The room is a dank, dark, stinking pit, freezing cold. Torture devices line the walls -- there's a rack, an iron maiden, hanging whips and prods, and sharp blades dripping with blood. Chains with barbed links hang from the ceiling. In one corner is a tub heaped full of human bones.
The forest looks like southern California, with sequoias and redwoods stretching all the way up to the sky and blotting out the sun. It is noon, and yet in the forest it is as dark as midnight under a new moon. The howls of wolves are heard, very nearby.
The path can barely be seen, as it is heaped high with huge rocks and stones. One of the giant trees has fallen over, completely blocking the path the way we came. What remains is choked and narrow, and looks to not have been used in years, if not centuries.
The water is a rushing torrent, murky and silty as it tumbles through black mud. The corpses of tiny frogs and fish, choked on the poison, float in the water.
It's an old, crumpled-up fast food paper cup. It's torn on one side; if it could ever have held water, it won't now.
It's the opening key from a can of sardines. Once it might have been useful to obtain sustenance, but at this point it's rusty, discarded trash.