"I'm from a version of Earth," he says evenly, studiously ignoring the tallness of the trees and the vertiginous, virescent drop as he keeps edging onward. "In a manner of speaking. I was offworld at the time. Er." He halts, frowns, and considers the bizarre nature of that statement out of context. Then again, the person he's talking to, Asmodia, is presumably not human. Maybe the relative unfamiliarity of 'offworld' as a standard social concept is a gross assumption on his part.
Dimly, he registers that he's stopped and forces himself to keep going. Several flakes of bark crumble away beneath his fingers, break neatly away from the whole to drift downward in a dizzying, fluttering plummet of faintly air-resistant fragments susceptible to the fluid nature of wind and aerophysics.
Daniel doesn't need to be a physicist to know that his fall would be far less gentle or likely to be slowed by fluid drag. No. It would be something more of a straight plunge. A straight plunge to his leafy, imminent, bark-strewn death.
He is trying very hard to not think about that.
Asmodia. Asmodia is more important. She's right there and asking questions, and that's generally more his wheelhouse. Right. He wrenches himself out of that delightful morbid tangent and wraps his fingers a little more securely around his branch.
"I'm an archaeologist," he says by way of explanation. "I, um. Traveled. Quite a bit. Through space." He clears his throat weakly in substitution for the moment in the conversation where he would typically make a wavy, roughly circular hand gesture that he will now not be making for obvious reasons. "It's a thing."
no subject
Dimly, he registers that he's stopped and forces himself to keep going. Several flakes of bark crumble away beneath his fingers, break neatly away from the whole to drift downward in a dizzying, fluttering plummet of faintly air-resistant fragments susceptible to the fluid nature of wind and aerophysics.
Daniel doesn't need to be a physicist to know that his fall would be far less gentle or likely to be slowed by fluid drag. No. It would be something more of a straight plunge. A straight plunge to his leafy, imminent, bark-strewn death.
He is trying very hard to not think about that.
Asmodia. Asmodia is more important. She's right there and asking questions, and that's generally more his wheelhouse. Right. He wrenches himself out of that delightful morbid tangent and wraps his fingers a little more securely around his branch.
"I'm an archaeologist," he says by way of explanation. "I, um. Traveled. Quite a bit. Through space." He clears his throat weakly in substitution for the moment in the conversation where he would typically make a wavy, roughly circular hand gesture that he will now not be making for obvious reasons. "It's a thing."