Altaïr follows him closely, listening to the sounds of corpses landing in order to gauge the distance better. He ventures close to the edge, but no closer than he can be certain will hold under his feet than crumble beneath them at a very inconvenient moment.

"I am not squeamish." Still, he's not one to turn down good advice from those who would know better. Not anymore, at least. He looks for a moment longer before stepping back. "I take it something dangerous will dine well tonight."

Better than he will, with the rations he's packed. That's fine; he's not picky.