His earlier guess had been right. He was in a forest of some sort, but he didn’t recognise the trees. They were… different. The small forest near his home had sparse trees, mostly oaks and sycamores. Old ones with wide trunks and proud branches reaching out as if to hug the very sky itself, with the odd upstart tree trying to make its way in life between them. These ones consisted of odd shapes and hues—purple, but a deep dark kind, hoary and old, yet too small to be truly ancient. Apart from the hole in the forest cover from which the sun proudly shone, the canopy was mostly unbroken, leaving the forest floor dark and foreboding as gnarled roots sprung from the ground at random places, giving a genuinely menacing air to the surrounding.