Near the front of the group, the aboriginal man stops and turns to follow the line of the hunter's finger. He squints at the movement, trying to determine is provenance.

The paleness in the half-distance sways and shivers like the foliage, though sometimes it twitches as though it might be an animal, maybe a man. If it's Cotton, he's not seen them or is not calling out.

If it's Bowen, he's not coming closer either, though he could be dancing some sorcery. The baby manages a thin and weary wail, and quickly quiets, too hot.

Brigitte got low taking a knee to try and see through the foliage. She also added her finger to the earnest pointing, but she did not call out. If she was able she would catch the attention of those around her who might be more focused in their work.


-

Jack stops his swinging and looks in the direction indicated, trying hard to determine just what he is looking at.

"Well, just keep quiet a minnit, see if that's more than an 'at on a stick," the sergeant says, loosening his sword in its sheath.

[[would you be pushing a roll there, Jack?]]

"Sergeant, I think I see a rope trailing the figure. We need to push forward or try to catch it's attention ?" She prepared to do just that with help or not.



-

In reply to Sgt. Wilkins (msg # 35):

"We do not need to catch anything's attention up 'ere - hoi!" He throws his reins to Murphy and starts off as Brigitte does, meaning to catch her up, but darts a glance back at Duggan, thinking he said something: "What?"

The moment's pause lets Brigitte get decidedly out in front of him. The movement heaves away from her in a pale flare when she pushes through the the brush to reach it and can finally determine its nature.


[[a Luck roll, please, Brigitte.]]

With the sudden commotion, Ngarungadurung readies his spear in the direction of the movement below, keeping the redcoat in the corner of his eye.

Brigitte watches the garment for a time before showing it to the sergeant, she does not remove it from the tree. "Someone has been busy." She looked at the rope and the sticks, "this was a theme" she thought..


Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 32 using 1d100.  Luck = 40.


-

The sergeant hurries on to see what she's found, swearing under his breath. It's as he reaches out to hold back the leafy shrubs that had concealed the little tableau of hanging sword-slashed shirt and sticks and rope that Brigitte shifts back away from him a little and suddenly falls through the ground.

It's over before she can really register that only one leg had sunk, and only a little way, perhaps two-thirds of the way up her calf. It feels like she's treading on a handkerchief or other cloth scrap at the bottom.

The sergeant had darted his left hand forward to catch her and taken a faceful of leaves from letting go of the shrubbery. Now he takes a glance at Brigitte's predicament, going from bad temper to soldierly assessment in an instant.

"Don't move," he says, and presses Brigitte's skirts to her shin with the flat of his blade so that she can see what he means. The gentle, scarce-noticable pressure against her leg is that of angled fire-hardened spikes and kangaroo claws slotted into a simple woven ring and driven into the soil; had she instinctively pulled back they would have laid her entire lower leg open to the boot. Trying to move her leg out of the hole at all increases the pressure of the spikes.

"Lemme get down there n' knock those out easy-like," Wilkins says, kneeling, then flattens the bush back with his blade to address Ngarungadurung. "Hey, hey, blackfella, come 'ere," a jerk of the head indicates the redcoat wants him over there, though Ngarungadurung has noticed Garangwaari looking around, frowning slightly. The pale riding-beast away behind him gives a hard snort like a kangaroo warning off some rival.

The sergeant points at him. "You," he says, and points two-fingered at his own eyes, then around, nodding at the spear. "-watch. Now, all right, lessee 'ow we're going to do this..."


[[Optional DEX roll available for Brigitte to help extricate herself faster if desired.]]

The blackfella moves silently to position himself within a spear's length of the lady and the sergeant. He holds the spear poised above his right shoulder, and a long, ovoid club in his left hand.

He scans the terrain in wide arcs, eyes narrowed, ears pricked.

[[Do you mean to use the woomera for blunt damage, or whose waddy is that? Also, may I have a mystery roll, if you please?]]

Ngamurudyin is also alert, easing her hand onto the stone-headed club at her belt-string under her waistcoat as she asks:[Language unknown: "Ver a ss?"]

The cicadas screech, echoing. All the horses are uneasy now. Garangwaari looks around, but the tangle of foliage is so dense it's hard to see more than a few paces in any direction. [Language unknown: "Lorolo e ecceio,"] she says.

"SPEARED MAN!!"

Ngarungadurung screams in warning and he is moving, running, crouched low, through the brush to the north.

Brigitte tried to help free herself, but in the end she let the Sargent do most of the work until she was free. Rubbing her leg she again looked at the shirt as the warning was sounded.

She got low and looked for this "speared man" trying to orientate herself in the correct direction.

Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 92 using 1d100.  Dex = 80.



-

Brigitte's fingers come away bright with blood from their rubbing. It's as much awareness that she's cut as voluntary action that lowers her to a crouch as the sergeant stands poised in front of her, back ramrod-straight with tension and scarlet smeared down his hand to form a droplet at his left little finger, as though his the colour of his coat was something inside him, too.

[[*rolls* That's 2HP damage for Brigitte, 1 for the sergeant. I may ask for some mystery rolls later, depending on...things...]]

Belatedly, she understands why the sergeant had minced some oaths when she'd tried to hurry up and yank herself free, catching a couple of his fingers. Though the pain hits with a vague, raw soreness like a torn blister, everyone but the sergeant and herself is in motion.

The redcoat stands listening urgently, trying to see. "C'mon you devil..."

[bonus music]

Garangwaari darts into deeper cover, bent low over the baby whose startled cry is mostly lost under the cicadas and the thrashing of brush. Ngamurudyin steps forward and stands her ground for now, the weapon suddenly in her hand with obvious weight, obvious knowledge of its use.

"Daniels! Cut that rope an' hold th' horse!" Murphy calls, throwing the reins of the military mount to Jack. "Duggan, take this one, I think that fella's run towards the Speared Man."

He's already up on his own dust-coloured horse by then, pistol drawn since they can't make much more noise for trying. He waits only until the rope between him and Brass falls away, pulls the rest onto his pommel and kicks off, heading back on their cleared path a way before picking the best route into the trees, horse and rider surging together like a single beast. The cicadas scream.


_
This message was last edited by the player at 00:37, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Ngarungadurung runs, the protective lines and dotted finger-marks of his paint blazing through the dapples. He hurdles low branches, ducks creepers, pulling in breath that is already blood-hot as though the slight breeze of the forest blew through him. A few cicadas thrum away from him whilst the rest keep up their ceaseless scream.

He runs, slides slightly on a slope and of a sudden there is a clear space of perhaps a dozen paces before him and the Speared Man has cleared six, seven, eight of them, switching in his track on seeing Ngarungadurung and closing in with a stare that does not need to blink and a burning grin. The ground underfoot trembles a little with the gait of Murphy's horse and Ngarungadurung remembers striking at the earth with a dead man, the cross of the echoes, the great thing rising below, and the Speared Man has raised his hardwood edge...

Jack swings aboard Brass and looks after Murphy, starting to follow him at a less breakneck pace, keeping low over his mount's neck.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:42, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

Now free of the snare Brigitte made her way to her horse and retrieve the sword she had there before seeing to her wound with a spare hankie. Then she would stand still watching the as what ever unfolded before her eyes.

Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 29 using 1d100.  First Aid = 40.

As she stood she tried to claim her horse as well though she felt she was juggling a but much it seemed to all be in hand.


-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:32, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

Murphy can be heard out there in the bush like a localised hurricane. Those on the trail can hear fast running steps now, too, both a stranger's and their recent companion's.


[[Jack - a Ride and a mystery roll, please, and are you taking the sergeant's horse?

Brigitte - a First Aid roll if you intend the bandaging to help there, and are you taking your horse's reins in the other hand/soothing her at all?]]

[Jack is riding his horse Brass, leaving Wilkens' horse with Daniels.

Jack Duggan rolled 74 for mystery.
Jack Duggan rolled 95 for Ride 50.

The mystery is why Jack thinks he can ride, I guess.]

Ngarungadurung freezes at the sight of the Speared Man.

He doesn't run like Cadlowfella did. He doesn't turn at nine paces, ten, elev... and then he doesn't duck away from the war club, but towards it, inside its arc, hoping to cut short the witch's attack.

Ngarungadurung drives himself low, aiming his shoulders for the running man's knees, trying to use the witch's own momentum to upend him and send him to the ground.

---

Not sure the rolls to make for this, but will let the Keeper be my guide...

There is a moment Ngarungadurung can see the whites of this dead devil's eyes.

[[Instinct says give me a DEX roll in place of Brawl & I'll give him a penalty die on resistance because in his little red-hot murderous scrap of brain he is not expecting anyone to throw themselves at his knees.]]

Ngarungadurung uses the large muscles of his legs to push forward with all the power he can muster.

---

10:05, Today: Ngarungadurung rolled 47 using 1d100.  DEX (65).

There's a heavy moment of impact, shoulder to thigh, spearshaft and ribs to back; Ngarungadurung sees the Speared Man's toes clear his sweeping spear even as their flesh and bones hit and tangle and pass each other with the rush of momentum. Ngarungadurung heaves up and the Speared Man is sent clattering and rolling awkwardly along the ground in a flail of limbs and transfixing shaft like something in siezure.

Ngarungadurung has almost two heartbeats of crouched and beastlike stagger before the drumming in the ground is upon them. He regains balance and Speckles has run his riding-beast around in close to the Speared Man, swinging down like a continuation of its movement to run-step-slam one foot on the war boomerang against the ground, reaching to grasp the spear out of the devil's back with his left hand.

The Speared Man grabs the shaft wedged under himself and twists, abandoning his weapon to catch Murphy behind the knee, haul his leg forward and bite. The thing's jaws slice swift and sharp into the flesh as a shark's. Murphy yelps.

"Son of the Hell!"