In the hollow paths between the ragged branches of the old forest where yew twins with elder and both are choked by vine, there is no sound. No birdcall, no animal skitter, even the wind in the dying leaves hidden far above seems muted. Pins of light that dare to venture into this umbral demesne reveal the floating dust of bark, the sparkle of mist in the air that encircles the blackened trunks making the dark way forward all the more unappealing. No grass or weed grows between the trees here, and desiccated twig and sapling crunch underfoot where life made its eternal attempts. It seems a wood appropriate for the dead that will not lie still, but even they forbear disturbing the quiet here, the quiet into which only the daring or foolish tread. You are not welcome here. The path closes behind, roots shifting in the dirt silently and never when observed but nevertheless the way back disappears for the unwary traveller. Only the steps to the heart are open. You will rue coming here. Arboreal arches lead deeper and deeper into the solemn gloom, no hand having entwined the shapes they form, the writhing tangles unpleasant to the eye and dead to the touch. Of course you didn't see them reach for you.

No one ever does.

(There is an exit to the north. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.)