Tag: Mythic Fantasy

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

October 13, 2025
The Wilderness Years Part 7

The Grave That Couldn’t Hold Him

The wind rolled down from the mountain like a warning.

Three days had passed since the Trial by Fire. Taranis had been seen walking beside Grael’s warhorse, the shattered collar left behind, and the obsidian pendant still warm against his chest. But not everyone had accepted his transformation.

Some called him storm-marked. Others, cursed.

In a low tent near the edge of camp, whispers brewed.

“He defied the gods,” one said.

“Walked through flame and came out smiling,” said another.

“Flame tricks the weak. It blinds.”

The men gathered around the edge of the fire, cloaks pulled close against the creeping mist. They weren’t Grael’s most loyal, nor Solaris’s brothers. They were wolves without a pack mercenaries who had once served the Clawclan, now waiting for coin and chaos.

They didn’t wear Stormborne colours. Not yet.

“Tonight,” muttered Kareth, his eyes gleaming with spite. “We do what fire could not.”

A few nodded.

“He should’ve died in chains. He’s no warrior. He’s a beast.”

“And beasts don’t get reborn.”

They struck after moonrise.

Taranis had gone to the stream to refill his waterskin, alone as he often did, choosing solitude over celebration. The camp had begun to sleep. The guards were half-drunk from fermented berry wine.

They came from the trees six of them. Faces covered, blades drawn.

The first blow caught him across the shoulder, sending him to the ground.

“Traitor,” one hissed. “Freak.”

Taranis fought back with bare fists, striking like the wolf they feared but it was too many. A second dagger found his ribs. A club broke across his spine.

He fell to one knee.

They kicked him until he stopped moving.

Until his breathing went quiet.

Until he bled into the moss and stones.

They dragged the body to the far side of camp, past the standing stones, into a hollow in the woods where no firelight reached.

They left no markers. No words. Just dirt over his body and a curse on their breath.

“He walks no more,” Kareth said. “The storm dies in silence.”

And they returned to camp, blades clean, alibis ready.

No one would find him.

No one would weep.

They believed the gods had finally corrected their mistake.

But Taranis was not dead.

He dreamed of fire.

He dreamed of wolves.

He dreamed of the black dragon watching from above not with pity, but with fury.

And beneath the soil, his fingers twitched.

The early morning sin rose and grael could be heard hollering

“STORMBORNE WHERE ARE YOU?” grael shouted looking around for taranis

“He fled, he’s a coward” one of kareths men said smirking Wolves circled where his body lay leading them to discover taranis body still and cold.

Two days passed “we will find him tether him again no escape this time.” A warrior said as the wolves circled a piece of land
“Hes dead grael” a Saris said
“He deserves a real burying ” another said

The earth did not keep him.

Not on the first day, when silence reigned.
Not on the second, when the wolves came.
But on the third the wind changed.

At first, just a shift. A stillness. Then, a scent.

Morrigan arrived first. White fur gleaming against the ash-darkened trees. She paced in a wide circle around the hollow. Then came Boldolph, the black wolf, teeth bared, hackles raised.

They howled.

A low, haunting sound not grief. Warning.

Grael rode at once, followed by Solaris and half the guard. When they reached the hollow, they found the wolves digging. Claws tearing through dirt, paws flinging soil like rain.

Grael dismounted. Something in his chest cracked.

“Taranis…”

Solaris dropped to his knees beside the wolves, hands trembling.

“Help me dig!”

No one moved until the first scrap of cloth was exposed. A torn edge of tunic, blood-black, crusted to the earth.

Then the digging began in earnest.

It took three men and two wolves to drag the body out.

He was pale. Lips cracked. Blood dried to his skin. The obsidian pendant still hung around his neck, dirt pressed into the ridges.

One eye was swollen shut. Bruises ran like vines across his chest and arms.

But he was breathing.

Shallow. Ragged. But alive.

Solaris shouted for the healer. Grael stared at the boy like he was seeing a ghost.

“No burial mound,” he said softly. “No cairn. Just a shallow grave… and a storm too stubborn to die.”

The healer worked in silence, hands quick and firm. Crushed pine and fireweed were pressed into the wounds, stitched with thread made from gut and hope. Taranis didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Each time the wind shifted, the wolves growled low in their throats, sensing the old power flicker just beneath his skin.

By nightfall, they had moved him to a guarded hut near the heart of camp. Four warriors stood watch. Grael gave orders that anyone who tried to enter unbidden would be struck down no questions asked.

Solaris sat beside the boy, wiping dried blood from his temple.

“You stubborn bastard,” he whispered. “Even the grave gave up on you.”

Taranis didn’t reply. But his eyes opened barely and fixed on the obsidian pendant now laid upon his chest.

Grael returned before moonrise.

“Speak if you can,” he said.

Taranis’s voice was a thread. “They buried me.”

“I know.”

“They didn’t even check.”

“I know that too.”

“Will you punish them?”

Grael paused. “I already have.”

He tossed something at Solaris’s feet a piece of fur, torn and bloodied.

“Kareth?”

“Gone,” Grael said. “Dragged into the trees by Boldolph. I don’t expect him back.”

Silence settled between them again.

“I should be dead,” Taranis murmured.

Grael nodded slowly. “You were.”

That night, as the wind moaned through the valley, a scout returned from the northern ridge.

“There’s smoke again,” she said. “Not ours. Not Clawclan. Something… older.”

She hesitated before finishing.

“There’s no fire. But trees are blackened. Stones cracked. Something passed through.”

“What kind of something?” Grael asked.

The scout swallowed.

“The kind that flies without wings.”

By dawn, word had spread. Taranis had survived. Taranis had risen.

They called it impossible. Witchcraft. Proof of corruption.

But some whispered another name.

Stormborne.

He stood the next morning.

Not for long, and not without pain, but he stood.

Morrigan watched from the doorway. She did not enter only nodded once, her red eyes gleaming.

“Even the wolves thought you were lost,” Solaris said.

“I was,” Taranis replied, voice raw. “But I heard them. In the soil. Calling.”

He stepped out into the morning light slow, stiff, but upright. The warriors turned to look. One dropped to a knee. Another stepped back in fear.

Grael met him near the edge of the camp.

“We’re riding soon. There are still wars to fight.”

Taranis nodded. “Then I’ll ride.”

“No packs,” Grael said. “No chains.”

Solaris handed him his cloak. “And no grave can hold you.”

Taranis turned to the standing stones, where birds now circled. Thunder echoed in the far hills.

He placed his palm against the earth the earth that had tried to hold him.

“Not today,” he whispered. “I am not done.”

In Emberhelm, the elders would speak of that day for generations.

The day the Stormborne rose from the grave.
The day the wolves howled not for mourning but for warning.

And from that moment on, no one dared bury him again.

Because legends, once born, do not stay buried.

© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.

THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

THE WILDERNESS YEARS PART 2

Taranis The Wilderness Years Part 3.

The Wilderness Years Part 4

The Wilderness Years Part 5

The Wilderness Years Part 6

The Iron Voice of Grael.

One Foot in Two Worlds

July 20, 2025
THE WILDERNESS YEARS PART 2

By EL Hewitt

Taranis stood for hours, his injured back pressed against the tree. Two men watched his every move.

“Hey, stop right there, slave,” one growled, noticing a hand slipping free. He strode over and punched the teen in the stomach, making Taranis grunt in pain. Then he resecured the hand and looped a rope around the boy’s neck.

“Just move. Go on, make my day, exiled one,” said the stocky, dark-haired guard.

“I just wanted water. It’s right there. Please, Sorrel,” Taranis pleaded.

“You know the orders. Two days without,” said the other man, watching closely. “Your commander will come tomorrow. Commander Greal.”

“Should we secure his head too?” the man added. “No movement at all?”

“No. He’s got the collar, and the rope’s above it. It should be tight. His hands are secured again. We just follow orders. No food. No water,” Sorrel replied.

“Commander Greal? That’s who I’m under?” Taranis managed to spit out. The rope around his neck made it hard to breathe or swallow.

“Yes. He’s coming to train you. You’ll be tethered. Chains, binds ankles, wrists, neck until he says otherwise, cursed exile.”

Taranis swallowed, almost choking.

As the sun rose and the shifts changed, a smith appeared.

“Time to change the collar, but that rope makes it tricky,” he muttered. He carried tools stone and bone hammers, and a strange new collar made of carved deer bone and inlaid stones, blessed by the Seer.

“No please. I’m sorry,” Taranis whispered, trying to hide his fear.

“Hey, Tanar, look at me,” Solaris said gently, stepping forward. “You’re the kid who doesn’t fear anything, right? The one who slept with wolves and rides dragons?”

“Morrigan and Boldolph,” Taranis whispered. “They still howl.”

“Yes. They cry for you.” Solaris crouched. “I know you’re scared. I asked if you could play after this punishment. But you have to stay in the clan’s sight.”

“Really?” Taranis asked, making a face as the smith worked.

The old collar shattered. The Seer stepped forward, chanting softly. The new collar was fitted around his neck tight but precise.

“This is to contain and restrict what you are believed to be,” the Seer said. “It bears your name in the old tongue. Carved by flame. Blessed in shadow. It does not break unless your master wills it.”

“Will it grow with him?” Solaris asked.

“It will last a few years. Then we replace it. But it is a warrior’s collar.”

“Can we still attach the tether?” a guard asked.

“Here,” said the smith, tapping the metal hoop. “The restraints remain the same.”

Everyone in the village looked to the boy some with sorrow, some with fear.

“Master, I won’t run or hurt anyone. You saved me,” Taranis said softly. But the masters voice remain silent, the boy had been their property 7 years nothing would change it.

He was removed from the tree. His hands were bound low at the waist. The sinew cords bit deeper with every hour. A leather tether linked the collar to his wrists, forcing him to hunch forward.

“Walk,” the clan leader commanded.

Taranis took a few difficult steps.

“Father, how long is he in this for?” Calor asked.

“This is punishment. When I see a correction in his behaviour, I’ll allow an alteration.”

After a few steps, Taranis fell.

“Get up,” barked a guard.

The leader grabbed Solaris’s arm. “No. He must do it alone. No one helps him.”

“Fuck you,” Taranis hissed, losing his temper. He tried to turn his head, but the tether tightened around his throat. He struggled. Slowly, painfully, he managed to rise to his knees.

“I’ll kill you for this. One day.”

For that outburst, they dragged him through the camp by the tether. Word spread fast the exile had defied them again.

They brought him to the sacred stone circle.

Taranis staggered. Blood dried at the corners of his mouth. The clan watched not with pity, but quiet judgment.

At the center, the clan leader held a mask.

It was beast-shaped, stitched hide, with a carved bone bit meant to force the jaw open and silent. Leather straps dangled like tongues.

“This is what you become when you threaten your own,” he said. “Not man. Not wolf. Not worthy of freedom.”

He strapped the mask to Taranis’s face. The bone slipped between his teeth. The world became heat, shame, and pressure.

They paraded him around the circle. No words. No cheers. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet of judgment.

Then they brought him back to the tree.

He was secured again tether pulled tight, hands bound low, unable to straighten. A bucket of clean water sat just out of reach.

Solaris and a friend sat nearby.

“I get that he hates us,” the friend muttered. “But this? This isn’t helping.”

“How long’s your dad leaving him like that?”

“He’s planning a fight. Says the slave goes in bound. As punishment.”

Later, a group approached the tree. “He’s fighting the hunter who disrespected your father,” one said. “Only this time, he doesn’t get unbound.”

“That’s death,” Nudge said. “This is a unique slave.”

They dragged Taranis toward the circle again. Tether at his neck. Hands bound. Mask still biting. His feet scraped the dirt.

The hunter was waiting older, heavier, armed with a bone club.

“This one’s half-starved and shackled,” the man jeered. “A gift fight.”

The Seer raised her hand. “Begin.”

The club came down fast.

Taranis dodged. Took the blow on the shoulder. Pain exploded. He dropped. Rolled. Used the tether’s pull to spin and slammed his wrists into the man’s knee.

A stumble.

The crowd laughed and jeered .

He stood barefoot, bleeding, bound and faced his enemy.

This time, he waited. At the last second, he kicked low behind the knee. The hunter dropped.

Taranis slammed into him, shoulder first. They hit the ground hard.

Bound wrists wrapped around the man’s throat.

“Enough,” said the Seer.

He didn’t let go.

“Enough!” she repeated.

He finally released the man, who gasped for breath.

Taranis stood. Mask soaked in blood. Breath ragged.

“He’s not just a slave,” Solaris whispered. “He’s… something else.”

One of the leader’s sons stepped forward. “Kill him.”

Taranis hesitated.

Then the look in his eyes went blank.

He obeyed.

He killed with a single motion. Trained. Efficient.

The camp went still.

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” the son whispered.

“You made him do it,” Solaris said coldly. “He obeyed your order.”

The leader stepped forward.

“I gave no such command. But a command was followed.”

He turned away.

“Take him to the Ridge.”

They dragged him up the mountain path.

The wind screamed. No songs. No prayers. Just feet against earth.

The Ridge loomed an old stone, cracked and worn by time.

They fastened him there. Arms above his head. Rope around his chest. Collar tethered tight. Ankles bound. Spine locked in an arch. The mask stayed on.

No fire. Only wind. And a wooden bucket of water, just out of reach.

Night came.

Time blurred.

He dreamed of wolves. Of fire in the sky. Of names long forgotten Rayne, Drax, Lore.

And then Solaris came.

“I asked my father for leniency,” he said softly. “He said pain teaches obedience.”

“This isn’t obedience,” his friend muttered. “It’s madness.”

Solaris crouched.

“I don’t want you to die,” he whispered. “But I can’t stop this. Not tonight.”

Before leaving, he placed a carved stone with a sun symbol beside the bucket.

A promise.

The night passed.

Morning came.

He had not died.

And that, somehow, was worse.

When they removed the mask, the clan leader gave him a small sip of water.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked.

“Your son told me to,” Taranis said, voice raw. “If I don’t obey, I’m punished. I did what I was told and still, I’m punished.”

“How long do I stay like this?”

“One day,” the man said. “You’ll be taken down tonight. Try not to fight the restraints.”

A boy ran up the path.

“The general is here. He demands to see the prisoner.”

A shadow moved at the ridge’s edge.

And the storm was far from over.

To be continued

:

©written and created by ELHewitt

Further Reading

THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

July 18, 2025
Emberhelm: A Night of Brotherhood and Secrets

By the fire at Emberhelm, the night before the ley lines awakened

We drank not for glory,
but for breath.
For blood that still ran,
and brothers not yet turned to ash.

No crown weighed our heads that night.
No blade hung between us.
Only silence,
and the crackle of wood older than war.

Lore sat still
eyes on the shadow that never left his side.
Drax, hands calloused,
held the storm like a sleeping child.
Draven, scar-bound, leaned on root and stone.
Rayne, half-light, watched the stars as if to ask
if they would wait for him to rise.

And I,
I ….
who had been all things and nothing
looked at them not as soldiers,
but as home.

We did not speak of battles.
We did not weep for lost years.
We passed the bread.
We tore the fish.
We shared warmth not made of fire.

And before the parting,
we carved no words.
For there are some truths
that can’t be spoken
without breaking.

Thank you for reading

Futher Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Chronicles of Draven

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

July 11, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 7

The Fifth Flame

The stone circle of Emberhelm stood silent under the pale light of morning., five cairnstones glowing faintly in their ancient places. The air shimmered with a stillness that only came before something eternal was spoken.

Taranis Stormborne, cloaked in black and silver. stepped ahead to the first cairn the one carved with roots and mountains, circled in white ochre. He turned to face the gathered warriors, wolves, and wanderers.

“Before the dragons flew,” he said, “before the wolves howled, there were five lines of fire. We knew only three. But today, we remember them all.”

He turned to Draven, who stepped ahead slowly, still favouring his side.

“Brother you bled for us. You survived what none should have. You guarded the line even when no one knew it was there.”

Taranis drew a shard of stone from the cairn itself. Then handed it to Draven, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“By the weight of the earth and the strength of the mountain, I name you Lord of Terra.”

A cheer rose from the crowd, led by the wolves, then echoed by the dragons above. Draven bowed not to Taranis, but to the people.

Taranis turned then, slowly, toward the fifth cairn the one none had touched in generations. It bore a sunmark, and a spiral, and a cut across its base. where an old flame once split the stone.

Beside it stood Rayne, straight-backed now, though his eyes still bore the shadow of the collar. And beside him stood Tirena, a woman of stone and flame, silent and radiant. With one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sun-marked blade.

Taranis paused before speaking not as a warlord, but as a brother.

“Rayne. We lost you once. You were chained, beaten, turned into a whisper. But you came back. And with you came fire not born of wrath, but of forgiveness.”

“Yet even flame must have form. And no one guards the flame better than the one who sees in silence.”

He turned to Tirena.

“Knight of Lumen, daughter of the dawn do you stand beside him of your own will?”

Tirena gave a single nod, her voice soft and fierce.

“I do. Not for crown. For cause.”

Taranis placed his hand on Rayne’s shoulder, and raised his other toward the sun.

“Then by the fire that remembers and the light that does not burn. I name you Rayne of Lumen, Lord of the Fifth House.”

The crowd was still for a heartbeat.

Then a pulse rolled through the cairns. A faint hum, like the deep breath of the land itself, stirred the hair of every person there.

The ley lines had awakened.

Five fires, once lost, now stood again.

Taranis looked out across the gathered faces his brothers. His people, the wolves, the dragons, the flame keepers and shadow walkers who had followed him through storm and silence.

His voice dropped low, just above a whisper, but the wind carried it to every ear.

“I know I wasn’t there for you. I’ll always regret that. Father exiled me… and maybe I would’ve run anyway. But that exile taught me many things.”

He looked to each brother in turn Lore, cloaked in dusk and silence. Drax, ever the storm, hands calloused from war. Draven, grounded like stone. And Rayne, flame rekindled beside the steel gaze of Tirena.

Taranis smiled, but it was not the smile of a warlord. It was that of a boy who had once been cast out. Now stood at the heart of everything he loved.

Just then, Draven stepped ahead again, his voice steady.

“Brother… you were exiled at eight,” he said. “We not protect you then. But we can stand with you now.”

Taranis’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment not from shame, but from the sudden weight of grace.

“And I will never walk alone again,” he answered, his voice thick with feeling.

Around them, the wind stirred the banners of each House. The cairns pulsed faintly, glowing at their roots. Overhead, the wings of dragons cast long shadows across the circle. And for the first time in generations, all five ley lines were whole.

Thank you for reading

© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

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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

July 11, 2025
Whimsical Dragon Adventures: A Bronze-Age Tale

A vibrant illustration of a dragon, embodying the whimsical spirit of the story ‘A Ballad of Bronze-Age Bouncing’.

(A Ballad of Bronze-Age Bouncing)

The dragon smirked and gave a wink,
Then launched him skyward in a blink.
A loop-de-loop, a spiral twirl
Drax flailed like a dizzy girl.

“I’ve got this!” he cried, “I’m born to fly!”
Pendragon laughed and rolled the sky.
Down he tumbled, flapping fast
Till Tairneanach caught him at last.

Oh mighty Drax, with sword so wide,
Declared, “It’s time for me to ride!”
He climbed Pendragon’s scaly back,
And shouted loud, “Let’s hit the track!”

The dragons chuckled, playing catch,
With Drax the ball in every match.
He swore and shouted, “Put me down!”
While Taranis watched with half a frown.

“Next time,” said Lore with knowing grin,
“Just stick to marching less of a spin.”
But Drax just grinned and gave a cheer,
“Best flight I’ve had all flaming year!

A colorful thank you note encouraging readers to engage with the content.

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

July 3, 2025
Cymru’s Secrets.
Myths of Morrigan and the Wild.

(Cyfrinachau Cymru: Mythau Morrigan a’r Gwyllt)

Prologue: When the Wind Remembers

The moon hung low over the marshlands of Cymru, a pale and silent witness to all that stirred beneath. Mist curled along the ground like ghost-breath. Threading through reeds and thorns, cloaking the land in a hush that even time dared not break.

Morrigan stood at the water’s edge, her white fur shimmering with silver dew. The red pentagram upon her brow pulsed faintly with memory not magic, not prophecy, but something older still loss.

She remembered the laughter of her children, once. Their small feet dancing on stone, their breath warm against her skin when she had a face and a name.

That was long before the curse had sealed her fate. A punishment for defying death, for choosing the path of protector instead of prey.

She had not been seen in her human form by another soul in centuries.

The wind carried the scent of heather, salt, and far off fire. It shifted, and she turned her head sharply. From the west, a presence stirred. Not prey. Not predator. Something… remembered.

Her mate, Boldolph, emerged from the shadows. A black wolf with eyes like fire and a gold sigil carved into the fur of his brow. The mark of the king of wolves. He towered beside her, but even he did not speak.

Boldolph, the king of wolves, with glowing red eyes and a mystical sigil on his brow.

They not speak.

They had not touched in human form since the binding.

And still, their silence said more than words ever.

A sudden cry pierced the stillness not a howl, but the breathless whimper of cubs. Morrigan turned. Nestled in the hollow of a fallen tree, her children stirred, sensing the shift in the wind. She padded over, nose to fur, and breathed them back into slumber.

Her heart, once burned hollow by grief, beat now for them.

But the forest would not rest.

Tonight, something ancient woke.

Chapter 1

The Scent of a Storm.

The first rain came softly a warning more than a downpour. Tapping gently against the heather and bracken as dusk bled into the marshes. Morrigan crouched low on a rise of dry stone, her pale red eyes scanning the windswept valley below.

Somewhere to the north, a herd of deer was shifting. Their hooves left trembles in the ground. Their scent curled up through the fog.

But Morrigan wasn’t hunting tonight.

She was waiting.

Beneath her, in the hollowed belly of a mossy yew, three wolf cubs whimpered and stirred. Her children not the kind born of curse or storm, but of blood and memory. The youngest one, all white save for a copper ear, squeaked for her warmth. Morrigan tucked her body closer, curling like a shield around them.

Above her, the clouds began to crackle with unnatural colour. A shade of light not seen since…

Not since the last time the veil split.

The Shape of the Wind
A sudden gust brought a foreign scent.

Not prey.

Not predator.

Something old.

Something… broken.

Her hackles rose.

Across the ridge. Boldolph stood, silhouetted against the sky like a god of the old wilds. His black fur glistening with rain, red eyes aflame with alertness. He hadn’t seen her in human form for hundreds of years. Neither had she seen him. The curse did not allow it.

But she felt him now that familiar gravity, that fierce ache of loyalty and loss.

“Do you feel it?” her voice stirred the wind, though no one else hear it.

He gave no answer, only turned his head westward toward the forests. Vasts woodlands of what would one day be called Cannock Chase.

Chapter 2

The boy in the trees

They saw him before he saw them.

A shadow moving through the trees. Too small to be a warrior. Too slow to be a deer.

He was staggering. Starving. But the flame in his eyes refused to die.

Morrigan stepped ahead, paws silent on the stone. The cubs whimpered behind her. Boldolph moved to block her path, lips curled, teeth bared but not at her.

At fate.

At what it meant.

At what it would cost.

Another child. Another risk. Another ache that never leave.

She looked again.

Not a warrior. Not yet.

Just a boy.

But storms followed him.

She turned back to her cubs. Nestled, safe for now. She licked each one gently, then closed the hollow with fallen bark. The marsh would protect them. She whispered an old name into the soil to guard them a name she hadn’t used in centuries.

Then, she stepped into the mist.

Boldolph growled low, a warning.

She brushed against him as she passed her head beneath her head beneath his muzzle, a gesture older than language. Boldolph did not move, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Just for a moment. Enough.

The storm scent was growing stronger.

Morrigan slipped into the trees, her paws silent against the mulch of leaf and root. Branches clawed at her fur like hands from a forgotten dream, but she did not flinch. She knew these woods. She had bled in them. Breathed in them. Hidden in them.

The boy was not far.

She found him collapsed beside a fallen trunk. his arms wrapped around his ribs as though trying to hold himself together. Dirt and blood streaked his face. His feet were bare, blistered, and blue with cold. He had a stick in one hand sharpened crudely, but not recently used.

Even in sleep, his jaw was clenched. Even in pain, his spirit did not bend.

Morrigan circled him in the shadows, one silent loop, then two. She tilted her head. A vision stirred fleeting and broken of a campfire once lit in the hollows of men’s hearts. A voice crying in a tongue lost to fire and flood.

A name.

Taranis.

It did not belong to this boy yet.

But it would.

She drew closer.

The Unseen Form had she still worn her human face, she have wept. But wolves did not weep. They watched. They endured.

Still, some griefs slipped through the fur.

She lowered herself beside the boy, her body a wall against the wind. Carefully, she placed her muzzle against his shoulder. His skin was fever-hot, but beneath it pulsed a stubborn rhythm.

He lived.

From the trees behind, Boldolph appeared, silent as the dusk. He said nothing, but his stare asked everything.

“What are you doing?”

She answered without words.

What we once promised what the old ways demand.

Another life. Another orphan. Another soul cast out by fear and ignorance.

The forest whispered around them voices of old gods and buried secrets. Morrigan raised her head and howled, low and haunting, a call only the wild would understand. It wasn’t a summoning.

It was a vow.

For three days, they watched over the boy.

She hunted while Boldolph guarded. He fetched water from the shallows, carried in his great jaws. She chewed softened bark and nettle, placing it near the boy’s lips. He drank in his fever-dreams, whispering names not yet earned, warnings not yet understood.

On the second night, he opened his eyes.

Just a sliver.

And saw her.

Not as a wolf. Not as a monster.

But as something else.

He reached a hand out. Weak. Trembling.

She did not pull away.

On the third morning, he stood.

Not steady. Not tall. But standing, nonetheless.

And behind him, the sky split with light.

Stormborne

He walked between them then between Boldolph and Morrigan as though he had always belonged.

The name passed once more through Morrigan’s mind like a wind returning home:

Taranis.

Storm-born. Marked. A child of prophecy and exile.

She didn’t yet know the shape of his story. Only that it would be vast. Only that it had begun.

And that somewhere in its ending, her curse would find its purpose.

The bond between Taranis and Morrigan, symbolizing the awakening of ancient legacies in ‘StormborneLore’.

© StormborneLore. Written and created by ELHewitt
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Diolch am ddarllen.
Os gwnaeth y stori hon eich cyffwrdd, eich ysbrydoli, neu aros fel sibrwd yn y coed ystyriwch hoffi, rhannu, neu danysgrifio i ddilyn y daith.
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💬 Got thoughts, theories, or echoes of your own? Drop a comment and join the legend.

🌩️ The storm remembers every soul who listens.

A moment of connection between Tanaris and two mystical wolves under a full moon, symbolizing a bond forged by destiny.

Authors note: Unfortunately I needed to use Google Translate for the Welsh so appologise if I got any of it wrong.
June 26, 2025
The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale

A Ghostly Encounter 2

A painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape with trees and a sun, contrasting the eerie atmosphere of the forest.

The air was wrong.

Callum Hargreaves opened his eyes to silence so deep it pressed against his chest. No engines in the distance. No birdsong. No radio crackle.

Only the trees. And the damp earth beneath him.

He sat up slowly, wincing. His body felt heavier, like the atmosphere itself had thickened. The forest wasn’t just quiet it was ancient. The trunks were massive, rough with moss and lichen, and the undergrowth twisted in ways he didn’t remember. Even the colours seemed muted. More… real. Older.

His phone was dead. No signal. Not even a flicker of battery life.

The feather was still in his hand.

White. Burnt at the edge.

He stood, breath visible in the still air. The mist clung low to the ground, like it was trying to hide something.

The stone was gone. The path was gone.

He turned full circle. No trails. No signs. Just forest. Endless.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Get your bearings. Pick a direction. Stay calm.”

But as he moved ahead, he noticed something.

There were no footprints. Not his. Not animals. No trash. No broken branches. Nothing that said people had ever been here.

Except one thing.

A shape in the clearing ahead barely visible in the haze.

It was another stone.
Taller. Deeper carved. The same symbol as before a spiral, or a horn, or… something.

At its base, a small pile of bones. Clean. Arranged in a ring. And at the centre, an ash-blackened tooth.

A vibrant painted stone featuring a spiral design, symbolizing mystery and connection to nature.

Callum backed up a step.

A low growl rippled through the silence.

His eyes snapped up.

A wolf stood across the clearing.

It wasn’t moving. Just watching.

Eyes like molten gold. Fur dark and matted. Muscles tensed, but not ready to strike.

Behind it… a second figure. Not a wolf.

Human.

Massive. Silent. Cloaked in furs. A silhouette against the trees.

Callum couldn’t breathe.

He blinked.
And they were gone.

Just trees again. Just mist.

But the whispering had changed.

Not words anymore.

A name.

One he didn’t know.
One he couldn’t pronounce.

But it curled in his head like smoke:
Taranis.

To be continued…

From the Author

I grew up visiting the Chase, walking the woods and hearing the stories. Have you experienced anything unusual in woods? The whispers among the trees?

If you enjoyed this please read part 1
Read more: The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale
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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 25, 2025
The Secrets of the Haunted Chase

A Ghostly Encounter

A hand-painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape, featuring trees and a bright sun, symbolizing a connection to nature.

They always said the Chase held secrets. Over the years rumors of ghost sightings, lost children, lights that danced just out of reach.

But Private Callum Hargreaves had grown up nearby. He’d run through these woods with scraped knees and muddy boots, long before he wore the army’s green.

He used to love the quiet, the peacefulness that the woods brought.

Tonight, it felt wrong.

The mist had rolled in fast, blanketing the forest floor. Dusk bled into night like ink in water. Callum’s breath fogged in front of him not from cold, but from the weight in the air.

His squad had finished training hours ago, but he hadn’t gone back. He couldn’t. Not yet. His thoughts were loud again memories knocking like fists on the inside of his skull.

“Just walk it off,” he muttered, his voice low. “Like always.” he told himself.

He followed an old deer track or maybe just instinct into the dense pines. The kind that made their own darkness even before sunset. The ground was soft, smelling of wet leaves and something older.

He paused.

There at the base of a gnarled tree was a stone. Half buried, bone coloured. Not shaped by nature. Carved. Faint, but deliberate.

Callum crouched. A breeze touched his neck, oddly warm.

“Someone put this here.”

A mysterious token featuring a swirl design, symbolizing the secrets of the woods.

He brushed aside the moss. A symbol. A swirl or a horn. Beside it a feather. White. Slightly scorched at the edge. When he reached out to touch it.

The air twisted.

Like the world held its breath.

He blinked. Once.
The trees around him… changed.

Taller. Closer. Ancient.

No wrappers underfoot. No footprints. No signal bars. The forest felt closer, like it was listening.

Then came the whisper.

Not from behind him.
Not from the side.

From below.

“He’s returned…”

The voice wasn’t human but it wasn’t wind either. It filled his ears like rising water. Callum staggered back, instinct flaring.

The stone was gone.
The trail behind him, vanished.
Even the smell was different no exhaust, no cordite, just wood smoke and something sharp: iron? sweat? blood?

“No. No, no what is this?”

He turned toward where the training grounds should’ve been.

Nothing.

Just trees.
And silence.
And the whispering louder now. Familiar. Calling him by name without speaking it.

And then… a howl.

Low. Echoing.

Not quite wolf. Not quite human.

Callum’s breath caught. He gripped the feather tight in his palm.

To be continued…

© written and created by ELHewitt

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June 25, 2025
Taranis and the Thief.

A Story of Kindness.

The fire crackled low, licking the belly of a fresh kill. A young deer brought down by patience and precision. Its scent mingled with pine resin, wood smoke, and the dry musk of wolf-fur.

Taranis sat cross-legged near the embers, his gray eyes fixed on nothing.

He had not spoken aloud in days. The wolves Boldolph, silent and alert. Morrigan, fierce-eyed and restless watched him as they always did, as if tethered not by duty, but by knowing.

He tore the meat with his fingers, chewing slowly, not tasting. Hunger had long become a ghost he ignored, like the grief that gnawed behind his ribs.

Then came the rustle. Too light for bear. Too soft for storm.

He didn’t move. But the wolves did.

A man emerged from the trees, thin, mud-streaked, crouching low not with confidence, but desperation. He made for the meat as if pulled by instinct stronger than fear. But the moment his hand reached toward the platter of bark and stone…

A low growl stopped him.

Morrigan’s teeth shone like bone in firelight. Boldolph blocked his retreat. And Taranis finally looked up.

Their eyes met. One pair hollowed by loss, the other by starvation.

“I thought you would kill me,” the stranger whispered.

“I have,” Taranis replied, “for less.”

He stood slowly, towering over the man a figure carved by exile, his face painted with ash and time. But there was no rage in him now. Only silence. And a slow understanding.

He broke the meat in half. Handed the larger piece to the thief.

The man hesitated, then took it with shaking hands.

“What’s your name?” Taranis asked.

The man blinked. “Rhonan.”

“No longer a thief,” Taranis said, sitting again. “Tonight, you eat with me. Tomorrow, you hunt beside me. And if you run…” He glanced to Morrigan. “You’ll not outrun the black one.”

Rhonan gave a breath that was a laugh, or a sob.

And for the first time in many moons, Taranis chewed his meat and tasted it.

From the author:

This story bridges two truths: that hunger drives desperation, and that mercy can be stronger than fear.
Taranis’s decision not to punish the man reflects a deeper shift. one from raw survival to the beginnings of community, yet small.

If you’ve ever chosen kindness when the world expected cruelty this story is for you.

© written and created by ELHewitt

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 24, 2025