"Or don't help!" the Witch throws up her hands in disgust and goes back to getting her own feet out of the loam, thank you very much. "You never did -- hachoo!"

She gives a surprised sniff, then shakes her head and concentrates on throwing her weight into freeing that second foot. It's the work of a moment, and then she's standing atop her own little dirt pile like a queen on a hill. Or like a raven on a grave mound. "Who's your friend?" she asks Greta, tilting her chin as though to look over the woman currently trying to put herself between them. "I don't remember seeing you in the woods. Let me guess: for you, it went a little something like splat!"