As a chilly breeze stirs your hair, you can’t help feeling just a little uncomfortable. After all, you know that you’ll be rescued eventually… but when exactly is eventually? You really would like to be rescued before you die a solitary death, as opposed to after. That would be helpful.
You move slightly at the sound of something like footsteps, then wish you hadn’t. You’ve been hanging here for a good few hours, and your arms ache like anything. “Hello?” you call out hopefully. “Is anyone there?” You hear feet crunching on the frosty ground, and then, finally, a reply; “Hello! Do you need a hand?”
Your (potential) rescuer sounds young, female, but slightly sceptical. Well, no wonder. It’s not every day you meet a young man hanging from a cliff in the middle of nowhere.
There’s a scraping sound and she’s right in front of you, heavy lace-up boots close to your gripping fingertips. Unusual style for a girl, but not that so. Many people these days have unusual fashion sense. She kneels down and you see her face - or, at least, her hair, long, dark and hanging over her eyes. She raises an eyebrow, seemingly unamused by your precarious position.
“What are you doing?”
You force a smile, though your arms are aching and you would rather like to get out of this situation as soon as possible. “Ah, it’s a very long story. Very long indeed.”
She smiles too, playing along. “How long a story? Enough to fill one or two books?”
“To be very precise, three books, two manuscripts, a diary entry and a tapestry. Very long.”
She laughs now, standing up. “But I take it you need a hand?”
You simply nod and she grabs your wrists, tugging you up with surprising strength. Your feet scrabble on the cliff edge, and you’re up. Safe.