The woods showed signs of occasional habitation the occasional remains of a burned out croft long since overgrown, a half of a wagon wheel, trees whose limbs had been neatly sawed off, the stumps healed but permanent. But other than the occasional rustle of native wildlife, the path through to the forested valley was uneventful.

Until Pasho walked face-first into a spiderweb because she was busy snacking on her beef jerky. The second-youngest orc sister flailed noisily, snatching the clinging strands from her face and where they had tangled neatly around her prominent tusks. The creepy-crawly sensation of a big nasty spider skittering around in her corn-rows didn't help, and the composure of Bula's small band shattered as the girls either tried (only partially successfully) to help, or nearly busted out of their leather from laughing and snorting too hard.

They had reached the edge of the murky forest, the trees more gnarled and ancient than closer to the river. The low branches were thick with fuzzy lichens and toadstools, festooned with clumps of gray moss. And in the gloom the dew-glittered strands of cobwebs clung to everything, the eight-legged denizens creeping along branches, waiting for tiny prey to blunder haplessly into their traps.
Something pale yellow in the roots of one of the older trees caught Pasho's eye and she seized it eagerly, partly to make up for her earlier silliness. "Look Bula, a child's toy sword." The unfinished wood hadn't yet faded with the work of the elements.