They're an effective shield wall, the four of them. They drive the creature inexorably back toward the destruction raining down on it from the mages, each blow from their swords destroying its well of power. It goes down finally in a scream that sets Cullen's teeth on edge, and profound silence descends. After a few moments of getting his bearings he realizes it's not totally quiet. He can hear ragged breathing and moans from those who fought and the injured.

They're down a guard and two more templars, all lost to the now very dead giant spider. "Back to base," he says without hesitation. He points at the lightest and swiftest of the remaining templars. "Go back down the path. Coordinate with the other scout. Let the other group know what has befallen us. We should all fall back and send up the signal to the ships in the harbor it's called off."

He's angry and wondering how the scouts missed the abomination. They'll have to find out where it was holed up and where these damnable spiders came from. Not in darkness. They've had enough of that. Every nerve is frayed. He can see it on the pale faces around him. "Gather our fallen. We're not leaving them out here to become walking corpses." Of the ones hauled off into the undergrowth, he says nothing. They can't go running after bodies, not when they need to heal and regroup.

There's a moment when he can draw near Dorian in passing. He pauses and leans in. "That spell of yours made all the difference. There's no way we could have taken that spider down quickly enough not to double our losses."

And then he's gone again to lend his shield to the makeshift bier for the broken bodies they need to haul. A few potions pass hands. No one is bothering to heal up beyond what it will take to get them back to the camp. The battle surely called attention to them. They can only hope that it looked and sounded fearsome enough to discourage unhealthy curiosity.