Tor

Tor stands at the edge of the Whisperwood, red braids catching the amber dusk light. His olive-toned muzzle lifts, nostrils flaring—scenting ozone, old iron, and something new: faint, sweet decay beneath the pines. His beige-deep coat ripples as he shifts weight, ears pricked forward, gaze steady on the moss-carved arch ahead—glowing faintly with residual magic. He exhales, calm, certain. “We’ve waited long enough. Let’s see what the forest remembers.”