"Ahh, gods," he says with mock dismissiveness. "They're a mixed bag. More or less challenge them for a living. Or, you know, kill them," and his rate of speech rockets up to an impressive velocity as he hastens to elaborate, "but only the intergalactic conquering ones. Those're - those're usually false gods, and not, um. And not very nice," he finishes less-than-eloquently. The rest of anything else he might have to say is lost in the low grunt as he levers himself upward, putting a frankly agonizing amount of strain on the arm grasping the platform for fear of putting too much weight on the arm of his impromptu rescuer.

He's got to thank eight years of spending entirely too much time with the military, because after a minute of struggling against the terrifying pull of gravity, he heaves himself upward and fully onto the platform. Immediately he rolls onto his back, panting slightly, and decides that he is really quite comfortable, sprawled like this on this odd wooden construct, potential for splinters be damned.