[He should probably yell.

There are people around this ruined tower, their voices carrying and bouncing echoes around, much more like the weird ghost words and memories that had traveled over the moorlands of Britain than anything like the way sound travels inside even the largest Principia. They could help him, probably. The people above; maybe even some from below, if they're climbing. But he doesn't call for help.

Instead, he dangles.

The stretch of muscle is beginning to burn inside his arm. He listens to the thud of his heart inside his ears, four or five times faster than the erratic drip of water off something metal above. The floor is perhaps twenty cubits below now, not far enough to kill him, but the possibility of landing on his leg -- it bites at his nerves, which are already raw from the pain radiating up through the muscle of his left leg. The pain doesn't worsen when he wiggles his sandaled foot, but there's a distinct new twinge when he kicks forward to swing himself closer to the wall.

Thus, it's with his other foot that he lands his next hold. An idiotic, puppyish scrabble of leather on damp metal, his free hand skittering madly over the curvature of metal. He gets his fingers in a shallow crease-- some kind of molding? sculpture? -- and it works for the space of a breath. He grits his teeth, and pulls.]

[The spear clips the slender tree. Nicks the outermost edge of the vivid target painted on the dark trunk, but it's at least four inches off from center. No doubt, in the breadth of an animal's body, that would be a wounding hit if not a deadly one. Nonetheless, Marcus frowns intently as he goes to retrieve the shaft.

He yanks it out of the earth. There are already twelve, thirteen holes plugged into the sod around it. His other throws hadn't even come close.

The carved wood comes away a little clotted but none the worse for wear, under his inspection that follows. Marcus runs a finger along the side of it, and his scowl deepens; it's a good grain, solid. He doesn't know nearly as much about crafting weapons as he does about killing things with them, but he thinks he can recognize a waste of good material when he's screwed it up, and he's quite sure that he has. The whole thing has come out all funny and warped, knobbly in subtle ways that the equipment endowed to the Legions never were, something weird about the weight, or-- perhaps the density? He shakes his head, a sigh shifting through his big shoulders. He isn't self-conscious about his work, though. The audible crack and rustle of approaching footfalls behind him elicits nothing worse than a look over his shoulder.]

Firewood, [he says, lifting the spear to present it. His carving tools are sitting on the stump behind him.] If you are collecting.