At the rim, the party crowds the lip and peers down. The basin drops away in black stone and scrub, far steeper than it looked from above.
One companion checks the slope, then pulls back. The wind snatches at their cloak as they gesture toward the edge.
Companion Two
This spot sits too high. We go along the edge and find the shallower stretches, the ones that lean.
The Blond Elf
This cliff is a slant, not a wall. If you slip, you slide. I am not walking miles around it.
With a sharp, angry burst of speed, the blond elf throws himself down the incline, boots skidding, one hand clawing for purchase as he drops into a half-climb.
The Blond Elf
I am not walking miles.
Dust billows behind him and veils the path below. Hhannvis and the others are left on the ledge with the choice made plain, the safest route now lies down the slant into the Pit, if they can follow it before the wind tears their footing loose.