Alas,

Deep within the rolling hills and ancient woodlands of Staffordshire, where the River Trent wound like a silver ribbon through emerald fields, lay a place whispered about only in hushed tones: the Circle of Elders. Not a circle of stooped, grey-bearded men, but of colossal, gnarled oak trees, their branches interwoven to form a living, breathing dome. Legend had it that this was a nexus of old magic, a place where the veil between worlds thinned, and only those with a touch of the arcane could truly find its hidden entrance.