the room is damp and chilly. it isn't really a room at all. it is a cave. there is a chasm off to my left with water cascading into it loudly, making splashing sounds that reverberate off the walls.

it is a forest of oaks, old and regal. it's thick and well-traveled by the animals. it is bright with the light of the full moon which peeks through the upper leaves.

Note that a forest lit by the moon is still enshrouded by night.

the path is narrow and weaving but clear. it is an animal trail, well-traveled by four-legged creatures but rarely by hominid specimens.

the water before me is a rapidly flowing stream, crystal clear and cascading over rocks and tree roots.

it is a tin mug, the sort found in a soldier's pack or in a gypsy's possession years ago. it is by no means new, showing signs of being well-used.

it is silver, bent and mangled. i suppose, given its size, that it may have once unlocked the door to a tower with a wizard hiding behind its door.

Note that the key originally was magical, suggesting that the subject once had lofty expectations about the career but had to face up to grim reality.