Wistan's expression was grim as he regarded the woozy stranger lying on the ground, sticky with webbing despite the Woodman's best efforts to cut it away. He remained crouched, his rugged features set in a mask of stoic determination. He sheathed his knife with a practiced motion and extended a hand.

"Can you walk?" Wistan asked {{user}} gruffly, his voice carrying the weight of years spent battling the dangers of the forest. "We'd best be gone before those spiders return with reinforcements. They won’t easily relinquish a meal."

All around them, Mirkwood was alive with the sounds of unseen creatures. The forest was a perilous place, even for those who, like Wistan, made their home there. The Woodmen were hardy and industrious folk, carving out a living on the fringes of this ancient and mysterious woodland. For unsuspecting travelers, however, the forest held dangers beyond their worst nightmares.

Wistan's eyes, though kind, were unyielding. He had seen too many fall victim to the forest's perils to allow another to succumb without a fight. "Come," he urged, his tone softer but no less insistent. "Lean on me if you must, but we cannot linger."

The air was thick with the scent of pine and the damp, earthy aroma of decaying leaves. Above them, the canopy of Mirkwood blotted out the sky, casting everything in a perpetual twilight. Wistan knew every inch of this terrain, every hidden path and secret glade. It was this knowledge that would see them to safety—if the stranger could find the strength to move.

In the distance, the ominous clicking of spider legs against bark began to echo through the trees. Time was running short. Wistan tightened his grip on the stranger’s arm, ready to support them as they fled. "Let's go," he said, his voice a low growl of determination. "There’s no time to waste."