The path down to the creek is easy, if crowded with foliage. Ngamurudyin listens constantly for anything to be heard over the echoes of a thousand distant birds, but seems willing to talk to Jack as far as the difficulties of language might permit. The baby laughs and grabs at any and all attention that might come her way, apparently having been well-rested overnight.

Murphy is sitting on a flat stretch of sandstone beside the stream's deep cut, mutually ignoring a large snake preparing to sunbathe on the opposite bank. His back is bare, waiting to dry (the complex hatching of scars there speaking to several rounds under the lash), and he hums as he does complicated things with pistol parts and powder laid out on a rag, trying to keep some in working order. Jack can see the HT branded on Murphy's inner right forearm, near the wrist, but no sign of Cotton anywhere.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 00:12, Thu 02 July 2020.