taxonomites | [visual | Taxon Forest] Open

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[visual | Taxon Forest] Open

The first picture shows rocks.

The rocks are shifting, but it becomes apparent that it's the tablet shifting, where it's attached to the bracelet on Scott's wrist.

In the next, the rocks drop away to show a wide vista and a sudden drop before Scott's face comes into view. He's still got a bruised up face, but now he's in a visor and flushed red with exertion. In the next, he looks down, the sheer drop under him becoming visible.

A few more shots give a clear view of what's going on. Scott's gone climbing.

He's climbing cliffs in Taxon Forest.

Free soloing. Hands and feet and concentration all that's stopping him from a long drop and a short stop.

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Sherlock ducks his head, perhaps to hide embarrassment, at even from themselves but when he glances up again he looks as exasperated as ever. He makes a face, but can't think of a way to contravene Scott's instructions that wouldn't be patently stupid to both of them -- not taking a drink would be denying himself water, not taking in the view would be denying himself the view, and moving would be courting death, as Scott's said.

"Your life is always in danger," he observes, glancing out over the strange, inorganic shape of the Taxon Forest. "More so when you climb rockfaces than when you walk down the street in Central, for the most part, but less so than in an active war zone, I'd think. If you weren't aware that your life was in danger to some degree -- however small -- you wouldn't draw a distinction between climbing with a line and climbing without."

He takes the directed drink. "You enjoy endangering your own life, Scott Summers," he states. "And if I had to take a bet -- though I don't -- I'd say you enjoy the fact that I'm endangering mine, as it gives you an opportunity to fish me out. You're not to worry. I'm staying here for the time being." He pats the ledge next to him.

Scott knows he's an adrenaline junkie. It's the only way he knows how to live his life now, on the run, on the move, doing and achieving and shifting from crisis to crisis.

That doesn't mean he likes having it pointed out to him. He gives Sherlock a long look, not angry or upset, just gauging, then drops over the edge without a verbal reply, fingers catching the rocks and quickly skidding down another couple of meters to try and find a good way to get Sherlock down.

He's starting to think it'll involve blasting handholds for him.

Adrenaline junkie is the wrong term for Sherlock Holmes, when entertainment junkie would serve much better. He's always looking for something interesting, which is seldom as quick to find -- and rarely the same thing -- as something dangerous. However, he's interested at the moment. Not so much by the fact he's halfway up a rock face, which is really rather banal in the first place, but by Scott Summers in general.

He examines the face as Scott descends. "I remember the route I took up here," he calls down as an alternative. "If it'd make you feel better, you can tell me where to step as I take it back down. It hasn't gone anywhere."

"Up routes and down routes aren't the same. Climbing down will be difficult." You can't see as clearly on the way down, and lowering is precarious.

He gets a good foot hold and leans back, gripping by one hand. "I think you'll need a couple of foot holds."

"I'm close to your height, I should be able to use at least some of the same handholds and footholds," Sherlock observes, mapping out the path Scott's taking with his eyes as Scott descends and committing his route to memory. Scott has more strength and flexibility and can support his weight more safely in precarious positions, but reach matters for a lot.

He settles back again. "Well, I'm not going anywhere," he informs him, fiddling with his fingernails. "Let me know when you're out of the way. I can't imagine anything that would be helped by my falling on top of you."

In truth he's not terribly worried about falling at all at this point, because he doesn't think Scott would let him take any steps that would lead there -- the man's got far too bloated of a savior complex for that. However, he'd still rather climb down with a path clear to the ground; it'd make him much less nervous than knowing he stands to endanger someone else if he slips.

"You're still not rested enough. Climbing while fatigued is one of the quicker ways to get yourself killed."

He reaches up, calculating and then blasts out a small hold to make the climb easier. Another one and then he's heading back up, dragging himself back over the ledge to sit down.

Sherlock can admit that, objectively speaking, this is probably true; the muscles of his underused shoulders and upper arms are still burning with what he knows is the chemical reaction that leads to muscle fatigue, and he knows that if he tries to support his weight or even half of it on his arms, they'll tremble dangerously. There's a high probability that he'd fall.

Not for the first time, he thinks this would be a convenient time to Apparate.

"The sport I chose for my elective in secondary school was fencing," he says, apropos to nothing, as Scott swings himself back up to sit next to him. "It was decent. I had the reach for it. I preferred it to rugby or polo, to be sure, but I wouldn't have won anything. Don't you get bored, doing the same thing for hours?"

Scott shrugs slightly, taking a drink from the bottle. "I climb different places. No two climbs are the same. At home, I'd go through a much wider range of exercise, but this place..."

He hates this place. He sighs softly. "At home, we don't get a lot of time for boredom. Running a school and a vigilante team takes up a lot of time."

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[visual | Taxon Forest] Open

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