The gardeners yell and rush to pull you away as you press your mouth to the dripping ends of the vines. You stumble and fall - directly on to the spikes! You cling greedily as they tear you from the limbs. Not yet. Not yet!
[...] [You fall] on the ivy. [...] the foliage greedily soaks up your blood. You return the favour, drawing on the rich sweet fluid like a baby at the breast, like a pope at the pipe, like a weasel at the vein. More. More!
