[ What a strange sight to be familiar. Flynn blinks up at the face and the hand above him, silhouetted against the sky, and watches a little shower of dirt break away from the edge of the grave he'd been trying unsuccessfully to climb out of and trickle in a little stream onto his neck.

It slithers down his back. Flynn makes a face about the awful feeling, decides that the time for examining why this keeps happening to him is, in fact, when he's not currently standing in a grave, and takes the hand without a second thought. ]

Thank you!

[ Not the first metal hand he's grabbed, either— no, not the time— Flynn squeezes gratefully and readjusts the sword strapped helpfully to his hip.

The gravedigger looms on the other side, her shovel full of dirt. ]

I nearly had it— there's a foothold, at least, so if you could pull— you're braced on something, aren't you?