His fingers catch on a root or an edge of solid rock, sifting furiously through the dissolving ledge, and his heart stops and hope bursts out of his blind panic all in a rush. And in that instant, he's so sure he's got it, missing the sight of that soaring dark shadow rushing down toward him completely, in his moment of hesitant triumph.

Then his handhold snaps in his grip and he isn't hanging by one arm or the edge of his fingertips, this time; he's falling, down into that empty, open white, and he'll be falling forever. With his eyes clamped shut and another scream welling up in his chest (caught, too, for as long as his stubborn pride can keep it in check), he feels his fists close on nothing but crumbled earth and air, kicking madly against nothing, though it feels like slow-motion, everything stalling out-

And then, weirdly enough, it does. His feet don't hit anything, his hands are still empty, but in that same instantaneous way, he's given one nanosecond's worth of awareness that he isn't falling, after all.

Then that rough jerk upward registers, and he's all but flying, instead, the whiplash move tearing the wind out of him as fast as his center of gravity. There's really nothing else he can do, except return to scrabbling desperately for purchase - a feat that is suddenly so much shockingly easier, sprawled across the soft-hard bulk over which he lands gracelessly. With two fiercely tight fistfuls of rough, shaggy grey fur, he'll be a little trouble to shake off, now. Between the midair tumble and the wind whipping in his ears, still, though, he won't be much for coherent thanks.