This painting blends ancient Norse-inspired runes with layered storm-coloured rings, echoing the guidance of the Vegvísir the wayfinder. In the StormborneLore world, it speaks of journeys through shadow and exile, always guided by unseen forces
© StormborneLore – Emma Hewitt 2025.
For more Art please see Stormborne Arts
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.
The tree of life collection is available
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.
✨ Hand-painted
✨ Original, limited editions
✨ Inspired by Celtic & Viking heritage
More pieces will be shared here on StormborneLore and on my Stormborne Arts page.
© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.
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.
Then he walked on.
© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.
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