"Whirlwind!?" Jacques said more urgently, his hoof placement awkward. His sword slipped out of its resting place in the crook of his leg and fell to the ground far below, spinning and whirling in the early morning haze as sunlight pierced the canopy that was still a good distance above them. "No!" he shouted, attempting to move forward but forcing himself rigidly back into place as the branches moved. "Monsieur Stabby!" he whined mournfully as his beloved sword disappeared into the underbrush. He turned behind him to see his charge lying on his back, suspended God only knew how high off of the cold, hard, unforgiving earth by little more than a bundle of ivy vines as he gestured with his forehooves explaining with copious enthusiasm the simply riveting tale of how they got up here.