<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/2OuJlN5m.jpg)</div>Circling along the rough line of the piled field stones, as you pass about 90 degrees along the border of the fields you come to a narrow track, little more than two overgrown cart-ruts wending toward the farm-house. Still, it offers a narrow path between the catching thorns of the raspberry canes, briars, and burweed.<br/><br/>The house is small, silent, dark. The hut has no chimney, but no smoke wends up through the smoke-hole at the stone peak of the roof. With the weather recently, no one would could have fire would go without. There is no door in the frame, the rope hinges have frayed and it lies length-wise in the door-frame, leaning against one side.<br/><br/>The well, a simple circle of field-stone mortared together unlike the tumble-down walls around the farm, has thick black vines emerging from it, splayed around the ground. Unnatural. One assumes water from that well would have been... ...unhealthy.<br/><br/>Under the boughs of the black apple tree two wooden plaques stick out of the ground. Grave markers. From one of the limbs of the tree a perfect shining golden apple hangs. It is not that yellowish colour like some pears have which is called golden, the apple looks like polished gold, and is a stark contrast to the black of the bark of the apple tree.<br/><br/>Inside the hut weather has done its work, but the interior remains largely untouched, abandoned. There is something, an aura not just of the unnatural, but of lasting sorrow. You don't think you'll find many mice in here, and you won't be surprised if there are no signs of habitation by hunters, travellers or bandits.<br/><br/>Tools are stacked by the door, the wooden hafts warped by weather and time, the metal rusted. Rake, hoe, spade, axes, an adze and a scythe. A saw. Two hammers. A coarse cloth bag of iron nails. Two sharpening stones sit on a shelf.<br/><br/>There is a narrow bed with sagging leather straps to hold the thin straw stuffed mattress, and beside it a simple crib. A clay bowl-lamp sits beside the bed, the oil long since dried. Bedding is neatly folded, but is now riddled with mold and mildew.<br/><br/>By the fire pit several pots and two kettles, three iron fire hooks, a flat stone, and a stout iron pan sit. The copper has turned green, the iron has rusted. Wooden bowls and one nice ceramic bowl sit on the crude table, which has two wooden benches. Simple pewter forks and wooden knives are stacked near the bowl.<br/><br/>Herbs and roots, long since past edibility or medicinal use, hang from the beams. There is a clay jug, corked, and two uncorked jugs nearby. A cask of flour has long spoiled, and the bowl of rock salt has melted and hardened into a lump.<br/><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">The one-room hut can be <strong>Investigate</strong>-d if you wish. As can the Tree (and grave markers) and the Well, the other two key locations at the abandoned farm.</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div>