm was far from finished.

The time for silence was ending.

October 5, 2025
House of Terra

Rootbound

For Draven and the House of Earth

I was born beneath the roots,
not in halls nor under banners,
but where stone remembers every name
it ever held beneath its weight.

We do not rush.
We do not rise like fire or storm.
We grow.
Through frost. Through famine. Through silence.

The earth does not speak quickly,
but when it does,
the world listens.

We are the ones who bury the dead,
but we also plant the seeds.
We kneel not in fear
but to build.

So call us slow,
but call us standing
long after towers fall.

© 2025 EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.
This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of EL Hewitt. Do not copy, repost, or adapt without permission.

July 21, 2025
House of Earth (Terra) Recipe
Bronze Age Root & Grain Bowl

Hearthstone Harvest Bowl
Inspired by Draven and the steady traditions of the Earth

Ingredients (Modern Adaptation)
- 1 cup pearl barley (or bulgur wheat) – £0.60
- 1 parsnip, peeled and chopped £0.30
- 1 carrot, peeled and chopped £0.20
- 1 leek, sliced £0.40
- 1 small turnip, chopped £0.35
- 1 tbsp rapeseed oil or butter £0.10
- Salt and pepper (or crushed wild herbs) – £0.05
- Optional: soft cheese (like goat cheese) or oat cream for richness £0.50
Estimated Cost per Serving: £2.50
(serves 2–3)

Historical Insight
Grain and root vegetables formed the basis of Bronze Age meals in lowland Britain. Pearl barley, turnips, and wild leeks were common, often boiled or roasted near hearth fires. Butter or animal fat was prized and sometimes substituted with pressed oils.

Substitutions
- Barley can be swapped for spelt, bulgur wheat, or even brown rice.
- Use any available root vegetables (e.g., swede, sweet potato).
- Foraged herbs or nettles can replace salt in a rustic version.
Method
1. Boil the barley in salted water (2:1 ratio) for 30–35 mins until tender.
2. Roast parsnip, carrot, leek, and turnip with oil and a pinch of salt for 25–30 mins at 180°C.
3. Combine barley and vegetables in a bowl. Drizzle with oat cream or scatter cheese if desired.
4. Serve warm by the hearth nourishing, grounding, and Bronze Age simple
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved

More Recipies can be found at:

Solaris’s Kitchen
July 21, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 3

The Feast of Blood and Bond.

A colorful illustration of a bird soaring above a vibrant landscape, surrounded by a decorative border.

A striking illustration of a red wolf howling, symbolizing strength and kinship in the narrative of Emberhelm.

A howling wolf painted against a vibrant blue background, embodying themes of kinship and wilderness.

A striking artwork of a wolf howling at the moon, set against a vibrant purple background, symbolizing strength and spirit in the context of kinship.

A vibrant illustration depicting a dragon surrounded by nature, showcasing the essence of storytelling and fantasy.

The great hall of Emberhelm pulsed with firelight. Smoke curled upward from the long hearth, rich with the scent of charred lamb fat, root vegetables, and sweet herbs.

It was a scent that stirred memory of winter hunts. Harvest feasts, and nights when the storm howled but the fire held fast.

Taranis stood at the head of the long stone table. His arms folded behind his back, a rare softness in his eyes. To his right sat Lore, robes still dusted with ash from the spell that broke the curse. To his left, Drax toyed with his carving knife, his appetite as fierce as ever.

But it was the spaces beyond that caught the eye.

Boldolph sat with his broad, wolfish shoulders hunched, a strip of roast meat gripped in one clawed hand. Morrigan.

Once white wolf, now flame-haired woman, laughed as she stirred a pot near the hearth beside Solaris. Who sprinkled crushed nettle and wild garlic into the steaming soup.

And near the fire, two boys sat on a bench Nyx and Rayne. The latter still bore the bruises of captivity, but his shoulders had relaxed, his collar gone. Nyx offered him a chunk of honeyed root and a crude wooden spoon. The boy’s smile was slow, cautious. But it came.

Taranis raised a horn of wild berry wine.

“Tonight, no war. No judgment. No weight of kingship or curse. Tonight, we eat.”

A cheer rang through the hall.

The first course was served hearth-brewed vegetable broth, thick with barley, wild leeks, and stinging nettle. Simple, earthy. Morrigan’s touch. The nettle had been boiled thrice, mellowing its sting but keeping its iron-rich heart.

Then came the main feast braised lamb neck, rubbed with ash salt and roasted on iron spits. It fell from the bone into honeyed mash made of parsnip and turnip, flanked by fire-roasted carrots. leeks, and bruised apples wrapped in dock leaves.

A vegetarian version of roasted nuts, wild mushrooms, and legumes. Bound with barley and wild garlic was passed to those who’d taken vows of gentleness.

The hall grew louder with warmth and full bellies. Solaris poured ladle after ladle of broth. Boldolph, face still savage, offered a growled blessing in the tongue of old wolf-warriors. Even Lore smiled briefly.

And then came dessert.

Forest fruit compote slow-stewed blackberries, crab apples, and hazelnuts served over a rough cake of grain and honey. It wasn’t sweet in the way of sugar, but it hummed with the wild tang of the land.

As the fire cracked lower, Taranis rose once more.

“We have reclaimed brothers,” he said. “Rayne is free. Draven will return soon. Boldolph and Morrigan have chosen forms of their own. Solaris has cast down his chains. And you my kin you have chosen your Houses.”

He turned, gesturing to three newly hung banners behind the head table.

Tempestras storm-grey with blue lightning: the House of the Storm.

Ignis flickering red and gold: the House of the Flame.

Umbra shadowed silver moon eclipsing a burnt-orange sun: the House of the Shadow.

“Caernath lives again,” Taranis said. “Not through conquest but through kinship. Through the storm we were broken. But by fire and shadow, we are reforged.”

Rayne rose, slowly, holding up a crude carving the three brothers etched into a cairnstone, side by side.

“Then let it be known,” he said, “that Stormborne is no longer just a name. It is a vow.”

Lore pressed a hand to the stone, then nodded.

“A vow… and a future.”

And beneath the storm-beaten beams of Emberhelm, the wolves howled once more not from pain or exile, but from joy.

Feast Notes (Modern Budget Version approx. £10 total):

Starter:

Wild Nettle & Leek Soup

Nettle leaves (free if foraged)

Leek or spring onion

Pearl barley

Garlic & herbs

Main:

Braised Lamb Neck or Shoulder (cheap cuts)

Honey-roasted root veg (parsnip, carrot, turnip)

Mashed turnip/potato

Vegetarian choice: wild mushroom & nut loaf

Dessert:

Berries & Graincake

Stewed blackberries/crab apples

Honey/oats cake

Optional: hazelnuts

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

The Houses of Caernath – Act I: The Broken Howl

The Houses of Caernath – Act II: The Forgotten Blood

Solaris’s Kitchen:

Rustic Bronze Age Lamb Recipe: A Diabetic-Friendly Delight

July 8, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 2

The Forgotten Blood

Rayne collapsed before the cairnfire, the thick iron collar still tight around his neck. Etched with the jagged insignia of the Black Claw. Solaris had rushed to his side. Morrigan gathered water from the well, whispering healing words she barely remembered. Lore cast protective wards. Boldolph paced, fuming, red eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow.

“This is madness,” Boldolph snarled, watching the collar pulse faintly with some cursed sigil. “The boy’s half-starved, and that brand it reeks of shadow magic.”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” Drax muttered. “He’s seen things. Same as the rest of us.”

“No child should wear chains,” Solaris said, voice tight. “Not in Emberhelm.”

Lore knelt by Rayne’s side, laying fingers over the rusted iron. “It’s not just a collar. It’s a seal. A blood-binding rune carved into bone. They meant for him to die wearing it.”

“And yet he made it back,” Morrigan added, her hand resting gently on Rayne’s fevered brow. “That means something.”

Taranis hadn’t spoken since Rayne collapsed. He stood just outside the circle of firelight. Eyes locked on the far horizon where Black Claw lands stretched like bruises across the night. Pendragon shifted restlessly behind him, wings tight to his sides.

“They have Draven,” Rayne had rasped before falling unconscious. “They kept him… because of me.”

That had been enough.

Without another word, Taranis had mounted the black dragon and taken to the sky.

The wind screamed around him, colder than it should have been for summer. Taranis kept low over the ridges, scanning the burned-out lands for signs of encampments. Black Claw banners once flew here clawed glyphs torn into hides, marked with bone. Now, they hid in the ruins, like maggots beneath ash.

Pendragon dove suddenly, a cry bursting from his throat.

There a ridge of slate carved into makeshift battlements. A fortress not meant to keep armies out, but prisoners in.

Taranis landed hard, blade drawn before his boots touched the ground. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out.

He moved.

Two guards fell before they could scream lightning dancing along the edges of his blade. A third tried to flee. Pendragon caught him mid-run and dropped him without effort.

Taranis moved through the ruined keep like a storm incarnate silent, swift, merciless. These were slavers, torturers, the kind who’d once held him in chains. He knew every sound of their cruelty.

He’d been trained in their darkness. Now he wielded it against them.

In the lower chamber, he found Draven.

Naked but for rags, wrists chained above his head, bruises blooming along his ribs. He lifted his face at the sound of boots.

“Taranis?” he croaked.

“I’m here,” his brother said.

“You came back…”

“I always come back.”

Taranis cut the chains in two strokes, catching his brother as he fell.

“Can you walk?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll carry you.”

He slung Draven over his shoulder and stormed out as the keep burned behind him.

Not once did he look back.

By the time Taranis returned to Emberhelm, Rayne was awake.

Solaris had removed the collar with Lore’s help shattering it against a carved cairnstone. It took three days of chanting, and a night of fire that refused to go out. Boldolph had offered to chew the thing apart. Morrigan declined the offer.

Rayne sat in the healing hall, bandaged and trembling. When Taranis entered carrying Draven, the boy’s face crumpled.

“You got him.”

“I said I would.”

Morrigan rushed forward. “Lay him here.”

Taranis set Draven down gently. Lore began his work, murmuring ancient words. Solaris lit the fire with a whispered flame. Rayne crawled forward and took his brother’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Rayne whispered. “I told them everything. They used me. And I still couldn’t save him.”

“You survived,” Taranis said. “That was enough.”

Drax entered moments later, axe slung over his back.

“You went alone.”

“I didn’t need an army.”

“You’re lucky I like you, brother.”

Boldolph huffed from the doorway. “I told you not to go alone. Next time, I’m riding the dragon.”

Pendragon let out a soft growl as if agreeing.

“Next time,” Taranis said, “there won’t be a need.”

That night, they gathered in the Hall of Storms. The Three Houses stood beneath banners newly hung. The thunder-mark of Tempestras, the flame glyph of Ignis, and the silver eclipse of Umbra.

Rayne, still weak but standing, stepped forward.

“I was taken when I followed a shadow beyond the border. They said my blood would buy silence. But my silence almost cost a life.”

Taranis laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“It is not your shame to carry.”

“No,” Rayne said, looking around, “but I want to stay. I want to fight. I want to belong.”

Lore smiled. “Then choose your house.”

Rayne hesitated.

Then: “House of the Shadow.”

Umbra’s banner unfurled behind him.

Draven, barely upright, spoke next.

“I never stopped believing we’d meet again. Even when they broke my ribs and chained my hands. I clung to the howl of a wolf I couldn’t see. I thought it was memory. Now I know it was Boldolph.”

The great wolf-man stepped forward, placing a fist over his chest.

“You’re one of us.”

Draven smiled through broken teeth. “Then I choose House of the Storm.”

The warriors roared their approval.

Taranis turned to Solaris.

“We’ve brought them back. But we’re not finished, are we?”

“No,” Solaris replied. “Not until all chains are broken.”

Boldolph grunted. “I say we raise a hunt. Take out the last Black Claw den.”

Drax cracked his knuckles. “Been waiting for that.”

Lore added quietly, “We’ll need more than swords. The blood magic they used—it’s older than the cairnstones.”

Taranis nodded.

“Then we rebuild. We teach. We prepare.”

He turned to face the assembled tribes.

“The era of exile is over. The age of the Stormborne rises.”

And above them, Pendragon howled not in anger.

But in unity.

Later, as the fires dimmed, Boldolph stood outside the gates, leaning on his axe like a watchful father. Morrigan brought him stew.

“You stayed.”

“I always stay.”

“Still think about eating Taranis?”

“Not lately.”

They laughed quietly.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop fearing him?” Morrigan asked.

“No,” Boldolph said. “But that’s not what matters.”

He turned to her, eyes soft.

“They follow him anyway.”

July 8, 2025