Nynaeve coughed, spitting out more dirt as she gripped his hand in turn, working with him to get hauled out of the dirt sinkhole she'd been floundering around in.

"If I can find the necks of whoever did this," she says around coughs, "I'll wring them, see that I don't!"

Still, there's a moment for her to try and catch her breath, as if not enough air can get into her lungs when she sits on the solid ground... more solid ground. Ben's logic is hard to refute when she doesn't know the limits of where the ground will start sliding, and even as she sits there, the edges of the dirt pit visibly increase even to her squinting, watering, painful eyes.

"You don't need to convince me." She hefts herself up, dirt cascading off her as she moves, irritating her skin, under her clothes, still lingering in her mouth as a horrible taste and gritty in her ears, her eyes, her nostrils. Nynaeve finds herself in the uniquely irritating position of barely being able to see with how her eyes burn and water. She stumbles in the direction she hears Ben, not fighting any grip he may still have on her, the soft sucking sounds of dirt behind them a different sort of disturbing.

Hopefully she hadn't just created a growing soil-sink in an effort to escape a premature burial.