You choose to explore the blockaded path under the bridge. You enter between the large gap in the wood barricade and under the bridge. Beyond the bridge it appears that the sun is rapidly sinking, or perhaps the trees are blocking your view.
The path is wide and is mostly dirt surrounded by trees, undergrowth, and the occasional open patch of grass. The golden sunlight reveals a light set of human footprints and you wonder who made them. The footprints end abruptly about 100 meters up the trail; in the distance you see something black across the path.
There is a wide running stream of black water, about three feet across, that cuts across the trail; the footprints end here. The stream runs silently between two shallow walls of rock embedded in the dirt path, leaving the trail itself strangely dry. The water runs off into a deep valley where it is eventually covered up by briars and shabby trees. Yet something about this stream pulls you toward it.
Rather than see your own reflection, you see the most beautiful lady you have ever seen. She is dressed in a flowing white gown, with flowing gold hair, red lips, blue eyes, and white teeth. Her skin is pale as if cold from the water; she smiles motherly, stretches out her elegant hand to you, and points to your right. You look right but only see a bunch of trees and a pile of leaves. You begin to wonder if there is something in the leaves—–
Suddenly you are bowled over to the ground by a black thing wrapped in a dozen black mosquito nets! A gnarled grey-black hand and forearm stretches out from the rags and attempts to strangle you, while the other hand pulls off the hood and reveals the grey-black face of a Forest Fettre, a hideous old woman similar to a hag, but more aggressive, older, and invulnerable to most modern weaponry. Her mind is too sharp for the sharpest of blades, and her limbs are too quick for the most cunning of firearms. Now she has her prize and she will not let go.
Her eyes bulge out of her face and look down a sharp nose while her wrinkled, almost lipless mouth opens and closes, smacking her gums.
“Ah, I got you now, sugar-plumkins!” screams the Fettre as she nibbles your right ear with her lips, “You will make a fine stew.”
There must be a way to get out of this predicament. Lucky for you your pack is reachable and an assortment of edible trinkets might be used to spare your life, or create a diversion. In the thick of things, however, you might do just as well to push the Fettre off of you and then run like mad.
**This is the crossroads where paths are woven,
Now is the place of a road newly chosen.