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You reach as high as you can. Your sword slices neatly through the braids, and the lower portion of the rope drops neatly to the floor. You appraise it critically, and decide that it will be too short to reach through the hole that dropped you into this labyrinth.
With a sigh, you coil the rope and hoist it on your shoulder.
You are in a humid room, with faintly-glowing fungus growing on the walls. The 20-foot ceiling is reinforced by large, sturdy roots, perhaps those of an apple tree you remember. From one large root hangs a rope, too short to be of value, its end cleanly cut.
A single passageway leads east.
You have a short sword.
You have a short length of rope.