Tag: writing

  • 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

  • Draven: A Life Earned and the Weight of War

    Draven: A Life Earned and the Weight of War

    Colorful and abstract arrow design created with overlapping lines and vibrant hues of purple, orange, and teal.
    A vibrant abstract illustration featuring layered colors and an arrow design, symbolizing direction and change.

    The children were asleep when Drax arrived.

    The house was small, only one room wide, built of timber and stone Draven had carried with his own hands. Smoke curled from the hearth. His wife sat beside the fire, mending a tear in their daughter’s cloak. The scent of broth lingered in the air, soft and warm.

    Draven opened the door before Drax could knock. He had felt him coming, the way a wolf senses winter.

    They did not greet one another at first.

    Drax stepped inside, shoulders heavy with travel and silence. His eyes went to the sleeping children. To the carved wooden animals on the shelf. To the woven basket of herbs drying near the window.

    A life earned.
    A life held carefully.
    A life that could be broken by a single word.

    Draven’s wife looked up, needle paused above the cloth. As she looked to Drax a heavy silence stilled in the room. She had always known this peace was borrowed.

    Drax removed his gloves.
    He spoke quietly as he looked to his brother a man who stood 5foot 9 inches, slim build with dark hair..

    “War is coming.”

    There was no answer right away.

    Draven sat beside the fire.
    His wife rested her hand over his — steady, steady, steady —
    and he closed his eyes.

    Not in anger.
    Not in dread.
    But in that deep, wordless grief of a man who knew peace was never his to keep.

    After a moment, he nodded.

    Not to Drax.
    To the world.

    And the wolf rose.

  • Draven Stormborne The Wolf

    Draven Stormborne The Wolf

    An abstract art piece featuring vibrant concentric patterns in shades of purple, blue, orange, and pink, with a prominent arrow shape at the center.
    Vibrant abstract artwork featuring layers of colorful concentric patterns and a bold arrow design.

    Not all protectors stand in front of you.
    Some stand behind, in the treeline, unseen.

    Draven Stormborne is the quiet brother
    the watcher in the woods,
    the one who listens before he speaks,
    the one who guards what others never notice is in danger.

    He does not seek glory, or power, or command.

    He simply protects.

    Because someone must.

    Identity & Role

    Archetype: The Wolf / The Ranger / The Guardian

    What he represents

    Survival, compassion, natural balance

    His purpose: To keep the living world safe

    His burden: He does so alone

    Where Taranis is fire, Draven is root and soil.
    Where Drax builds walls, Draven keeps the forest whole.
    Where Lore remembers the dead, Draven protects the living.

    He speaks little.
    But when he does, it is always truth.

    Strengths

    Silent hunter

    Patient, observant, precise

    Deep empathy for the vulnerable (even when it hurts him)

    Unshakable calm until someone threatens what he loves

    Draven does not fight for honor.
    He fights when children are cold.
    When villages are cornered.
    When forests are taken.
    When no one else knows danger is coming.

    He is the last line.
    Always.

    Wound

    Draven lives his life on the edges of others’ lives.

    He watches families grow old.
    He watches friends die.
    He walks away so they never have to see him remain the same.

    He carries the loneliness of the immortal who chooses love anyway.

    He is not forgotten
    he is simply unseen.

    Whispers Across History

    Draven does not appear in chronicles.
    He appears in folk tales.

    Stories of:

    A silent hunter who returns missing children

    A man who drives wolves away with nothing but a look

    Footprints in snow where no village scouts had been

    A stranger who buried the dead when plague took a town

    A figure seen at the treeline during winter famine watching, ensuring no one froze unseen

    He is myth, rumor, guardian, ghost.

    But he was always real.

    How Others Speak of Him

    “He does not ask for thanks.
    He does not wait for it.”

    “When the forest goes quiet he is there.”

    “Some gods protect nations.
    Draven protects one life at a time.”

    This Is Only the Edge of His Story

    Draven’s life does not unfold on battlefields or in king’s halls.

    It unfolds:

    in the hush of snow,

    in the shade of old trees,

    in the quiet moments between tragedy and survival.

    If you follow him,
    you follow the wild,
    the ache,
    the truth of what it means to care without being seen.

    StormborneLore holds the fragments.

    © 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.

  • Rayne Stormborne The Shadow

    Rayne Stormborne The Shadow

    Some betrayals are born from hatred.
    Rayne’s are born from love.

    He is the brother who watches everything.
    Who listens to what is not said.
    Who sees the shape of the world before others realize it is shifting.

    Rayne does not swing the heaviest sword.
    He does not command armies.
    He moves in quiet influence, whisper, negotiation, pressure, timing.

    And sometimes the choice that saves the world
    is the choice that breaks his brother.

    Identity & Role

    Archetype: The Shadow / The Knife in the Dark

    What he stands for: Strategy, consequence, balance

    His purpose: To act where others refuse to

    His burden: He is always seen as the betrayer

    Rayne is the one who understands that:

    To prevent ruin, someone must be willing to be hated.

    And he carries that willingly.

    Even when it destroys him.

    Strengths

    Keen intelligence and deep foresight

    Ability to see outcomes before they unfold

    Adaptability in changing political landscapes

    Unmatched skill at infiltration, negotiation, and persuasion

    Rayne doesn’t read rooms.
    He owns them.

    Wound

    He will always walk behind his brothers.
    Never beside them.
    Never in front.

    Taranis inspires armies.
    Drax shapes kingdoms.
    Lore carries memory.
    Draven guards the living world.

    Rayne is the one who:

    Sees the danger coming first

    Understands what must be done

    And makes the decision no one else will make

    Knowing they will hate him for it

    His tragedy is simple:

    He betrays to protect.
    And no one thanks him.

    Whispers Across History

    Rayne appears not in legends
    but in footnotes and political outcomes.

    There are hints of him in:

    Counselors who changed the course of kingdoms

    Spies who vanished before wars began

    Treaties signed at the last moment

    Disappearances that prevented worse bloodshed

    Rebellions guided by unseen hands

    He is the presence behind curtains,
    the voice in the private hall,
    the man no bard sings of.

    Yet history bends around him.

    How Others Speak of Him

    “He does not lie.
    He simply speaks the truth you did not want to hear.”

    “He loved his brother more than any man I have seen.
    And that is why he broke him.”

    “There are men who save the world in daylight.
    Rayne saves it in silence.”

    This Is Only the Surface

    Rayne’s story is not one of villains or heroes.
    It is a story of the cost of understanding too much.

    To follow Rayne’s thread,
    you must look not at what is celebrated
    but at what was prevented.

    His truth is found in the empty spaces
    where disaster should have been.

    StormborneLore holds the fragments.

    If you can read the shadows,
    you will find him.

    To read more Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    https://stormbornelore.co.uk/character-profiles

  • Lore Stormborne The Memory

    Lore Stormborne The Memory

    Some men are remembered.
    Some men remember.

    Lore Stormborne is the keeper of what the world forgets.

    Where his brothers shape battles, laws, and kingdoms,
    Lore moves quietly, carrying the stories that would otherwise be lost.

    He walks between the living and the dead,
    between the world that is
    and the world beneath it.

    He is the one who listens when the wind speaks names
    long erased from history.

    Identity & Role

    Archetype: The Memory / The Spirit / The Cairn-Keeper

    What he shows: Identity, ancestry, meaning

    His purpose: To remember what time tries to erase

    His burden: He carries every loss the brothers have endured

    Lore does not raise armies.
    He does not command power.

    He remembers so the others do not forget who they are.

    And without memory, even immortals collapse.

    Strengths

    Gentle presence that calms the broken mind

    Deep empathy masked behind silence

    Knowledge of runes, bones, cairns, barrows, and spirit crossings

    A patience that stretches across centuries

    Lore can stand beside a grave and tell you who is under it.
    what they loved,
    and why they were never truly gone.

    Wound

    To remember everything
    is to grieve everything.

    Lore carries:

    The faces of villages burned

    The children who vanished in plague years

    The lovers his brothers not save

    The first names of every tribe now buried under cities

    Where others forget to survive,
    he survives by remembering.

    This is both his anchor and his sorrow.

    Whispers Across History

    Lore is not famous.
    He is felt.

    Stories of:

    A quiet man who tends burial mounds that no one else remembers

    A traveler who can speak any dialect, even ancient ones

    The stranger who sings old songs to the dying so they are not afraid

    A monk who copied entire libraries before they were burned

    The last witness wherever history ends and begins again

    He is always there, just out of the corner of the world.

    How Others Speak of Him

    “He said my grandmother’s name though I never told him.”

    “He does not fear the dead.
    He talks to them.”

    “He carries stories like others carry scars.”

    This Is Only the Surface

    Lore’s story is not recorded in books.
    It is spoken in:

    firelight,

    winter rooms,

    stone circles,

    and places where silence feels ancient.

    To understand Lore,
    you follow the echoes,
    not the path.

    His truths are found in the spaces between stories
    scattered across StormborneLore

    Futher Reading:

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    Character Profiles

  • Taranis Stormborne The Storm

    Taranis Stormborne The Storm

    There are some men who are born to stand with kings. There are some who are born to stand against them.

    Taranis Stormborne was born to be the storm that breaks empires.

    He is the brother who takes the front line, who holds the shield, who rises when others fall.


    He carries the old fire of the tribes the wild courage of a world that refuses to surrender.

    He has walked through ages of blood and frost. He has seen kingdoms rise and collapse into dust. He has fought under a hundred banners, yet swears loyalty to none.

    Because Taranis does not protect rulers.

    He protects people.

    Identity & Role

    Archetype: The Blade / The Storm / The Protector

    What he stands for: Courage, defiance, resistance

    His purpose: To stand where others can’t

    His burden: He feels every loss. Even after centuries, he remembers every face.

    Taranis is not a hero — he is the cost of heroism.

    Strengths

    Unbreakable will

    Fierce loyalty to those who can’t defend themselves

    Instinctive battlefield intuition

    The ability to endure and return when others would break

    Wound

    He can save many but never enough.
    He carries grief the way others carry scars.

    No matter what age he walks through, war finds him. Or, he is what war is searching for.

    Whispers Across History

    Taranis is never officially recorded but his shadow is.

    There are stories of:

    The lone warrior who held a bridge against an army and vanished into the woods.

    The man in the Perry Woods who supplied gunpowder to rebels and walked away unseen.

    The shieldwall breaker whose roar turned battles.

    The wandering guardian who frees the enslaved and disappears before dawn.

    The soldier who dies, and then is seen again years later unchanged.

    Sometimes he is called a king.
    Sometimes a demon.
    Sometimes a ghost.

    But he is always Stormborne.

    How Others Speak of Him

    “When the world is burning, look for the thunder.
    He will be there.”

    “He does not lead armies.
    He ignites them.”

    “If you hear the storm, it is already too late to run.”

    This Is Only the Beginning

    Taranis’s story is not told in a single lifetime.
    or a single kingdom
    or a single war.

    His path crosses:

    empires,

    rebellions,

    oceans,

    and centuries.

    But those stories are not kept here.

    They are found in the fragments
    the tales, the memories, the scars, the songs,
    scattered across StormborneLore.

    Piece by piece.
    Age by age.
    Storm by storm.

    © 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.

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Harvesting Nature’s Gifts: The Journey of Lore

    Harvesting Nature’s Gifts: The Journey of Lore

    A stylized tree with colorful leaves against a dark background, featuring a sun in the upper corner.
    A vibrant, artistic depiction of a tree with colorful leaves set against a dark background, symbolizing the mystical elements of nature.

    By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

    Dawn came slow over Cannock Chase, the sky still holding tight to the colours of night.


    Mist clung to the ground, pale as breath on cold glass. The trees stood quiet as watchers in old cloaks.

    Lore walked barefoot through the wet grass, collecting what the earth offered.

    Yarrow first pale and feathery, growing in shy clusters where the sunlight would later reach. Good for blood and fever, and for protection against spirits that lingered too close.

    He cut it gently, whispering, “For the ones who yet breathe.”

    Rowan bark next, peeling in thin curls beneath his knife. The tree shivered, though no wind touched it.

    Rowan remembers, the old women used to say and Lore believed them.

    Last came the resin pine tears hardened in the bark of a fallen giant, still sweet, still golden.

    He held it to his nose, breathing in the scent of memory.
    Smoke. Rain. Home.

    Above him, the crows gathered.

    Three at first.
    Then five.
    Then a dozen, their wings murmuring like pages turning.

    They did not caw.
    They simply watched.

    Lore did not fear them.
    The crows of the Chase were older than any Druid’s words.
    Older than Rome’s roads.
    Older even than the songs of the first tribes.

    They followed him as he walked between the birches. Their trunks ghost-white, rising from the mist like bones of giants sleeping beneath the soil.

    The air felt listening.

    The trees breathed slow.

    The old gods waited.

    Lore spoke softly, almost too low to hear:
    “Stormfather. Bound-Brother. Wild King. I hear you.”

    The leaves stirred, though the air was still.

    And then

    A whisper.
    Not with sound, but with bone and blood.

    He rises.

    Lore’s heart tightened.
    No fear only certainty.

    The crows took flight at once, black wings cutting the dawn sky. They flew south, toward the marsh track near Landywood, toward the low birches where the Black Shields rested.

    Toward Taranis.

    Lore closed his fist around the resin.

    “The storm remembers,” he murmured.

    And he followed the crows.

    © 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.

    If you want to read more about Lore please see Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    To follow Tarans The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • 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.

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    If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded