Ivan seemed to be fading more and more as he limped after the group. He was going as fast as he could make himself go, his face contorted in pain. He lagged further and further behind the group, until they could barely hear his weak coughs and gasps of pain. About a minute later, he caught his heel on a branch under the mud and collapsed face-first into the muddy road. It was a few seconds before he pulled himself up, spitting out two mouthfuls of the vile tasting earth and coughing harshly, propping himself up on his good knee. He was a soaked, filthy mess by this point, a small trickle of red running from his mouth which he quickly wiped away. He realized his ankle was caught fast under the root. There was little chance he'd be able to pry himself free on his own, but he refused to call for help, trying in vain to break the root with one of his arrows as he coughed up a bitter combination of mud, phlegm, blood and saliva. In no way was this a good start to the day.