Tom's been watching for a while, idle and patient not out of strategy but because he sees no need to rush the situation. In the woods, he may as well be a god, fueled by power as ancient as the earth itself and as unique as the very DNA which grants him him abilities. The trees seem to pause for a moment, as if suddenly every leaf in the trees has ceased rustling in the wind, like the entirety of the forest is one great muscle tensing in wait-

-and then a root rips out of the dirt, wrapping itself around Dorian's knee, yanking at him and dragging him into the dark of the forest. A second one quickly follows, shooting for Maxwell's wrists, and a strand of ivy drops for each of them like a sort of noose seeking their necks. Tom emerges like some sort of tidal wave made of wood and mulch in a nook between two trunks, semi-human, dark-socketed eyes glowing and a beacon appearing above him to mark him as a powered Tribute.

"Well, well, well. Top of the morning, is it? Or is it afternoon?" Tom's mouth has very human teeth in it, but his voice seems like the slithering noise of feet running through wet mulch and mud.