The room is comfortably cool but there is enough warmth in the air to drive away any chill. There is a bed placed with its head in the center of one wall, with an octagonal stained-glass window above it, letting in a few thin streams of sunlight. There are two larger windows on another wall, but they're lightly curtained and let in some dull golden sunlight. The floor is of some dark wood, old, a bit gouged and scratched, but well-smoothed and mellow. The rest of the room is mostly empty aside from some unremarkable old tables, piles of books, and a small brass clock on the bedside table.
The trees are tall and slender, with bare trunks beneath a high canopy of foliage. It's an early autumn morning, with the sun just beginning to warm the air and a light fog still hovering between the trees. It's dim, and cool, with a slight breeze that makes the leaves whisper, branches creak, and sends droplets of water pattering to the floor. The air is crisp and cool and clean, smelling of damp leaves and damp earth.
There is no real path. The forest is tall and open, with no undergrowth or obstructions, just a carpet of leaves, and it stretches in all directions. Any direction would work and be pleasant, and it seems like there's all the time in the world to stay here and wander.
It's a rocky stream, the rock being flat gray slate, dark and cool and glistening with the spray from the stream. It's perhaps six feet across, shallow, and clear. The water is cold, but not freezing, and moves rapidly. The stream is fairly straight, with only a bit of a sinuous winding curve to it.
There is a smooth, smokey glass cup sitting on a flat rock, slate again. It's almost but not quite opaque, glistening with a few drops of water, and smooth to the touch yet with a dustiness that drags the fingertips. It is more or less cylindrical, slightly narrower at the base.
A heavy iron key, old, very long, with a small cloverleaf handle. It unlocks an old, long abandoned chapel.