A colorful illustration depicting a quaint Tettenhall Woods Prefab surrounded by a vibrant garden, representing the warmth of the Black Country dialect and local culture.
It’s a proper cowd one out there this Sunday, so what better day to dive into a new post?
Today, it’s a little disclaimer about the language that features in my stories…
Author’s Note: The Tongue of the Land
While the Black Country dialect does not belong to the Roman period. It is used within these stories to represent the voice of the common people. The humble folk who stood beside Taranis, shaped by soil, storm, and memory.
The dialect itself descends from Old English. First spoken between 1100–1300 CE, and remains alive in parts of the West Midlands today.
The earlier language spoken in Roman-era Mercia has long been lost, leaving no written record.
By using this dialect, I seek not historical precision but continuity.. To let the living voice of the land speak through its past.
To those who do not understand the dialect…
“Ow bist, bab?” means “How are you, love?”
“It’s a proper cowd one out there” translates to “It’s really cold outside.”
So all together:
“How are you, love? It’s a really cold one out there this Sunday, so what better day to dive into a new post?”
The Black Country dialect has a warmth and rhythm all of its own . It’s how my grandparents and neighbours spoke, and how the land itself still seems to talk on quiet days.
It’s the same voice I hear when I write of the Stormborne. Ordinary folk shaped by wind, stone, and rain, who carry the old sounds onward through time.
Artistic representation of the ram, symbolizing renewal and courage, surrounded by vibrant colors representing the cycles of nature.
Beneath layers of violet, gold, and sea-blue, the ram emerges ancient, patient, eternal.
His horns spiral like thunder caught mid-turn, his eyes fixed on horizons where storms are born and broken.
In pagan tradition, the ram is the bringer of light. Aries, the first fire, the strength that awakens spring.
In the Stormborne mythos, he is remembered as the Ram of the Storm Gate. The guardian of renewal and courage, carved into the stone circles of Cnocc long before Rome came. When the storms gathered over Mercian hills, the people raised his sign to call for dawn’s return.
“He stood between the fire and the sky. With horns bright with thunderlight and when all else fell silent, the Ram did not kneel.”
Each line of colour marks the turning of the seasons. Purple for winter’s shadow, amber for fire reborn, blue for the rivers that feed the land.
This piece honours the ancient balance between chaos and calm strength drawn not from conquest, but from endurance.
Original hand-painted design inspired by the ancient Tyr rune, symbolizing courage and the enduring spirit of the Stormborne.
(Original Hand-Painted Design by ELH)
The old runes spoke of courage, justice, and sacrifice. The path of Tyr, the god who gave his hand to bind the wolf.
To the Stormborne, this mark symbolized something deeper. The courage to face what must be faced, and to keep walking through the storm no matter the cost.
Each line in this piece was hand-drawn in layered bands of colour. Firming a shape reminiscent of the ancient Tyr rune bold, unwavering, rising upward.
The colours merge like dawn through mist. Gold for honour, blue for truth, and pink for the bloodline of storm and flame that endures through every age.
This painting stands for all those who fight unseen battles. Who rise each day despite the odds those who, like Tyr and the Stormborne before him. Walk the path not for glory but for what must be done.
Original artwork by Emma L. Hewitt (ELH)
Shop this design: “The Path of Tyr” is available now on Redbubble as art prints, apparel, and accessories.
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.
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.
Colorful wooden sign inviting readers to like and subscribe, featuring a sunny landscape design.
A symbol of legacy and awakening, Lore Stormborne signifies the binding of ancestry and power across the Stormborne bloodline.
The central knotwork echoes the eternal connection between past and future. While the radiant colour rings mirror the energy of the storm expanding outward through time.
Artist’s Note: “Every line holds memory each thread of colour carries a name, a voice, a story passed down. This is where the Stormborne start.”
The tide was retreating when they found the broken chains. The sight of melted iron through as if struck by lightning.
“Gods preserve us,” whispered one of the guards, stepping back. “No blade have done that.”
Tiberius knelt beside the scorched links. “He didn’t break free,” he muttered. “He shed them.”
The centurion barked orders.,Sending riders to the northern watch and ships to sweep the channel. But even as they moved, the sky began to darken. The wind shifted, dragging the scent of iron and rain across the water.
“He’s gone home,” Tiberius said at last. “Back to the place Rome never tamed.”
“To Britannia?” asked the young guard again, voice shaking.
“Aye,” said the older legionary. “And if the stories are true, every storm between here and there will answer his call.”
From the cliffs, they can see the faint shimmer of the sea calm for now, but seething beneath.
The Emperor’s standard flapped once, hard enough to snap its pole.
“Should we tell the mainland?” the centurion asked.
Tiberius stood slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Tell them nothing. Let them think he drowned. If the gods favour us, maybe they’ll believe it.”
But none of them truly did. Even as the orders went out, the men felt the pressure in the air, that strange stillness before thunder. Somewhere far to the north, in the heart of Britannia, the wind began to rise.
“What if he’s caught out there commander?”
Tiberius didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed on the sea, the horizon split between light and shadow.
“If he’s caught,” he said finally, “then the sea itself will break first.”
The young guard frowned. “You speak as if he’s a god.”
Tiberius turned to him, his face hard. “You weren’t here when they brought him in chains. You didn’t see the storm that followed. The ships burned before they reached the harbour. No oil, no fire arrows, just lightning, and him standing in the rain, laughing.”
The guard swallowed, his knuckles white around his spear.
Another soldier older, scarred, voice low spat into the dirt. “Men like that ain’t gods. They’re reminders. Rome builds, Rome burns, and the earth keeps its own count.”
Thunder rolled far out to sea, deep and slow.
“Get word to the docks,” Tiberius ordered. “Seal the forges. Lock down the armoury. And if the Emperor asks…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “…tell him the storm never left the island.”
The men scattered to obey, but above them, the gulls were already fleeing inland.
The wind picked up again not from the west, but the north. And on the water, beneath a bruised sky, something vast and dark moved with purpose.
Taranis stood at the prow of the small boat, the sea hissing beneath its hull as if warning him back. He only smiled.
The wind carried the scent of earth his earth and beyond the mist. The cliffs of Britannia rose like the bones of old gods. Behind him, the island of exile vanished into shadow. Before him lay vengeance, memory, and the ghosts of his kin.
“Home,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”
His brothers would be the first. Drax, bound by Rome’s gold and law; Rayne, lost between loyalty and freedom. Then the old comrades, the broken men who once bore the wolf upon their shields. The Black Shields would rise again not as soldiers. But as something Rome can not name and never kill.
He shifted his weight, watching the distant shoreline of Letocetum take shape through the fog.
Beyond that lay the salt pits of Salinae. The forests near Vertis, the villages that still whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.
“Word travels faster than ships,” he said to the empty wind. “By the time I step ashore, they’ll already know.”
Lightning rippled across the far horizon, faint but deliberate, as though the heavens themselves answered.
He gripped the tiller and laughed quietly to himself not with joy. But with the fierce certainty of a man who had waited too long to be mortal anymore.
When the first gulls circled overhead and the shore drew near, Taranis whispered the words that had haunted his exile.
“Rome fears the storm. Now it will remember why.”
The tide carried him in. Somewhere in the fort at Rutupiae Drax Stormborne turned toward the sea. With a feeling of dread, without knowing, that the storm had come home.
“Father, what does exile mean?” Julius asked, peering up with wide, uncertain eyes.
Before Drax could answer, Marcus spoke first, his tone full of the confidence only youth could forge. “It means Father can kill Uncle Taranis. It means Uncle has no home, and should be on his island. Right, Father?”
The fire crackled. For a long moment, Drax said nothing. The weight of the question pressed heavier than the armour across his shoulders.
“No, Marcus,” he said at last, voice low. “Exile does not always mean an enemy. Sometimes it means Rome has no place for a man who refuses to kneel.”
The boys exchanged a glance, uncertain. Julius frowned. “But you serve Rome. Uncle does not.”
Drax looked out toward the dark treeline where his brother had vanished. The smoke twisting like ghostly fingers into the grey sky. “I serve peace,” he said. “Rome just calls it something else.”
“Will you fight him, Father?”
Drax’s jaw tightened. “If I must. But I hope the gods grant me a choice before that day.”
Marcus turned back to the fire, his expression thoughtful. “Uncle said the storm’s already here.”
“Aye,” Drax murmured, his gaze distant. “And sometimes the storm wears a familiar face.”
Thunder grumbled again, rolling through the valleys. Drax drew his cloak closer. Feeling the weight of legacy settle across him the burden of blood and oath, of brotherhood turned to legend.
Somewhere beyond the hills, Taranis walked free.
Drax, bound by Rome and duty, wondered who among them was truly exiled.
StormborneLore 