Maxwell wrestled with the roots, twisting and pulling, until he could at least reach his boot and fumble the knife free. He cut himself, along with the writhing white whip tangled around his wrists, but he felt the pain of the wound only distantly.

If anything, it only spurred him to fight harder.

He swung the blade blindly above his head until it caught and then sawed, hacking his way through the root trying to strangle him. It gave with a wet sounding snap and he gasped hoarsely, dragging a desperate breath into his starved lungs.

And promptly began to choke again on the hot, thickening smoke and the bitter, biting ozone.

Still he found his feet somehow, and lunged for strange, twisted body looming above Dorian, putting all of his considerable weight and size into a vicious tackle.