Consciousness seeps back slowly as the darkness around you recedes. You sit up and look around. You are in a clearing in a forest, not unlike the one in which you have spent most of the day, though the trees seem grander and older somehow—they loom over the clearing oppressively, long-limbed and towering as if both inquisitive about and disapproving of your presence among them.
Overhead, the sky is obscured by an impenetrable mass of dark clouds. It seems to be nighttime, though you can see a little farther than you might expect, almost as if everything in the forest—yourself included—is surrounded by a subtle luminescence. A single path leads out of the clearing, and with no better option, you stand up, brush the dirt from your clothes, and follow it.
You've not gone fifty paces before the path splits. A large oak tree stands at the point of the fork.