The walls are dank, shadowed, and seem to curve in almost a little. There is a sense that there is fire there, though I can not see it. It feels comfortably warm, like a womb. It is bare because it is complete and whole.
There are old trees and young trees. The old trees feel as though their roots penetrate to the mantle. The younger trees are dynamic, their branches like vines and serpents frozen in their writhing. Coins of light hit the ground from gaps in the canopy, but the primary light feels as though it emanates from the foliage itself.
The path is unpaved with some weedy growth, but it is clearly well-worn; many travelers have been here even if only in the days of old. It winds and curves but is clear. It disappears in the forest.
The water is a river, but very wide. The ends are far away. The water is shimmering and changing color; now blue, now emerald, now onyx.
It is a leather drinking pouch with a long tanned strap. It is designed to be worn over the shoulder; it reminds me of shepherds.
The key is made of a hard metal, perhaps wrought iron. The design is crude yet the creation was obviously skillful. It is of the right dimension to unlock a chest or small door; there are too few notches for it to lock up material valuables, so it must hold something precious to the heart and sentimental.