Description

Upon the desolate grandeur of Dartmoor, where granite tors rise like the bones of a buried Titan and the wind carries voices of forgotten centuries, there lies a grove most singular Wistman’s Wood. Ancient beyond reckoning, its oaks are but dwarfs in stature, yet vast in age, their boughs knotted like the hands of sages and clothed in mantles of moss as thick as velvet.

To walk therein is to trespass upon antiquity itself, and few mortals dare its twilight paths after sundown. Into this enchanted precinct came Zelda, a Spaniel of uncommon grace, whose dark eyes held the glimmer of other worlds. She was no common hound of hearth or hunt, but one touched by enchantment.

For when she crossed the threshold of Wistman’s Wood, her silken paws did not press upon the sacred moss; rather, she seemed borne upon the very breath of the forest, as though the air itself upheld her in reverence of the place’s sanctity.