The room is neutral in temperature, and covered in the soft skins of sheep. There is no door, and only one window, which is draped with a curtain of shining lavender velvet. A couch rests to the right of the room, and a dark wooden table to the left. The room is lit by four candles, one in each corner.
The forest is dimly lit and thick with conifers and redwoods. A few lonely deciduous trees wait here and there for unwary travelers. There is a stream somewhere to my left, but I cannot see it.
The path is of medium width, and fairly well-traveled, though there are plenty of fallen pine needles to indicate that few have walked it in the recent past. There are stones lining it, some with mysterious engravings. In the middle of the path, about fifty feet along from me, there is a fork.
The stream that I heard earlier has burgeoned into a fast-moving river. There are many rocks in the river, which forms it into areas of treacherous pools and white-water rapids. The water seems to boil, though it is clear and cold.
It is a deceptively simple wooden cup, apparently hewn from a solid piece of wood. When I pick it up, it proves to be covered in a light design of flaxen filigree, like someone's hair. It has a long stem, a deep well, and a small crack in the base.
The key that I find is small and wooden, elaborately swirled at the top, with an obscure fitting of a type I've never seen before. I have the feeling that it unlocks a door into a garden.