StormborneLore

Tag: roman britain

  • The Storm and the Dead: A Tale of Ancient Legends

    The Storm and the Dead: A Tale of Ancient Legends

    (Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)

    The horn had fallen silent, yet the earth still trembled; a low, steady hum rose from beneath the Chase. Mist rolled thick as wool, swallowing the trees and turning the air into a breathless white.

    Thunorric stood at the front, sword low; blood dried dark along the edge. Behind him, Dægan and Leofric formed a narrow line, each facing the shapes that crept from the fog.

    The dead men of Pennocrucium did not walk; they drifted, armor clinking faintly as if echoing battles that had never ended. Some still bore their Roman crests; others had the crude marks of tribes that had long forgotten their names.

    Leofric’s voice broke the silence.

    “They remember their banners, but not their peace.”

    One of the dead stepped forward; a centurion, helm cracked, eyes like dull embers.

    “We marched for empire,” the corpse rasped, “but Rome fell, and the gods turned their faces. The barrow called, and we answered.”

    Thunorric’s grip tightened on his hilt.

    “Then hear me now. You have no master left; not Rome, not the storm, not even death itself. Rest your arms.”

    The ground shuddered. The lead soldier’s skull tilted as though considering the words. “And who commands the storm now?”

    Lightning split the mist; not from the sky, but from the blade itself. It burned white, then blue, throwing every figure into ghostly relief.

    “I do,” Thunorric said.

    The flash tore through the field like a living thing, cutting through bone and rust. When the light faded, the mist began to thin; where the soldiers had stood, only ash remained, stirred by the soft breath of dawn.

    Leofric knelt, pressing his hand to the ground.

    “You’ve bound them.”

    Thunorric sheathed his sword with a quiet rasp.

    “No. I reminded them who they were.”

    The wind rose once more, sweeping through the trees; not in warning this time, but like a sigh of relief.

    Dægan crossed himself, the habit of old Rome still clinging to him. “And if the barrow wakes again?”

    Thunorric turned toward the faint light creeping over the hills.

    “Then we’ll wake with it.”

    Copyright Note


    © 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.

    Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:


    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    Chronicles of Draven

    Chronicles of Drax

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

  • The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

    The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

    Interlude

    The banners of Rome had fallen long ago, but Drax still rode as if the legions would return. The road through Pennocrucium was broken now, weeds spilling through the cracks where once the eagles marched. His armour no longer shone, the crimson cloak dulled by weather and war. Yet he wore it still not for pride, but remembrance.

    He had buried too many men to abandon the law.

    To the north, word spread of ships black-prowed, heavy with warriors from across the sea. To the west, the Picts pressed down through mist and mountain. Between them, the land lay hollow, ruled by whoever still raise a blade.

    From the shadows of the trees, smoke curled not of hearths, but of hidden fires. The Black Shields were at work again.

    Drax halted his horse beside the stream. In the rippling reflection he saw a face harder than he remembered. The boy who had once followed Rome’s banners now hunted ghosts of his own blood.

    “Brother,” came a voice from the treeline.

    Taranis stepped out, cloak blackened, a scar like thunder down his cheek. His men lingered behind him, masked in soot and ash. Outlaws. Rebels. To the poor, heroes.

    “The Picts strike from the north,” Drax said, hand on his sword. “You have joined me in holding the border.”

    “I hold what matters,” Taranis answered. “The people. The fields Rome left to burn. You guard ruins, Drax I guard the living.”

    For a heartbeat, silence two worlds staring across a stream. Then the sound of hooves echoed through the trees.

    Draven rode between them, shaking his head. “Enough. We’ve bled too long for banners that mean nothing.” He threw down a pouch of grain. “There’s famine in the villages. We fight each other while children starve.”

    From deeper in the wood, Lore watched through drifting smoke. In the caves beneath Cannock Chase he had tended the cairns of their ancestors. Lore kept the fire burning through the endless grey. He whispered to the flame: keep them, all of them, even when they forget the old names.

    And Rayne, ever the exile, carved symbols into the stones near the water’s edge runes of storm and warning. Ships will come. The sea brings change.

    That night, as the brothers parted beneath a blood-red sky, the wind carried the faintest sound not thunder, but the creak of oars. Far beyond the estuary, lights moved upon the water.

    The first of the Saxons had come.

    And in the hollow of Britain’s heart, the Stormborne name still burned

    Copyright Note

    © 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.

    Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:
    [Lore – The Flame Beneath the Chase]
    [Draven – The Quiet Road]
    [Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts]
    [Taranis – The Black Shield’s Oath]

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    Futher Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    Chronicles of Draven

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

  • Drax Stormborne: The Night of Hollow Fires

    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

  • Taranis Stormborne: The Storm’s Farewell By E. L. Hewitt

    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

  • Galan Gaeaf Celebrations: History and Superstitions

    Galan Gaeaf Celebrations: History and Superstitions

    Nos Galan Gaeaf Hapus

    During Roman Britain, people celebrated a festival very like Samhain it was called Galan Gaeaf.


    When the Romans invaded England, they began to see its celebrations blend with their own traditions:

    Feralia a Roman festival to honour the dead, sharing the same reverence for ancestors.

    Pomona a Roman celebration for the goddess of fruit and trees. which gave rise to the tradition of bobbing for apples.

    Galan Gaeaf is an Ysbrydnos a spirit night. when the veil between worlds thins and spirits walk the earth.
    The term first appears in literature as Kalan Gayaf. In the laws of Hywel Dda, and is related to Kalan Gwav.


    In Christian tradition, it became All Saints’ Day, but for those who still celebrate Calan Gaeaf. It remains the first day of winter a time of endings, beginnings, and remembrance.

    Let us not forget our past our warriors, our farmers, and the land itself that gives us life.

    Ancient Traditions

    As a harvest festival, farmers would leave a patch of uncut straw. Then race to see who can cut it fastest. The stalks were twisted into a mare, the Caseg Fedi.


    One man would try to sneak it out in his clothes. If successful, he was rewarded; if caught, he was mocked.

    Another tradition, Coelcerth, saw a great fire built. Each person placed a stone marked with their name into the flames. If any name-stone was missing by morning, it was said that person would die within the year.


    Imagine the chill of dawn as people searched the ashes for their stones!

    Then there was the terror of Y Hwch Ddu Gwta. The black sow without a tail and her companion, a headless woman who roamed the countryside. The only safe place on Galan Gaeaf night was by a roaring hearth indoors.

    Superstitions were everywhere:
    Touching or smelling ground ivy was said to make you see witches in your dreams.


    Boys would cut ten ivy leaves, discard one, and sleep with the rest beneath their pillows to glimpse the future.


    Girls grew a rose around a hoop, slipped through it three times. cut the bloom, and placed it under their pillow to dream of their future husband.

    It was also said that if a woman darkened her room on Hallowe’en night and looked into a mirror. Her future husband’s face would behind her.
    But if she saw a skull, it meant she would die before the year’s end.

    In Staffordshire, a local variation involved lighting a bonfire and throwing in white stones . If the stones burned away, it was said to foretell death within a year.

    Food and Feasting

    Food is central to the celebration. While I don’t make the traditional Stwmp Naw Rhyw. a dish of nine vegetables I make my own variation using mixed vegetables and meat.

    There’s little real difference between the Irish Gaelic Samhain and the Welsh Calan Gaeaf.


    Each marks the turn of the year the death of one cycle and the birth of another.


    Over time, every culture left its mark: the Anglo-Saxons with Blōdmonath (“blood month”). Later Christian festivals layered upon the old ones.

    The Borderlands of Cheslyn Hay

    I was born in a small village called Cheslyn Hay, in South Staffordshire. WHhich I think is about five miles from what the Norse called the Danelaw, the frontier lands.


    Before the Romans came, much of Staffordshire and indeed much of England was part of ancient Welsh territory.
    Though little is known of this period, imagination helps fill the gaps between the facts.

    The Danelaw was established after the Treaty of Wedmore (878 CE). Between King Alfred of Wessex and the Viking leader Guthrum.

    It divided England roughly from London northwards, trailing the Thames, through Bedfordshire, along Watling Street (A5), and up toward Chester.

    Watling Street the old Roman road that passes through Wall (near Lichfield). Gailey was often described as the de facto border between Mercia (to the west) and the Danelaw (to the east).

    Cheslyn Hay lies just west of Watling Street, near Cannock and Walsall. Placing it right on the edge of Mercian territory within sight of Danelaw lands.
    Because of that proximity, the area would have been influenced by both sides.


    Norse trade routes and settlers passed nearby, along Watling Street and the River Trent.


    Villages like Wyrley, Penkridge, and Landywood show both Old English and Celtic/Norse roots.

    It’s easy to imagine that my ancestors have traded or farmed alongside Norse settlers. after all, many Vikings were farmers too.


    Part of my family came from Compton and Tettenhall Wood. Where a local battle is still spoken of today; the other side from Walsall.


    Archaeological finds near Stafford and Lichfield suggest Viking artefacts and burial mounds, linking the landscape to that history.

    So while Cheslyn Hay wasn’t technically within the Danelaw. It stood upon the Mercian frontier what I like to call “the Border of the Ring” . where Saxon, Norse, and Brythonic traditions once met and mingled.

    My Celebration Tonight

    As I live in a flat, I’ll light a single candle instead of a bonfire. Cook a small feast vegetables and pork with a potato topping.


    For pudding, I’ll have blueberries, strawberries, and banana with an oat topping and warm custard.


    I’ll raise a glass to my ancestors and set a place at the table for any who wish to join.

    Thank you for reading.
    Nos Galan Gaeaf Hapus

  • Taranis Stormborne: The Gathering Storm

    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

  • 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.

  • Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

    Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

    By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

    The mists of Cnocc clung low across the fields when Taranis turned north.
    Rain soaked the cloak across his shoulders, each drop heavy as guilt. Behind him, the standing stones of the old circle faded into grey half memory, half warning.

    A handful of men followed, what was left of the Black Shields. Some limped. Some bled quietly into the mud. Yet none complained.

    They cut through the marsh track at Landywood, the ground sucking at their boots.

    “Bloody mire,” grumbled one of them Caedric, a smith from the Chase. “If Rome don’t catch us, we’ll drown in the bog.”

    Taranis gave a faint smile. “Better the bog than their chains. Least the land buries its dead with honour.”

    The men laughed, low and rough, their voices carrying through the mist.
    Overhead, crows turned circles against a sky bruised with stormlight.

    By midday, they reached the edge of Cannock Chase. The trees rose dark and close, their branches whispering in the wind.

    Here, the old tongue lived still the rustle of leaves. Carried the same sounds as the words once spoken in Mercia before Rome built her roads.

    “Best not light a fire,” said another man. “The smoke’ll draw ‘em down Watling Street.”

    Taranis shook his head. “The legions keep to stone. They fear what grows wild. That’s our road, not theirs.”

    They made camp near the brook, the water brown with silt.

    Taranis knelt, washing his hands, watching the red earth swirl away downstream.

    He thought of Drax his brother in law and blood. Who wasvstanding in that Roman armour like a stranger wearing their father’s ghost.

    “Praefect Drax,” he muttered. “You walk in the eagle’s shadow now. But one day, even eagles fall.”

    As the others settled, Taranis sat alone beneath a birch tree. The thunder rolled again to the south, echoing over the hills of Pennocrucium.

    He closed his eyes and let the sound find him not as omen, but as promise.

    “Let Rome march,” he said softly. “The storm remembers.”

    By nightfall, the brook had gone still only the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves broke the quiet.

    The Black Shields huddled beneath the birches.Their cloaks steaming faintly where the rain met the last of the day’s warmth.

    A small fire burned low, more ember than flame. They sat close to it, speaking little. The world had shrunk to mist and memory.

    From the shadows, a young scout pushed through the undergrowth, mud streaking his face.

    “Riders,” he whispered, breath sharp with fear. “South o’ Watling Street. Legion banners silver eagle, red field. A dozen strong, maybe more.”

    Taranis looked up, his eyes catching what light the fire still gave. “Which way?”

    “East,” said the boy. “Toward Pennocrucium.”

    That word hung like ash. Rome’s fort Drax’s post.

    Caedric spat into the fire. “Then your brother’s hounds are sniffin’ their trail back home.”

    “Mind your tongue,” Taranis said, but without heat. “Drax walks a path I wouldn’t, but he walks it for his sons. Rome holds chains tighter than iron.”

    The men nodded. They’d all felt those chains some on their wrists, some around their hearts.

    The fire popped softly. Rain whispered down through the canopy, finding its way to the coals.

    “Shall we move?” asked Caedric.
    “Not yet.”

    Taranis rose, brushing mud from his knees. “If they ride to Pennocrucium, they won’t look for us here. And if Drax stands where I think he does, he’ll turn them aside before dawn.”

    He turned his gaze toward the south, where the hills of Cnocc faded into night.

    The stormlight there flickered once a pale flash through the clouds.

    “See that?” murmured one of the men. “Thunder over Penn. He’s sendin’ you a message, I reckon.”

    Taranis smiled faintly. “Aye. Or a warning.”

    He knelt by the fire and drew a spiral in the dirt the old mark, the storm’s sign.

    “Tomorrow we move north,” he said. “Watling Street’s theirs, but the woods are ours. We’ll strike where the road breaks near the old fort make Rome remember who walks her border.”

    The men grinned, weary but alive again.
    For a heartbeat, the fire caught, burning bright as dawn.

    Above them, thunder rolled once more.
    It sounded like a heartbeat slow, vast, unending.

    Copyright Note

    © 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

  • The Eagle and the Storm

    The Eagle and the Storm

    Dawn crept slow over Cnocc, a thin gold edge behind the rain clouds. Mist clung to the standing stones, turning the world to shadow and breath.

    Drax waited alone within the circle, his Armour dark with dew. Around him, the forest held its silence not even the birds dared speak before the storm.

    A shape emerged from the trees. Bare-headed, cloak torn by wind, eyes bright with the same lightning that lived in the sea.

    “Taranis,” Drax said quietly.

    “Brother.”

    They faced each other across the stones, a dozen paces apart soldier and exile, lawman and outlaw, blood and storm.

    “You sent the boy,” Drax began. “You risked Rome’s wrath to deliver a letter. Why?”

    “Because words still travel where armies can’t,” Taranis replied. “And because you needed to see the truth before Rome writes it for you.”

    Drax’s hand went to the hilt at his belt, but he did not draw. “The truth is that you lead rebellion.”

    “The truth,” Taranis said, stepping closer, “is that Rome rots from within. You see it, even in Pennocrucium the taxes, the prisons, the wards rising against their own peacekeepers. You know their order is just another storm wearing iron.”

    “Law keeps the world from tearing itself apart.”

    Taranis smiled faintly. “Then tell me, brother which law spared our people?”

    The question hung like a blade between them.

    Drax’s voice dropped. “You’ll bring ruin on every soul north of the wall.”

    “And you’ll call it justice when the legions do it first.”

    Lightning cracked behind the hills, casting their faces in white fire. For a heartbeat, they were children again mud on their hands, the taste of rain on their tongues.

    Then it was gone.

    Drax exhaled slowly. “If I turn my back on Rome, they’ll come for my sons.”

    “Then send them to me,” Taranis said. “I’ll keep them safe and teach them what it means to be Stormborne.”

    Drax met his brother’s gaze, every oath and scar warring inside him. “You ask too much.”

    “I ask what blood demands.”

    The wind rose, carrying the scent of thunder and pine. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a horn sounded Roman, sharp and close.

    Taranis looked toward it, then back at his brother. “You didn’t come alone.”

    Drax’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”

    “You always had a choice.”

    He turned, cloak whipping in the wind, and vanished into the mist.

    Drax stood amid the stones, thunder rolling like a closing gate. For the first time in years, he no longer knew which storm he served.

    The horn still echoed when Drax turned toward the ridge.
    Rain came again sharp, cold, unending washing the footprints from the mud where his brother had stood.

    From the southern slope came the sound of Armour. The steady rhythm of Roman discipline: shields clashing, orders barked, hooves grinding stone.

    Centurion Varro rode up through the mist, helm crested, voice clipped.
    “Praefect! You were told to wait at the lower ford. Our scouts saw movement rebels, by the look.”

    Drax said nothing. His men shifted behind him, uneasy under the Centurion’s glare.

    Varro’s gaze swept the clearing. “You’ve been here long, sir?”

    “Long enough.”

    “Any sign of the outlaws?”

    Drax’s hand brushed the rain-darkened hilt of his sword. “None that concern Rome.”

    Varro frowned. “Sir?”

    “Withdraw your men to the ridge. If they move through the forest, they’ll spook what they can’t catch.”

    Varro hesitated, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “The Governor will want a report.”

    “He’ll have one,” Drax said, voice like iron. “But not from you.”

    Varro opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He saluted stiffly and wheeled his horse. The soldiers followed, vanishing into the haze.

    When the last sound of their march had gone, Drax turned back to the standing stones. The mist seemed thicker now, the air charged and whispering.

    He drew his sword not for battle, but for memory. The blade caught a sliver of light and, for a heartbeat, reflected the spiral carved into the nearest stone.

    From the forest edge came a faint flicker of movement a figure, hooded and still. Not Taranis, but one of his kin. She raised her hand, palm out, the mark of the storm inked in black across her skin.

    A silent vow.

    Drax sheathed his sword. “Tell him,” he said quietly, though she not hear, “that I won’t be his enemy again.”

    The woman vanished into the fog.

    Behind Drax, Maren approached, cloak dripping. “Father… what will you tell Rome?”

    “The truth,” Drax said, mounting his horse. “Just not all of it.”

    As they rode back toward Pennocrucium, thunder rolled once more not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The storm was awake again.

    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 Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

  • Drax Stormborne: A Journey Beyond Empire

    Drax Stormborne: A Journey Beyond Empire

    The last of the rain had faded, leaving the courtyard of Pennocrucium slick with light. Drax stood with his men, issuing orders for the road north, when a shout broke the morning calm.

    A boy no more than ten came running from the treeline. Bare-foot and wild-eyed, his breath tearing in the cold air. The guards moved to intercept, but Drax raised a hand.

    The child stumbled to a halt before him, clutching a scrap of parchment tight against his chest.


    “He said to give you this,” the boy gasped.

    “Who?” Drax asked.

    The boy only pointed back toward the woods. “The man with the scars. He said you’d know.”

    A chill heavier than the rain settled over the praefect. Slowly, Drax took the parchment. The wax seal bore a spiral mark the Ring of the Stormborne.

    He turned the seal over in his palm, the crimson wax cracked and flaking like old blood.

    “Did he say anything else?”

    The boy shook his head. “Only that the sea’s not where he’s coming from anymore.”

    Drax looked up, scanning the mist beyond the walls.
    “Go home, lad,” he said quietly. “And tell your mother to keep her doors barred tonight.”

    When the child was gone, Drax broke the seal. The message inside was written in a firm, weathered hand one he had not seen since the exile.

    Brother,
    If Rome still owns your heart, it will soon own your sons. The storm has left the sea. Meet me where the law ends and the wild begins at Cnocc.
    — T.

    Drax folded the letter and slid it into his cloak. Around him, his men watched, waiting for orders.

    “Mount up,” he said finally. “We ride before sunset.”

    “Sir?” his aide asked. “The boy”

    “Forget the boy.” Drax’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon, where thunderclouds gathered over the hills.
    “Remember the name.”

    The road north was half-swallowed by mist.
    The horses hooves splashed through the puddled ruts. The sound muted beneath the weight of silence that followed them from Pennocrucium.

    Drax rode ahead, the sealed parchment still heavy in his cloak. Each mile drew him closer to the hill he had sworn never to see again Cnocc. the place Rome had called untamed and his people had called sacred.

    Behind him, his men rode uneasily. They had fought rebels, pirates, and ghosts of empire. But none of them knew what to do with silence that breathed like a living thing.

    “Sir,” Maren said quietly, drawing level with his father. “We’re far past the patrol lines. There are no markers, no forts… not even smoke from farms.”

    “There used to be farms,” Drax replied. “Before the Empire burned them.”

    The boy said nothing more.

    They reached the crest by dusk. The land opened out before them rolling forest and wet moor. Scattered with standing stones like broken teeth in the earth. The wind smelled of peat and lightning.

    A movement caught Drax’s eye a flicker among the stones. A man watching, cloaked and hooded.

    Drax reined in. “Hold.”

    The riders stopped. The watcher didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a horn old, carved from a blackened ram’s horn and blew once, low and deep. The sound rolled through the mist like thunder in a cave.

    Within moments, others appeared half a dozen figures stepping from the treeline. The shields blackened, armour mismatched, but each bearing the spiral mark upon their arms.

    The Black Shields.

    Maren’s hand went to his sword. “Father”

    “Wait.”

    Drax dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil. He walked ahead alone until the leader stepped out a woman. Tall and scarred, with iron rings braided through her dark hair.

    “Praefect Drax Stormborne,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or do you answer to Rome only now?”

    Drax studied her face. “I answer to my blood when it calls me by name.”

    She nodded once. “Then the storm welcomes you home.”

    From behind her, two men carried something between them a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, heavy and dark. They laid it at Drax’s feet.

    He knelt, unwrapping it. Inside lay a Roman helm scorched, the crest torn away and beneath it. A bronze medallion marked with the eagle of the Twelfth Legion.

    Maren’s breath caught. “That’s”

    “Proof,” Drax said softly. “That my brother isn’t bluffing.”

    The woman met his gaze. “Taranis waits at the standing circle by dawn. He says he’ll speak to you not the Praefect, not the lawman. The brother.”

    Drax rose slowly, rain dripping from his cloak. “Then he shall have both.”

    Thunder rolled again closer this time, echoing through the hollow hills.

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    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 Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax