It's dizzying to go from crushed under relentless weight to being sprayed in the face by icy mist that would be refreshing if it weren't so smelly. He's yanked up to his feet and tries to orient himself at the same time he forces air back into abused lungs.

"Thank you." It's gruff and forced, because he's still gasping, but already he has his sword out and is charging off again to rescue another templar from a grapple. He can see the gleam of poison on the man's sickened face. He stabs the spider and forcefully kicks it off the end of his sword. It skitters back with a strange, wheezy hiss. Cullen fumbles a precious potion from his sash, tears the cork out with his teeth, and pours it down his comrade's gullet. "Swallow. Swallow it now, or you'll never get up again." He keeps his shield between the two of them and the wounded spider, then takes his sword up again and charges.

It's nothing like their focused raid. The templars and guards keep as much discipline as they can, but this is the spiders' natural habitat, their hunting ground and time of most activity. They entangle some, poison others, and the poor scout isn't the only one to be dragged off into the sharp undergrowth never to be seen again.