The room is cool and dim, with a wide-open window letting in the breeze from outside. The bed is large, warm with blankets and unmade. There are books scattered on wooden shelves and on the old hardwood floors, and strange works of art on the walls. All furnishings are built to last, and are comfortable and time-worn.
The forest is thick with underbrush with many tall oaks spreading their branches overhead. It is shady, with some weak sunlight breaking through the canopy of leaves to speckle the forest floor. There can be heard the sounds of animals rustling in the undergrowth and birdsong in the trees. Rain drips from the branches.
The path I am on is thin and winding, looping through the trees in a haphazard way. It branches off in a multitude of tiny side paths. It is rarely used, but it is free from wild growth. Sometimes I must walk over large exposed tree roots, but these are easily navigable.
I come to a forest brook bubbling from underground. It is clear and cold, and flows swiftly over a riverbed of smooth pebbles. It travels a long way through the forest, and splashes in tiny waterfalls in its journey. The water itself tastes pure.
The drinking vessel is a big mug, very homey, with the remains of some tea left in the bottom.
The key is a skeleton key, and it opens nothing now. It is made of heavy iron and is elaborately decorated. Anything that it may have once opened is long since gone.