Tag: Taranis Stormborne

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.

October 21, 2025
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

October 19, 2025
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

October 16, 2025
From Chains to Legends: The Rise of the Black Shields

The Storm Returns

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.

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.

October 14, 2025
Shadows Between Brothers

The camp lay quiet beneath a bruised sky.

“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.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
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October 13, 2025
Blood and Oath

The sun stood high as Praefect Drax Stormborne lingered beside the fire, cloak folded tight against a thin breeze.

“Hello, brother,” a teen voice said, and Drax’s hand went to the hilt of his sword before he turned.

“Taranis, show yourself now,” he said, keeping his tone even.

“Why? So you can look at me and scowl?” Taranis’s voice came from the trees. “I’m fine here, where you can’t see me but I can see you. I see you have children now, and you look smart in the Roman uniform of their law-men.”

“You acknowledge that, brother?” Drax asked, eyes narrowing.

“I acknowledge,” Taranis replied, stepping from the shade with a faint smile. “but I do not bow not to you, my liege, nor to your Roman overlords. We all do what we must to survive.” He paused, then added, quieter, “But try anything and I’ll snap your men like twigs.”

A small boy tugged at Drax’s sleeve. “Father, who is he?” the child asked.

“Is he a barbarian, father?” another eight-year-old whispered, peering toward the tree-line.

“Julius that’s our uncle Taranis?” a smirking boy offered. “The legendary gladiator Lupus… wasn’t he exiled?”

Drax let the questions run off him like rain. He studied Taranis as if measuring a blade. Blood and oath pulled between them one brother in Roman order, the other a storm wearing man’s skin.

The campfire crackled, throwing sparks into the brittle afternoon air. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath two brothers standing on opposite shores of the same river.

Taranis tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.
“Exiled, yes,” he said softly. “But storms don’t vanish, brother. They wait for the right sky.”

Drax said nothing. His men shifted uneasily, hands brushing spear shafts, glancing between the prefect and the outlaw.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Drax murmured finally. “Rome watches even the wind that bends near me.”

“I’m not here for Rome,” Taranis replied,. his gaze flicking toward the boys proud, uncertain, wearing their father’s steel in miniature. “I came to see what became of the man I once followed into the fire.”

“You followed because you had no choice,” Drax snapped, voice sharp enough to cut the air.
“And you bowed because you wanted one,” Taranis countered.

Silence fell again. The forest around them seemed to lean closer, listening.

Julius, the youngest, tugged at Drax’s sleeve.

“Father… he doesn’t look like a villain,” the boy whispered.
“No,” said Drax quietly, eyes still locked on Taranis. “That’s what makes him dangerous.”

Taranis laughed then, low and bitter. “Dangerous? I bled for this land before Rome knew its name. If danger is survival, then yes I am a danger.”

A faint roll of thunder trembled beyond the horizon. Both men turned toward it, instinctively.

“Storm’s coming,” said one of Drax’s soldiers.

Taranis met his brother’s eyes one last time.
“No, soldier,” he said, voice like wind through iron. “The storm’s already here.”

He vanished into the trees before anyone move. leaving only the fading echo of his words and the scent of rain.

Drax stood long after he was gone, until his eldest spoke softly:
“Will we see him again, Father?”

Drax’s jaw tightened. “If the gods have mercy or none at all.”

The thunder answered for him.

Julius started to run after his uncle.

“No, child,” Drax called, voice tight.

Taranis turned, the stormlight catching on the scars that crossed his jaw. He knelt so his eyes met the boy’s.
“Your place is with your father,” he said softly. “He’s a good, honourable man.”

Julius frowned. “How did you get off the island?”

Taranis’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “I built a boat.”

He rose, cloak stirring in the wind as thunder growled again in the distance.
“Remember that, boy when the world cages you, build your own way out.”

Then he was gone once more, the forest swallowing him whole.

Drax stood in silence, watching the trees sway. His men busied themselves with meaningless tasks tightening straps, banking the fire anything to avoid the weight in the air.

The prefect’s eyes lingered on the path his brother had taken.
“Stormborne,” he murmured, the name a curse and a prayer all at once.

Above them, the first drops of rain began to fall.

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Futher reading

The Chronicles of Drax

The tales of Rayne

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

October 13, 2025
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
Whispers from the Sea

Written by
emma.stormbornelore

The wind off the coast carried a strange scent that morning salt, smoke, and something older.

Drax Stormborne stood upon the cliffs of Caerwyn. His cloak drawn tight, eyes narrowed toward the southern horizon where the sea met the clouds. The gulls wheeled low, uneasy, their cries sharp against the stillness.

Behind him, his second-in-command approached, boots crunching on frost-slick stone. “Another ship’s gone missing,” the man said quietly. “Roman, they say. A patrol near Carthage. The reports claim a storm took it.”

Drax didn’t turn. “A storm,” he repeated, voice low. “Or something that wears its name.”

The man hesitated. “You think it’s him?”

For a moment, only the wind answered. Then Drax’s gloved hand closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers tracing the worn leather grip. “Taranis never drowned easy,” he murmured. “If the Empire bleeds at sea, then he’s drawing the blade.”

He moved to the edge of the cliff, gazing down at the waves hammering the rocks below. The sea had always been Rome’s pride a wall of conquest, a promise of control. But now it whispered rebellion.

“Send word to the northern outposts,” Drax said. “Quietly. Tell them the Black Shields move again. No banners. No noise. Just watch the tide.”

The officer nodded and left, his footsteps fading into the mist.

Alone, Drax drew his sword, holding it toward the sea. The steel caught the dawn light, flashing gold for a heartbeat like lightning beneath the clouds.

“Brother,” he said softly, as the first drops of rain began to fall. “If the storm returns… then so do I.”

The thunder answered, rolling like distant drums of war.

The Empire called it weather.
The Stormborne called it warning.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

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

October 12, 2025
Transformative Stone Age Fish Recipe from Worcestershire

A Survival Meal from Severn Valley.

Taranis’s journey south, inspired by Stone Age foraging along the Severn Valley in ancient Worcestershire.

As Taranis wandered deeper into exile, he crossed the ancient paths of what we now call Worcestershire a land shaped by rivers, caves, and sacred woodlands. The Severn Valley offered not only shelter, but food: fish from clean waters, herbs from wild meadows, and woodlands dense with fuel.

This meal marks a turning point when hunger gave way to skill, and the boy began to understand the land, not fear it.

Whole small fish (e.g. trout, sardines, or mackerel) 2 £2.00–£3.00
Lemon or vinegar (optional) 1 tbsp £0.10
Salt ¼ tsp £0.05
Fresh herbs (wild garlic, rosemary, thyme) 1 tbsp £0.20
Oil or animal fat 1 tsp £0.05
Flatbread or root mash (optional side) — £0.20–£0.50

Estimated Total Cost: £2.60–£4.00
(Serves 2 — ~£1.50–£2.00 per portion)

Stone Age version:

Catch fish from stream or river. Clean and season with gathered herbs and a dash of salt.

Wrap in leaves (dock, burdock) or skewer whole and cook over embers, turning slowly.

Serve with roasted roots or foraged greens.

Modern method:

Preheat grill or pan. Clean fish, season inside and out with herbs, salt, and lemon/vinegar.

Lightly brush with oil or animal fat.

Grill for 4–5 mins per side or until crisp and flaky.

Serve with flatbread, salad, or root veg.

Fish: Omega-3s, protein, brain and heart health

Fresh herbs: Antioxidants, anti-inflammatory properties

Optional lemon/vinegar: Aids digestion and preservation

🔄 Ingredient Substitutions
Fish → firm tofu (vegan) or mushrooms (grilled)

Wild herbs → store-bought thyme, parsley, dill

Side: roasted parsnips or potatoes for a modern twist

📖 Suggested Story Pairing
Best paired with:
“The Hollow Howl” or “The Crossing” (a future post of Taranis crossing into new lands) moments when survival becomes instinct, and fear becomes focus.

This is the meal of transformation not feasting, but claiming life back one bite at a time.
The boy who was cast out now learns to live.

© StormborneLore. Recipe written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

A heartfelt thank you message from StormborneLore, inviting readers to support and engage with the storytelling experience.

If you recreate this recipe, tag #StormborneLore so I can see your version.”

October 12, 2025
Rustic Bronze Age Lamb Recipe: A Diabetic-Friendly Delight

A hearty feast featuring slow-roasted lamb neck slices with a medley of root vegetables, inspired by Bronze Age Britain.

A hearty feast of lamb and roots inspired by Bronze Age Britain. Slow-roasted for warmth, strength, and balance.

📜 Cost: approx. £9.00 – serves 2 generously
🌱 Dietary Notes: Contains meat; gluten-free; diabetic-friendly (low glycemic impact with honey optional)
🍴 Setting: Ideal for House Terra or the Hearthrest kitchens of Emberhelm

Ingredients:

2 lamb neck slices (bone-in or boneless)

2 large carrots, chopped

1 large parsnip or swede, cubed

1 red onion, quartered

2–3 small potatoes, halved

1 tbsp honey (optional for diabetics, or substitute with erythritol/monk fruit)

2 tbsp oil (rapeseed or olive)

2 sprigs fresh rosemary or thyme

½ tsp coarse sea salt

Black pepper to taste

Optional: splash of stock or water for braising

Method:

Prepare the fire (or oven):
Preheat oven to 180°C (fan) / 200°C / gas mark 6. If cooking over a firepit, get embers glowing steadily.

Sear the lamb:
In a cast-iron pan or heavy skillet, sear neck slices on high heat with a splash of oil until browned on both sides (~2–3 mins each).

Assemble the roots:
In a roasting tray, toss chopped vegetables with oil, herbs, salt, and a drizzle of honey (or sweetener). Spread in a single layer.

Add lamb & roast:
Nestle the lamb among the vegetables. Add a splash of water or stock to keep it moist. Cover loosely with foil.

Roast in the hearth (or oven):
Roast covered for 1 hour. Remove foil, baste with pan juices, then roast uncovered for another 20–30 mins until browned and tender.

Serve with:
Crusty barley flatbread, pickled roots, or a handful of wild greens.

Historical Insight:
In Bronze Age Britain, neck cuts were favoured for slow roasting near the fire – tough, flavourful, and nourishing. Root vegetables like parsnip, swede, and onion were common near settlements, roasted in clay ovens or embers. Honey added rare sweetness and symbolised prosperity.

Health Notes:

Rich in protein and iron

Root veg provide fibre, vitamin C, and potassium

Slow cooking softens connective tissue, making it easier to digest

Possible Substitutes:

Lamb: beef shin, pork neck, or plant-based roast (e.g., seitan)

Veg: beetroot, celeriac, or turnips

Honey: maple syrup or date molasses for vegan option

✅ Diabetic-Friendly: Yes, especially if honey is reduced or replaced with low-glycemic sweetener
✅ Gluten-Free: Yes, provided stock & honey are checked

Freezer safe

If you recreate this recipe, tag #StormborneLore so I can see your version.

October 12, 2025