He snarls at the bite, and lashes the tentacle away like a cracked whip— but the teeth cannot follow, which is some grim satisfaction. John slinks away to sit in the shade across from the trapped wolf, careful not to disturb the vines himself. There he slumps against the bark to catch his breath and coils his wounded tentacles in close.

"You know, Jack, you could stand to be more grateful." Even breathless, John's relief is clear as he steadies his voice to chiding. "This is not so bad a place to sleep. These woods..."

He trails off, and is silent for a long while, lulled by the darkness of the grove. Then John seems to stir slightly awake, and his voice comes sleepy and low:

"It reminds me of a poem." He leans forward to set his arms upon curled tentacles, like a man resting his elbows upon his knees. It brings a little clarity back to his voice. "I think you would like it. Perhaps you won't recall these words, but I... I'll tell you anyway. As Arthur told it to me." He clears his throat, tips his mask of a face up towards the last glimmers of moonlight through the canopy, and recites.

"Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; he will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow..."