Tag: Myth and History

Drax Stormborne: The Night of Hollow Fires

Pennocrucium was dying.The fort that once rang with steel and Latin orders now lay quiet under a bruised evening sky. The last of the Roman banners hung in the wet like torn skin. The gold stitching dull and heavy with rain.

Fires in the watchtowers had burned down to ash. Barracks stood open. Doors unbarred.No sentries.No horn.No empire.Drax stood in the centre of the courtyard, gloved hands behind his back, cloak dark with rain.

He could still see where the eagle standard had stood, planted in the earth like a promise. He had bled beneath that symbol. Killed beneath it. Buried men beneath it.

Defended it long after others began to whisper that Rome no longer had the strength to defend itself.Now the standard lay in the mud.He let out a slow breath.

“This is how it ends,” he said quietly. “Not with fire. With retreat.”A few of his men were still with him. Not many. Veterans. The ones too loyal or too stubborn to walk away until ordered.

“Praefect,” Maren said, stepping to his side. Rain had plastered the boy’s hair to his face, and his jaw worked the way it always did . When he was circling fear and pretending not to feel it. “The last wagons are packed. They’re taking the southern road to Viroconium before dark.”

“Good,” Drax said. His voice stayed even. He didn’t look at his son. “They’ll be safer south.”Maren hesitated.

“What about us? Us.Not the cohort. Not the banner. Us.” Drax let the word settle in his chest.

“We’re not going south,” he said.Maren swallowed.

“Are we going after them?”

“No,” Drax said. “We’re going home.”The boy didn’t answer, but he understood. Drax saw it in the way the tension left his shoulders and something else took its place.

Not ease. Something older. Something like hunger.Thunder rolled low over the Chase.Beyond the walls, the land lay open and dark. The tree line a ragged edge against a sky. That hadn’t decided yet if it meant to rain or break clear. Mist gathered low over the fields in pale bands.

The air smelled of smoke from scattered farmsteads and peat fires. The smoke that drifted up on this night, every year, since before Rome ever named this place.

Spirit night.Nos Galan Gaeaf.The first night of winter. Drax looked north, toward the low hills and the mist and the deep-breathing dark of the land that raised him.

“Home,” he said.Then he walked into the new winter.

© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this work is prohibited.

To read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

November 2, 2025
Taranis Stormborne: The Storm’s Farewell By E. L. Hewitt

The rain had eased by morning, though the ground still steamed where the storm had passed.

The Mist clung to the Chase like breath, thick and cold, rolling through the hollows where the Romans once marched proud. Taranis stood by the broken road, cloak heavy with water, hair plastered to his brow.

He could still see the ruts of cart wheels half-buried in mud Rome’s mark, carved deep into the land.

“Won’t last,” he muttered, toeing one of the stones. “Nowt they build ever does.”Byrin came up behind, shoulders hunched against the chill.

“They’ve gone, lord. Last cohort took the south road yestere’en. Fort’s empty now.”Taranis grinned, the kind of grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Aye, I know. Felt it in the wind. Empire’s breath cut short.”He knelt, pulling a scrap of bread from his pouch, laying it on the old stone. Where once the eagle banners stood. Then he poured a splash of mead beside it.

“For them as fought, an’ them as fell,” he said quiet-like.

“An’ for the land, what outlives us all.”Byrin shifted his weight.

“Spirit night, innit? Galan Gaeaf, like th’owd folk say. When t’dead walk an’ th’winds carry their names.”Taranis nodded, eyes on the fire they’d lit a low orange glow crackling through damp wood.

“Aye. Let ’em walk. Let ’em see what’s come o’ Rome. Maybe they’ll find peace in the storm’s breath.”One by one, the men came forward, tossing bits of bread, small charms, even blades into the flames.

Their offerings for their kin, for luck, for the year turning.

“Break the road,” Taranis said after a time. “Let the dead cross free. Rome’s way ends here.”The sound of stone splitting echoed through the trees like thunder.

Byrin wiped sweat from his brow. “Yow reckon we’ll be free now, lord?”

Taranis looked north, where the sky lightened just enough to show the edge of winter coming.

Free?” he said, voice low. “No mon’s ever free o’ summat storm, king, or ghost. But th’land’ll be ours again, leastways till next lot fancies it.” He turned toward the fire once more.

The wind caught it, scattering sparks into the mist like stars. Somewhere, a raven called deep and hollow. Taranis lifted his blade, resting it against his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s feed the fire one last time, then go. Night’s drawin’ in, an’ spirits’ll be walkin’ soon.”Behind ’em, the last stretch of Roman stone cracked under hammer blows.

As steam was rising from the breaks like breath from a wounded beast.Taranis didn’t look back. He just walked, slow and steady, into the mist where thunder rolled soft and low, like the old gods stirrin’ in their sleep.

© 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.

To read more about Taranis see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

November 1, 2025
Taranis Stormborne: The Gathering Storm

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. It came in thin veils that clung to the heather and the men’s cloaks. whispering through the birch like ghosts that had never left the Chase.

Taranis knelt by the dying fire, sharpening the edge of his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Each scrape of the stone was a prayer, though no priest would have known the words.

“Water’s risin’, lord,” said Caedric, glancing toward the ford. “River’s near burstin’. We’ll not cross ‘fore dark.”

Taranis looked up, eyes catching the faint shimmer of dawn through the fog. “Then we hold. The storm waits for no man, but we’ll not feed it needlessly.”

A murmur ran through the men tired, hungry, but loyal. They’d followed him from the salt marshes to the high woods, and not one had broken yet.

Byrin crouched beside him, rubbing at the scar along his jaw. “Word from the south. Roman riders out o’ Pennocrucium. A full cohort, maybe more. Marchin’ for the hill road.”

Taranis’ mouth twitched at the name Pennocrucium,. The Roman word for Penkridge, though no Stormborne had spoken it without spitting since the fort was raised.

“Let ‘em come,” he said quietly. “They’ll find nowt but mud, ghosts, and trees that whisper their names to the wind.”

Caedric chuckled darkly. “Aye, an’ if the trees don’t get ‘em, we will.”

They waited through the day as the rain thickened. Ravens wheeled low over the clearing, black against the iron sky.

By nightfall, fires burned low and bellies growled. But Taranis was restless the unease that came before the breaking of something old.

He walked to the ridge alone, where the land dipped toward the flooded ford. The air stank of wet earth and smoke from distant hearths.

He spoke softly, almost to himself. “Once, this road ran to Rome. Now it runs to ruin.”

A flash of lightning tore the sky open white veins across black clouds. In its light, he saw them: Roman scouts, three of them, creeping along the far bank, cloaks slick with rain.

Taranis smiled grimly. “So, the eagle still claws at the storm.”

By the time the thunder rolled, the first spear had already struck.

The fight was over quick steel on steel, mud and breath, the hiss of rain on blood.

When it was done, two Romans lay dead. The third crawling back toward the ford with half a helm and a broken arm.

Taranis knelt beside him. “Tell your centurion,” he said, voice low, “Pennocrucium belongs to the storm now.”

He rose, letting the rain wash his hands clean.

Behind him, Byrin and Caedric watched, silent.

“Yow reckon they’ll send more, lord?” Byrin asked.

Taranis turned toward the woods. Where torches burned faint between the trees his men gathering, more arriving from the north and the marshes.

“Aye,” he said, voice steady. “Let ‘em all come. Rome’ll find no peace ‘ere. Not while the storm still breathes.”

The thunder rolled again, closer now, echoing through the Chase like an oath renewed. Somewhere in the distance, the old road cracked underfoot stone splitting where the spiral mark had been carved.

The storm had woken.

© 2025 E.L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

Author’s Note:

This chapter draws from the old Roman site of Pennocrucium (modern Penkridge), a key post along Watling Street. Local dialect echoes through “yow,” “nowt,” “lord” the living voice of the Black Country and Staffordshire’s borderlands. These stories honour the land itself where history and myth still meet in the rain.

Formorestories on Taranis please see http://The prophecies and tales of Taranis

October 28, 2025
The Resilient Sea: Taranis’s Defiance Against Rome

The sea was restless that night, black as iron and twice as cold. Taranis Stormborne stood at the prow of the ship, his cloak heavy with salt and rain. Behind him, the Black Shields moved in silence, their faces hidden, their oars cutting through the water with a rhythm older than empire.

Rome’s ships had been sighted near Carthage a patrol too far from home, too confident. This voyage was not conquest, but message.

Lightning split the horizon. Taranis lifted his gaze toward the thunderclouds, their light catching the gold in his eyes.

“Do you fear the storm?” one of the younger soldiers whispered.

Taranis’s answer was soft, almost drowned by the wind.
“I am the storm.”

The first Roman galley loomed ahead, torches guttering in the wind. The Black Shields struck swift and silent, grappling hooks biting wood, blades flashing in the rain. No horns, no cries only the sound of waves breaking and chains rattling as old fears were unmade.

By dawn, the sea was calm again. The Roman ship burned behind them, its mast sinking like a dying pillar of the old world.

Taranis watched the smoke fade into the clouds. “Let them think it was lightning,” he said. “Let them think the gods themselves strike against their arrogance.”

He turned back toward the island, where fire and training awaited. The storm had passed but the Empire would wake to the scent of rain and know its name.

© 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.

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October 11, 2025
Volcanic Echoes: The Forgotten Island’s Tale

The Fire of the Forgotten

The island smoldered beneath a grey dawn, volcanic ash drifting in spirals that mirrored the labyrinth of the Black Shields’ training paths. Taranis Stormborne stood atop a jagged cliff, chains long gone, his shadow cast over the men who moved like echoes of his command.

“Strength is patience,” he reminded them, voice low but unyielding. “Silence is more than absence; it is a weapon.”

The men obeyed, their movements precise, their eyes alert to every change in wind or light. Exiles, criminals, and freed soldiers had become something else entirely a force of quiet purpose. In the flickering smoke of the island’s vents, Taranis traced lines in the sand, marking the future with symbols only they understood.

A scout returned, breathless and wide-eyed. “Rumors, Lupus… Rome speaks of shadows in the hills, whispers of an army unknown.”

Taranis nodded, the storm within him mirrored in the sky above. Lightning tore across the horizon. “Let them whisper,” he said. “Every shadow will remind them: the storm bends, but it never breaks.”

© 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.

October 10, 2025
Echoes of War: Secrets of the Ash-Strewn Shore

Whispers Across the Sea

The night hung low, thick with ash and the faint glow of molten rivers. Taranis Stormborne stood at the cliff’s edge, listening to the pulse of the waves. Each roar of the sea carried a story, a whisper of what the Empire thought it can ignore.

The Black Shields moved silently across the ash-strewn plateau. Training not for spectacle, but for the unseen for strikes in shadows, patience, and loyalty forged in fire.

Exiles and criminals who had once bent to fear now moved with precision. Their eyes carrying the memory of chains and the promise of freedom.

A messenger arrived under the cloak of darkness, bringing news from beyond the sea. A small port town had whispered rumors of a golden-eyed warrior training men in secret. Shaping them into something Rome would not understand. Taranis did not smile. Rumors were the first arrows of war silent, deadly, and everywhere.

“Send scouts,” he instructed, his voice low, like distant thunder. “Learn what they fear, what they ignore. Rome has grown fat on ignorance, and we shall remind them of storms.”

In the volcanic caves, he spoke to the leaders of his order. Tracing the map of the Mediterranean with ash from the fire. Each mark represented a seed smuggled weapons, loyal exiles, slaves freed and sworn to secrecy. Each note in the symphony of rebellion.

Above, lightning split the sky. Taranis lifted his face, feeling the electric pulse in his veins, the same storm that had followed him from Britannia. “Soon,” he whispered, “the whispers will become cries, and the cries will echo through the Empire. Let them fear the shadow that bends, but never breaks.”

Far across the sea, Marcus and a handful of loyal men tracked the tales. Every report of a shadow in the hills, of soldiers who moved with impossible skill, brought unease to their hearts.

They did not yet know the full force of Taranis’ plan. But they sensed it, like the first stirrings of a hurricane, unseen but unstoppable.

On the island, fire and stone were the teachers, patience the tutor, and loyalty the currency. The Black Shields were no longer mere survivors; they were an omen, a promise carried in whispers across the waves.

© 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.

further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 9, 2025
The Ceremony of Chains

The sea that carried him south was blood-red at dusk. The waves flecked with gold like the veins of a dying god.

Taranis stood chained at the bow . His eyes fixed on the horizon where Sicily’s black cliffs rose from the mist. Around him, soldiers whispered prayers, unsure if they guarded a man or something older.

Rome had sent for him again.
The Emperor’s priests claimed the island’s fires would cleanse the gods’ anger. But that the immortal gladiator Lupus. The Storm of the North must walk in chains through their sacred flames to renew Rome’s favour.

They called it The Ceremony of Chains.

As the ship docked, the air thickened with incense and fear. Bronze masks watched from the shore senators, generals, augurs, all gathered to witness what none understood.

“Bring him forth,” ordered a centurion.
Marcus obeyed, his jaw tight. He had seen Taranis survive pits that killed a hundred men, storms that tore stone apart. As he led him down the ramp, he murmured under his breath, “Don’t give them what they want, Lupus.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “I never have.”

They chained him to the altar of basalt, the metal glowing as the fire licked the air. The priests began their chants words of dominion, of empire everlasting.

But the wind shifted. Smoke twisted against their rhythm, curling into strange shapes wings, or storm clouds forming in defiance.

Then the first crack of thunder rolled across the sea.

The Emperor rose, hand trembling on the railing. “What is this?”

Marcus stepped back, eyes wide. “It’s him, sire. The storm doesn’t serve you. It never did.”

Lightning tore through the sky, striking the temple spire. The crowd scattered. Chains melted, ringing against stone like falling bells. Taranis stood midst the fire, eyes burning gold, his voice carrying across the chaos.

“Your empire fed on storms. Now taste one.”

When the smoke cleared, the altar was empty.

Only the scent of ozone and a single iron shackle remained cracked, blackened, and humming softly like a heartbeat.

© 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.

further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 9, 2025
Unseen Forces: The Rise of Taranis in Rome

An artistic interpretation titled ‘The Shadows of an Empire’ by StormborneLore, showcasing intricate patterns and vibrant colors.

The Whispering Blades

“You’ll see the arena again, Lupus when the Empire finds another crowd worth impressing. But empires fade. Storms… they wait.”

“So what then? More isolation for the beast brought out to haul rocks or is he permitted to do what he wants?” another guard asked, half mocking, half wary.

Marcus didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered on the prisoner the golden-eyed giant who once made cities tremble. Even in chains, there was something unyielding about him. The air seemed heavier when he stood too close, as if the storm itself remembered him.

“Let him work,” Marcus said finally, voice low. “If the gods haven’t broken him by now, we won’t.”

Taranis lifted the stone in silence, the weight nothing to him. His eyes met Marcus’s through the drifting ash not with hatred, but understanding. Men like Marcus were cracks in the Empire’s armour, and he already felt the storm beginning to seep through.

That night, whispers spread through the camps. The slaves spoke of tools vanishing, guards turning blind eyes. The strange marks carved into the rock walls of the caves symbols of the storm.

The Ordo was no longer training in secret. It was beginning to move.

The Whispering Blades

It began with the disappearance of a centurion. No body, no blood just his helmet left beside the sea. Then came the merchant ships that docked with half their crew missing and their cargo of weapons gone.

Rome’s prefects called it piracy. The guards called it witchcraft. But Marcus knew better. He had seen the marks black circles intersected by lines like lightning. Carved into the stones where the missing men last stood.

The storm’s sigil.

On the island, Taranis moved through shadow. The Ordo had become something more not merely prisoners, but a network. Smugglers, spies, deserters, slaves. Men who owed no loyalty to Rome but to one another, bound by the mark and by his word.

Their blades were not drawn in open rebellion but in silence. Messages replaced banners; coded phrases replaced oaths. In the dark corners of the empire, the name Lupus became a warning. A curse whispered between soldiers before they slept.

And from time to time, Marcus would find strange bundles left near the guardhouse. Parcels of food, maps, and notes written in a language he did not know. The storm was moving faster than he was capable of reporting.

One night, a messenger boat came through rough seas bearing the Emperor’s seal. A new order had been given:

“Transfer the prisoner known as Lupus to Sicily. The Emperor demands his presence for a special ceremony.”

Marcus read the scroll three times. The words were clear, yet something in him hesitated. He looked toward the cliffs, where lightning split the horizon. The faint echo of a hammer striking iron rang out in the volcanic dark.

The storm was preparing to leave its island.

In the morning, Taranis stood by the docks, chains freshly bound. The soldiers dared not meet his eyes. As he stepped aboard, the sea hissed against the hull, and the sky grumbled above them.

Marcus saluted him not as a guard, but as a soldier to another.

“The gods will tire before you do, Stormborne,” he said quietly.

Taranis smiled faintly, the expression like distant thunder.
“They already have.”

The ship set sail toward Sicily. Behind them, the island burned in the dawn. A black wound sealed by smoke, hiding the thousand blades that whispered beneath it.

The storm was no longer waiting. It was coming ashore.

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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 8, 2025
The Hundred Years of Chains

The name Taranis Stormborne had long since faded from Rome’s records, but not from its whispers.

A hundred years had passed since the day the storm was chained. Yet still he fought beneath the sun not as a man, but as the empire’s curse.

They called him many things now.
The Emperor’s Champion.
The Storm Gladiator.
To the slaves, he was The Unbroken One.
And to Rome’s generals, he was a weapon too valuable to destroy, too dangerous to free.

Every emperor since his capture had ordered the same:
“Keep him alive.”
For his blood immortal, untamed had become Rome’s secret ritual. Each time the storm bled into the sand, their augurs said the city’s heart beat stronger.

Chains replaced chains. Iron became gold.
He was moved from the pits of Britannia to the marble arenas of the south. A relic paraded before crowds who no longer remembered his rebellion only the spectacle of a god in man’s form.

Yet he remembered.

Every lash. Every fallen friend.
Every whisper of his brothers Drax, Lore, Draven still echoing through the storm he carried in his veins.

And sometimes, when lightning forked across the horizon of the Mediterranean. The guards swore they saw him lift his face to the sky and smile.

“Not long now,” he would murmur, voice low and rough as distant thunder.
“The empire will fall and I will still be standing.

© 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.

October 7, 2025