---

Jack manages to get some enthusiasm out of Brass for 'away', but when he tries to get up to a canter in such dense forest the big gelding tries only briefly before slowing to a trot and trying to circle back towards the other horses, weaving nervously through every clear space he can find. Tugging at the reins to try and get him back on course causes the hefty bay to sidestep and stop in fearful defiance, snorting protest and showing the whites of his eyes as though pleading with his rider to acknowledge he's a range treader, not a charger, nor even so much as a cutting horse, and that way is danger.

It's at this point Jack notices the forest looks completely unfamiliar, or possibly too familiar, trees on trees on trees, all wreathed about with vines and brush and echoing with the layered pulse of insect noise. He's pretty sure he can still hear Murphy and can tell which way is back to the others.

Brass shudders under him. The particular way the light filters through the canopy makes it hard to tell even where the axis of east and west lies, all directions vague though the forest itself is solid and absoloute, filling the air with the thick scent of eucalyptus. He's pretty sure he cannot have got as far away from his companions as it feels.

Pretty sure.


[[a Spot Hidden, please]]

Jack chews at his lip nervously as he casts about for something more than "pretty sure." He pats Brass's neck firmly, making soothing noises.

The pit of his stomach wants to halloo until someone hears him and comes to fetch him back. But there's deadly danger about, too, and he doesn't want to be found by that instead.

Jack Duggan rolled 73 for Spot Hidden 50.

The trees are trees are trees, sclerophyll and distant rock-grown pine. The cicadas chant constantly to themselves and their echoes and the air holding its dull and seeming-sourceless light. Somewhere, he hears Murphy yelp and curse, or what might be Murphy. Brass shifts restlessly, unsure where to turn.

It's as Jack scans the too-close, brush-choked limits of what he can see that Brass abruptly rumbles and tries to make a turn to move his flank away from a terrible corpselike stink, sidestepping a circle.

From its source comes a murmur in a tongue unknown to Jack ("Ah? Beth mae hi wedi'i wneud...") and for one mad moment when he looks down he thinks what he sees could be his own face, transfigured under dirt, wild hair and stubble: the same stature, rough lines, slight curls. He fails to wholly process the sight before Bowen has leapt up and grabbed his shirt. Gravity lurches.

Jack flails, twists, grabs at something as Brass squeals protest at this unwelcome change of rider - he lands briefly upright, staggering back in a half-crouch to finally overbalance and sit. Bowen heaves himself awkwardly across the saddle and Brass gets a look of sheer panic, fighting the rein when it's gripped and hopping his forehooves off the ground, clearly terrified of the thing now on his back.

*IIIIIhhhuuuhhhuuhhnnn!*

Bowen looks down, the light diffused by the canopy behind him like a saint as he sits the increasingly upset and froth-flinging horse. He's calm and grey-pale as a dead man, but his hair is plastered down with living sweat and his shirt is stuck to his chest over a slash of vile dark seepage that pales to weak green and yellow fluids through the cloth. When he can tear his eyes away from that walking rot Jack sees the blade fashioned from a bayonet in Bowen's right hand, held up, far up there, as though ready to strike.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:20, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

Jack drops as close to the ground as he can in a crouch to avoid the blade.

He scuttles under Brass's head to Bowen's off side. He reaches up to grab the head strap of the bridle and--much as he hates to--drags it down and twists it as close to upside-down as he can, letting his weight drag his horse's head down and around.

[I'm thinking something akin to bulldogging a steer, hoping to throw Brass onto his side or at least dismount the unsteady Bowen.]
This message was last edited by the player at 02:33, Sat 10 Oct 2020.

Jack's fingers hook under the dry leather of the bridle and Brass tenses, still more terrified by things going on near his legs.

[[give me a DEX to see how much/if you can roll him, and note that Brass will think he's being severely punished, since 'throwing' a horse is like using the emergency scruff-roll-throat-grab on a dog. I mean, Bowen was going to stab him in the butt because Bowen has places to be, but poor Brass doesn't know that.]]

Jack snags the bridle and throws his whole weight downward.

Jack Duggan rolled 75 for DEX 50. Damme!

Brass staggers sideways with his head pulled low to the ground. Bowen is thrown forward somewhat, but catches himself against the pommel and stares down, managing to catch Jack's eye. When he speaks, his tone is gentle, made more melodious by the bobbing intonation of south Wales.

"I need to find her right now at the minute. Don't worry, I'll come back for you." He smiles, giving Brass just enough rein to shake his head before pulling it back again. "You're needed too."

Then the long steel blade flashes up and darts down behind him, coming up tipped in red. Brass screams.

The big bay bucks, rears and once given rein finally gives in to instinct and bolts, heavy hooves kicking up loam. There's no way Bowen could possibly be in control of the beast, but he doesn't seem to care.


[[Bowen keeps his seat and incentivises some rapid forward motion.
A DEX roll, please, to avoid any knocks/getting underhoof down there.]]

"Bastard!" shouts Jack at the injury done his horse. Then he's tumbling, trying to wrap his head in his arms to protect it.

Jack Duggan rolled 70 for DEX 50.

Luck is with him: though the panicked horse surges forward and the big forehooves thump against the ground beyond him, he catches no more than a clip to the shoulder from a back hoof, narrowly missing his ear. It hurts, and tips him down into the leaf litter (memory speaks of lying stricken near the blackened stump, the exact shape of the twigs near his hands...how much time?), but as the shuddering impacts on the ground become more distant it's clear that nothing's broken, at least.

[[Jack suceeds at being lucky and only takes 2HP damage. He is now without a horse, however.]]

Jack rolls over, looking up through the interlaced branches to catch a glimpse of sky. After a moment he gets to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. He'll pay out Bowen when he finds him, jabbing Brass like that.

With no better idea of where to head, he starts in following Brass's progress as best he can.

The sky winks at him through the swaying eucalyptus, a distant and indifferent blue. Somewhere, presumably not far off, are Murphy and the Aboriginal fellow who'd joined them, though Jack can't hear them or much of anything over the cicadas' ceaseless song.

If they had found and caught the Speared Man, or if that rumoured devil had caught them and spread his condition of being with two impaling stabs, they were making no further noise. He's not sure where those he left behind him are, either, but for some seconds he can stumble along after swaying bushes and disturbed litter from his horse's passage in overheated certainty. It's not long before the vines and understory swing to stillness, however, and he's left who-knows-where, scanning for sign.


[[Tracking and a mystery roll, please.]]

So, ye've lost yerself proper, Jack lad. Well done, ye idiot. With no further sign, he casts about to decide a likely direction, figuring no one's going to come looking for him anytime soon.

Jack Duggan rolled 47 for Mystery.
Jack Duggan rolled 94 for Track 25.

Casting about shows Jack forest in all directions. Looking around or turniing in place, the filtered sun and the constant insect pulse confuse all sense of direction as though he had not moved, or else his breathing flesh and the bones within had become a pivot on which the whole bush turned, the only point of certain being in endless trees.

Perhaps, if he ran down the few places were the slope was clearly evident, let gravity guide his downhill rushing, he might come into the foothills in a few days, though whether that would be close to Cleary's spread or onto some Darug spearpoint there was no saying. Any other way there was the prospect of Bowen or whatever lay curled and dreaming beneath its nest of stones in which strange life was coming to be.

(You're needed, too.)

...though there was also the prospect of missing that, of simply stumbling around through bushland where his people had never existed before: a land that did not know him and would make little concession to the heart beating in his chest or even the mind that carried thoughts and hopes and memories of somewhere the green was deep and carried the sun glass-bright in its foliage, down to the least blade of grass. It seemed unfair, to come from a place so damp and be able to starve or die of thirst in this bleached country. The cicadas shrill.

Then, alarmingly distant in the wilderness, there comes a human voice. Speaking English, no less, a voice to carry over cannon: "OI! 'AVE YOU GOT 'IM?"

He thinks there might be a response from Murphy, though the direction is still vague, layered and shattered through rasping cicada chant.

Frustrated nearly to tears, Jack resists the urge to run off in a dandom direction. He strains to hear more, to get some indication where he is needed. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he emits a piercing whistle.

Mostly Jack hears cicadas like the sound of heat, the sound of the space between the trees and any gasp of empty air, shrilling. Straining his ears is like inviting the noise directly into his thoughts, a rattling tremor against his poor hot brain that feels like it will be with him when he sleeps. A sound that would continue to racket over him if, wildly, he dropped dead from some unknown limit of the capacity to hear, the internal heat running out of him in haemorrage at nose and ears until an equilibrium of temperature was reached. The insects all around him screech and screech and never stop, and yet he listens hard.

[[That is to say, roll me a Listen, please.]]

Jack closes his eyes to better concentrate on sound, turning his head from side to side.

[Jack Duggan rolled 53 for Listen 50. I have not succeeded in a roll since May 31.]

Jack listens, and the sound peels into layers and variations and directions, so many hard insectile bodies filled so completely with sound. The cicadas speak thus:

*~SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEeeEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeee SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEEEE-DEEEEEE-TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEEEE-DEEEEEE-TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEEEE-DEEEEEE-TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-eeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SCREEEEEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEeeEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeEEEE~*


[[Actually, you passed the last mystery roll, which believe me is Very Good for Jack.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:27, Mon 19 Oct 2020.

Then, still distant, the voice threads through the brain-pounding hypnosis of cicadas' screech: "AWRIGHT, OO'S WHISTLIN AT US?"

Jack gives out another whistle and moves in what he takes to be the direction of the voice.

The bush shrills, seeming to weigh his body with sound the way a freezing wind might layer it with ice. He thinks there might be some further spikes of human voices through that constant scraping chant, but it's not clear. One step in front of the other, and that uncertain murmuring stays steady for now.


[[Please give me All The Rolls a Listen, Spot Hidden, and a mystery roll, please.]]

Jack Duggan rolled 51 for mystery.
Jack Duggan rolled 8 for Spot Hidden 50. hey! a success!
Jack Duggan rolled 99 for Listen 50. damn cicadas

It might be that flicker of fox nature in him again, always a little alert for the snap of a trap or the tug of a snare, carrying the memory of a time when great grey wolves roamed forests not quite like this with the same gait but longer stride and bigger teeth. A distracting half-seen shadow draws his attention to a patch of dark that moves just slightly out of true. His instincts know before the sight is processed into a portion of dark clay-smeared skin, a jutting spearshaft, an almost crawling motion: he is something's chosen prey.

It occurs to Jack he can't hear Murphy any more. The cicadas continue their chant, though listening hard makes Jack aware of his own heart beating even under that, time seeming to run a little slower as he becomes sure of what he's seeing, every twig and leaf sharpening clear as though seen through glass.

...and then the cicada chant seems to flow slower still as the other tenses, springs forward and comes on in a rush. A spearpoint cuts the foliage before the figure with the swift lethal intent of a live and darting snake.

"He's here!" Jack shouts as loud as ever he can.

He gathers himself, forcing his eyes to look only at that onrushing point, setting his feet. At the moment before impact, he grabs for the shaft just behind the tip, pivots on his left foot, and tries to get his hip into the oncoming figure. He twists his body, yanking the spear, and throwing the other in a lateral arc toward the ground.

[So much for Jack. If his maneuver works, he's hoping to wrench the spear out of the man, using the other's momentum. Seems unlikely.]

The cicadas keep up their shrieking sound as Jack reaches for the hardwood point, the only thing he can see...

[[Hmmm...give me a DEX roll, please.]]

Jack Duggan rolled 40 for DEX 50.
I knew it would come up heads sooner or later. But is it heads enough?

There's a swift rush of smooth hardwood under his fingers, then empty air. The sensation takes all Jack's focus away with the drifting spearpoint, everything slow-fast and far too clear, so it seems that he had caught something that flew, flipped, twisted of its own accord and cut his knees from under him, sending him to the ground with a stinging offhand cuff to his bruised shoulder.

Rolling over before the next spearstrike can find him, Jack sees the man who had joined them this morning halted within a couple of steps and swinging back to see him, easy as a practiced dance.

[[It might've been, save Ngarungadurung got what would've been an Impale to resist, so good thing he wasn't actively trying to kill you. ^_^ ]]

---

Ngarungadurung found that the whitefella had aimed himself as though expecting his chest to be level with his spearpoint; a combination of muscle memory and nigh-instinctive awareness of the other's form made it simple to spin his active spear about as the other tried to grip it and step around him, using his body's momentum to catch him hard at the bend of the knee and push him over with the hand gripping the other spear and woomera. Then it was merely a matter of stepping to a stop and turning about to fix once more upon his quarry.

"Hmm." The Aboriginal man relaxes and lifts his empty palms to Dugganfella in a kind of mea culpa gesture.

His eyes lift to something a few feet behind Duggan and he points with his chin, bidding Duggan look.

[Language unknown: "Ad ure Etesni?".] The Aboriginal is not addressing Jack, but someone behind him.

The weapons thud to the ground like patient hounds run hard but ready to hunt again once called. The cicada chant fades to a more normal rhythm as heartbeats slow and the tide of fighting blood retreats.

[Language unknown: "Vorectsta fiseis icase sseeou fi wa n lint. Rehas verentare iepl ec?" ] Ngarungadurung smiles, [Language unknown: "Houil onekfi Urnaur ul ai ut eefor ers lletto romingthi i,"] and holds a fist to his heart. [Language unknown: "Evrat ri natic eenstrare oshe oulyinvor lool a comticdin?"]

The slight breeze puts tiny shivers of movement all around the visible forest. The cicadas sing as though immortal, their song as solid and deep as the underlying rock.

Seeing the weapons drop, Jack scurries to look behind him at whatever the blackfella is indicating.

Hearing Murphy's call, he shouts: "Here, Murphy. This way!"

The native appears to be conducting an engaging conversation with the tree behind Jack. As far as he can tell, it's not talking back, though the other man certainly takes the time to listen to it.

"Who's the man with you, Duggan?" comes the response. Murphy sounds wary, not fully trusting a lone voice from the bush.

Ngarungadurung's eyes narrow and he nods pensively. [Language unknown: "Lo ekres oer u arthe si i ilarleei t are. Manbutset pr of Hi atthev ll... ortnd viren te miut ill waswhewasearnte?"]

The tree that had been behind Jack is tall and slim and graceful. The forest is so loud and wide and full of space all choked with twisting vines and undergrowth, like a gasping when there should be easy breath.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:24, Sun 08 Nov 2020.

In reply to The Keeper (msg # 34):

"Sure, it's th' tracker! Gahrungahdong!" Jack calls out, "He found me! He's talkin' to a tree! I think."

Jack steps aside, out of line between the blackfella and his tree.

Jack Duggan rolled 41 for POW 45. Thanks for the reminder.

[Language unknown: "Acou wi."]

Ngarungadurung beckons for Jack to follow, and points to the imprints left by his feet on the earth: fall in, step for step.

"We should wait for Murphy," Jack says, looking in the direction the voice seems to be coming from. But when the man moves off, he follows, matching his steps to the other's as best he can. He doesn't want to be on his own in t5he bush again and Ngarungadurung is the only human he sees.

"C'mon, Murph!" he shouts as he takes the first couple of steps.

The reply comes flat and distant from the bush: "Headin' for yeh." It's hard to tell if he's closer at all. Jack is distracted by the quiet click of his companion picking up his weapons and pacing off, and the blurred seen-unseen glimpse of a white man waving at him then moving out before them both, more like a memory than a current happening.

Jack follows, and has the strong, strange sensation of at once walking along the ridge of a mountain's very peak, deep drops plummeting away from him to bone-smashing depths unseen, and also being in a thin gulley, closed off and muffled. The landscape does not change. The ground underfoot is solid, the air warm. Fallen leaves crackle with their motion, the sound almost a texture under the cicadas' rasp.

[Language unknown: "Eima en whe ictin,"] the tracker says, but Jack doesn't understand.

[Language unknown: "Ore o mo esitaifisi llcom hapoad ai m dihemiadei toeve ast..."]

The walkers pace on through the trees. Jack begins to suspect they're about to do a small loop by the way their path curves whilst Ngarungadurung speaks quietly to the shimmer of a man.


There's a far-off "Can y'speak up, Duggan?" from somewhere currently a little behind and mostly to their left, then long quiet with just the cicada sawing and the leaves.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:11, Mon 09 Nov 2020.

"Here, Murphy!" Jack shouts with something like desperation creeping into his voice, "I'm here!"

Jack thinks that he ought to stop walking, just sit down and wait for Murphy to find him, or else death. But he's terrified of being left alone again. So, he plods along behind Ngarungadurung through the cicada-buzzed-- forest?.

He's minded of the tale his Grandad used to tell of the tinker bewitched by fairy music, unable to stop dancing while the pipes played.

The forest remains a forest, despite the sensations of following Ngarungadurung's footsteps, perhaps in turn following a ghost. Finally, after several pulses of cicada sawing an answer drifts back: Murphy sounds concerned himself. "Aright - are y'tryin t'come this way? You're goin away from us. Far's I can tell."

He pauses, then calls further: "We think we just saw a woollyman, too, so keep lookout - don't make it angry if y'see it, just look too much trouble t'fight. I'll be there directly, honest t'God."

Jack comes to a halt, his mouth dry and cottony with the heat and with fear.

"Here 'garungadung, hang on a bit. Let Murphy catch us up, eh?"

If the tracker will wait, so will Jack, but he's still unwilling to be left behind: What if Murphy never comes? What if his voice is just some trick?

"MUUR--PHYYY!!" he wails.

[Language unknown: "N nc ieiv Ousatende. Yin ourtrawil lo arpa ek ica yin m altr."]

If Ngarungadurung senses Jack's distress he makes no show of it; instead he crouches at the splayed roots of a large ficus tree. He scoops forest debris and earth out to make a small depression then sets about assembling tinder and sticks for a small fire.

---

12:49, Today: Ngarungadurung rolled 2 using 1d100 ((2)). Fire-starting.

Jack catches up with the tracker and sees immediately what his intention is.

"Fire, great idea, Murphy'll smell th' smoke. Here, mate, try these."

He fishes around in his bag and finds the waterproof case with his lucifers. He strikes one on the rough bark of the ficus.

[[currently on teabreak - Jack, roll me Survival there, and if you fail it, Luck.]]

Jack Duggan rolled 40 for Luck 55.

Jack Duggan rolled 39 for Survival 10.

The Darug man calls fire to the snips of tinder and kindling with the absoloute ease of a gesture, a flame licking up as soon as tinder touches the hot point of wood rolled between his palms. A flame also flares up brightly from Jack's phosphor-stick, setting small lichens briefly crawling with sparks in the channels of the gnarled fig's bark.

The chant of the insects presses heavy and Jack becomes once more aware of the strong scent of surrounding eucalyptus over the sulphur from his stick, the air itself pulling the flame high and broad; he drops it onto Ngarungadurung's fire before the eager burning reaches his fingers and the delicate heaping of twigs slumps and sparks, forcing the native to lean back on his heels. There's a suggestion of a female voice far off, though it can't be caught through the cicadas.

The sparks fly, dancing above the little scrape of cleared earth, up and up like bright snowflakes above the tinder-crisp leaves. They blink to black embers just before touching hanging filaments and leaves. The ground shivers.

Then Murphy's dust-coloured riding-beast has pushed hard through the brush behind and the hunter of men reins up to look around for trouble, pistol in hand. Seeing none, he dismounts and shoves the firearm away, patting his horse on the neck. He steps up to Duggan, his colour high but his expression showing only concern as he grips the younger man's upper arm.

"Are you aright?" he asks, searching Duggan's face for anything the lad might not dare say. "No...no, you're not. Come here, come here t'me."

Without giving him time to be embarrassed Murphy shifts his arm about Jack's shoulder and pulls him in for a few seconds of warm, familial pressure in a hug given like a shot of rum. "They're gettin to yeh, aren't they?" he asks in letting go, somewhere between exhasperation and relief.

[Language unknown: "Ekac est ereic?"] he asks of Ngarungadurung, curious about the fire.

The dark man points to Murphy's wounded leg.

[Language unknown: Nienc erel of larterill. Il un semelo. Icvir io ainarebut and wifien?]

Brigitte again displaying riding skills that would have made her riding instructor blush, but to see her friend was a relief. She gets down off the horse to look at the man before asking "How can I help ?"

Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 73 using 1d100.  First Aid = 40%.


-

Jack shifts his feet as Murphy releases him, his neck colouring a bit in embarassment, his face grinning with brotherly pleasure.

"Go along wi' ye, Murphy," he protests, his brogue coming to the fore, "It's not two hours since ye seen me. Ah! and ye done yerself a mischief there."

At Brigitte's appearance, he ducks his head, "Milady, are ye well?"

He steps to take the bridles of both mounts.

"It's you that was callin out soundin all 'Murphy! I'm fair set t'be eaten by woollymen!' " Murphy responds with a sliver of a grin, the alarm exaggerated enough to make light of it rather than a dig at Duggan's courage. "As for this, 'tis scarce a scratch, but our friend thinks that speared devil had a poison in his mouth and the way it felt at the time, I'll not doubt it..."

He draws a huntsman's blade that's not quite a dagger from his side and offers it to the Darug man. [Language unknown: "T nient adie la e di, arlin te ut u,"] he says, seeming quite trusting of Ngarungadurung's intent.

The horses aren't quite calm, sticking close to each other and keeping their heads up, shifting about. Murphy looks over at Brigitte's question, glancing at his own saddleware and becoming a more even pink as he asks: "Ah...well...if y'had any clean cloth t'spare I'd pay you back next I was in Sydney...not sure if it's bloodlettin or magic he's about, but I might surely need that."

He hoiks his left trouserleg up and starts gathering it back, lowering to one knee (Ngarungadurung can see that indeed every hair on the man is that weird orange colour, like he has a store of ochre under that fish-flesh white skin). Reaching the knee he hisses sharply in pain and works slower: those nearby see first a redness touching the taut skin over the joint, then the cloth coming away from the bite with gummy strands of vile yellowish congealment. The toothmarks are raw redblack sores ringed with the stuff and all the flesh that had been briefly in the witch-thing's mouth is dull and darkened greenish as though festering infected for days.

Murphy swallows hard and takes a moment to be sure he's something like downwind of the horses; Ngarungadurung gets some of the stench, death dwelling in a body whose heart still beat. "Jesus..."

Some of the veins around the infection look dangerously dark, and the reddened, breaking and blistered skin pulse-pushes out as they watch, blackening near the wound. It's suddenly clear that Murphy is sweating far too much even for the heat, perhaps not helped by the sight. Ngarungadurung is pretty sure that had they waited another ten minutes the best outcome would be Murphy surviving one of them cutting off the limb.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 09:53, Fri 13 Nov 2020.

Ngarungadurung carefully lays the knife edge-long in the centre of the small fire. Then he palpates the veins of the red man's leg to test how far the infection may have spread.

He mutters, [Language unknown: "Elpome stili latpe allan som adnt atilinear bleesswil ee to."]

He looks to the two bystanders, making a gesture of tying a knot of rope above the red man's knee.

"Mmh," says Murphy, trying not to say anything else whenever Ngarungadurung pushes on something that hurts. Ngarungadurung can feel the infection easily enough, since it feels like the affected tissue is burning under the skin with an unsurvivable fire: From the mark of the Speared Man's incisors it stretches the full length from Ngarungadurung's index finger to the base of his palm at the greatest extent, heading up towards the body of the man.

"Duggan, could y'get out th' salt an' red dirt I have this-side-front o' my saddlebag there?" Murphy asks when there comes a moment he can breathe. "It's my thought I might be needin' them, and the water."

"...and, ah, perhaps a sound stick," he adds, a little spark of nervousness in his tone. [Language unknown: "Bedi ive nceil?"] he asks Ngarungadurung.

Jack hastens to retrieve the requested items, setting them carefully in reach of Ngarungadurung or Murphy. Then he whips off his neck scarf (Pegeen's neck scarf, though he gives no thought of that in his eagerness to help). He twists it tight and loops it around Murphy's leg where Ngarungadurung indicates and ties it tight, picking up a stick to twist it tighter.

[Jack Duggan rolled 46 for EDU 55. In case it's needed.]

Brigitte will help as well, as much as she can. She offers up some strips of cloth like she used to bind her own leg.


Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 22 using 1d100.  First Aid = 40%.


-

[Language unknown: "E ad are ngpa setartpre di. Os are ss prinna. Maiv o us la dinwi."]

Ngarungadurung hands Murphy a stripped gumtree stick to bite down on.

He signals for the party to brace Murphy; Brigitte to hold him close at the shoulders, Jack to put his weight on the legs and keep them from bucking.

Ngarungadurung himself puts Murphy's foot between his knees like a vice. He peers at the knife, shimmering in the heat. When he's satisfied that it's hot enough, [Language unknown: "Ivca!"], he plucks it from the fire and cuts as fast and as smoothly as he can.

---

22:04, Today: Ngarungadurung rolled 53 using 1d100.  The cut. EDU (65).
22:05, Today: Ngarungadurung rolled 6 using 1d4+2.  The damage. (Medium knife 1d4+2).

Murphy had sat himself back when Jack brought over the scarf, tense but still a bit bashful to have a fine lady do something as odd as lean down on his shoulders. Then the cutting starts, and that gets a muffled scream from Murphy and a spasm Jack has to lean against despite himself. Ngarungadurung works fast, Fire working with him against Death though blood quickly makes it hard to see what he's about and he has to jerk his free thumb along the extent of the burning sickness, following it with the foreigners' strange stone. His hands feel painted over as he casts corrupted flesh to the firepit. The cicadas scream down at him and all of them in an unceasing pulse.

The stick seems to be keeping Murphy from swearing as much as saving the man's teeth: though he makes no more loud sounds his breath comes very fast. When the knife comes up for the last time Jack guesses that he's meant to salt the wound like a sore and set the wrap of red soil - much like the clay he was given whilst half-dead of overwork, perhaps the same - to pack in and push against the bone, moulding down on the well of blood. At some point in this operation he realises the tension of Murphy's flesh has changed and his breathing hitched and abruptly quieted; Brigitte finds herself slumped against, the Irishman gone deadweight. She sets Murphy's hat aside and proffers her shift-made bandages to Jack, easing Murphy's skull to the ground with both hands to free herself and let what blood was not all over the forearms of Ngarungadurung and Jack return to the freckled man's head.


[[Normal damage for a normal success, though Murphy muffed his CON roll and passed out at the last. Jack successfully educated-guessed what the more esoteric stuff was for, and Brigitte can roll me a d3 to mitigate that damage (yes, I know that's more than 1920s 7th edition heals with First Aid now - I rule it this way as there are rather more ways to get horribly maimed in a frontier colony and distinctly less doctors in the setting).]]
This message was last edited by the player at 00:02, Sun 15 Nov 2020.

Struggling to be any help Brigitte tried to hold the man down and then to bind the wound once he has thankfully past out.

Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 3 using 1d3.  First Aid.



-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:16, Sun 15 Nov 2020.

When the grim cutting is done, Ngarungadurung returns the knife to the fire to burn away any lingering poison; he scrubs his forearms arms with sand to do the same. As he does so casts his glance about, to be sure no one has crept up on them in the meantime. Then he turns to inspect the patient and the bandaged wound.

Ngarungadurung can see the riding-animals backed well away from the disturbance on their tethers where Jack had hitched them. The beasts seem generally uneasy, clearly disliking the scent of blood and just as wary of any approach the intensity of makeshift surgery might have covered as himself. It's hard to see anything other than gently shifting foliage or hear anything beside cicadas.


Dubious of Jack's binding skills, Brigitte moves in and gets her hands as reddened as the rest. She sends Jack to watch Murphy's breath and fish the stick out of his mouth and ties the bindings down tight before easing the scarf unbound. Flies are beginning to find them, skittering over her wrist and elbow and pooling about the blood to suck with their little straw mouths at soil and sticky skin alike.

With the application of some of their precious water flicked against his brow Murphy recovers at least enough to groan. It's certainly promising in terms of being able to explain to the sergeant why they just carved a chunk out of him alive.

Laying aside the deeply-bitten stick, Jack reaches to take the scarf from Brigitte's fingers, belatedly realizing that it is Pegeen's token. He handles it carefully to avoid staining its fabric further with the red earth, hoping he will be able to wash it clean. He puts it in his jacket pocket.

He fans Murphy's sweat-slicked face with his hat.

"There, Murphy, there. You'll be right as rain in a bit," he murmurs to his unconscious friend.

Jack can picture the mock-scolding Peggy would give him for that, probably with a harangue for Murphy as well; the feather-lashing of words cunningly falling too soft to be curses; the way her exaggerated scowl would break to laughter she'd forget to be ladylike about and just laugh, raw and true and stark as briars. Her scent is harder to remember, though, like something dreamt of and lost on waking, long past. Here there is only the scent of blood and smoke and foreign trees. The flies edge over every still part of him. The cicadas screech as they would screech were Murphy dead or not harmed at all, deafeningly indifferent.

"Hrrngh..." Murphy mumbles a collection of nonsense sound like an Englishman trying to read written Gaelic, then screws up his face with a more voluntary expression. "...'s this the good pain, then? Hssssht..."

[Language unknown: "Men encivestr."] Ngarungadurung stands and casts about. [Language unknown:  "Miomwh er ant sheresoun menestrea areve asho?"] He paces a circle around the little camp and scents the air.

[Language unknown: Na naear ic...] Murphy murmurs, then rolls his head that way and seems confused. [Language unknown: ll...?]


Brigitte tries to copy Ngarungadurung's hand washing, but has no instinct for the sandiest soil - on finding she's mostly sticking grains of clayish stuff and mulch to herself she frowns and tries a little water on the remains of the shift used for bandages. It gets the worst off, but much is still caught in the tricky places of her hands and smeared thinly across the skin.

Murphy breathes, occasionally twitching his bandaged leg to shake flies off it. The cicadas chant constantly, as though there were no humans but these few ever alive in this place to make a sound besides their own.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:59, Sun 22 Nov 2020.

"Great" was all Brigitte managed to say as she looked at her hands and then she just left it. She finds a stick with some leaves to try and keep the flies off Murphy.
Other then that she got the feeling her skills were not suited to this environment....


-

Jack shifts direction with his hat, fanning the flies from Murphy's wound with considerable gusto.

"Countess, where'd y'leave Wilkins then? Ye figger he'll be along presently? We may need help gettin' Murphy on a horse. 'Tis sure we can't carry him any distance."

In reply to Jack Duggan (msg # 70):

"To be honest with you Jack I am not sure. We all seemed to head off in different directions to fight the speared man and I stayed close to the sergeant. When did you last see him ?"


-

"I've ridden with worse and not even a familiar horse," Murphy puts in, hoarse but still very much alive, though that didn't stop things talking around here. "-just get me upright. An' pass the water t'me here, if y'tink I'm half dead it's thirst that's killing me."

Once he's taken a measured if shaky pull of water, he adds: "I'm surprised we've not heard him myself, but could be he wanted t'move away from that mantrap wit' the shirt, finding a trail or keen t'leave the others at camp. 'Twould be a foolishness, though, an' he was resisting the likes o' that. Them under the ground are surely paying us attention - we're gettin lost lower than Calder's lot, too. They're in an agitation for some reason-" he takes a swig of water. "All right, help me up."

The tracker makes well sure the fire is out before returning the red man's knife to him.

[Language unknown: "La se wilorevenain hangta? Etheni e ngmeof ultosi. Anriit Bowenfellah an ng comticble ch ureoveardoun."]

He lifts a finger to indicate a ridgeline somewhere uphill from the party.

In reply to Brigitte d'Anjou (msg # 71):

"When I rode away from ye, before I got lost.

"Oh! And Murphy, Bowen jumped me an' stole Brass, th' bugger. Savin' yer presence, Milady." He's a bit embarrassed by his rough language.


"Here, Murph, lean on me an' we'll get ye back astride yer mount."

Murphy nods thanks for the knife and slides an arm across Jack's shoulders, using the younger man as a more trustworthy leg on that side as his own limb trembles with the pressure of his weight on recent trauma. The bandages hold, however, no creeping red showing through from underneath as Murphy hisses through his teeth.

"Ah, poor horse," he says to Jack when his breathing's evened out, "-but it's a wonder he didn't kill you when he had the chance there...did he say anytin?"

"Hang it, it must've been him rode past us whilst we were puttin down that speared devil, we didn't know..." he shudders once, hard. [Language unknown: "Weic thulo olsaet...teceouri? Ngerin re?"] he tries to Ngarungadurung, looking apologetic for his broken Darug.

[Language unknown: "Loint om iehiiv, tedck rutateard hasdi, hi St omiepe whmeai n con ckmi horse nd p, he hisna k his Dugganfella. I nc ndul os o paivma be,"] he manages. "Jack, if y'could call out for the sergeant once I'm up that'd help us."

He looks to Brigitte as he passes on the tracker's information, since she'll be included in making any decisions. "Our fellow says he smells dead people away up yonder, reckons them t'be Bowen's...'collection'," he informs her. Flies crawl over him, crawl over them, mostly sit and sip at blood. "If we are that close we could get up there and wait for him at his camp, providin' we don't get lost or meet t'rock-layer that isn't a dream. Isn't in the Dream, I mean."

Murphy sighs hot air and pain. "There's little of this seems quite real. Bí éasca, Aoine..." he murmurs to his horse, mounting up wrong-sided with a rising shove against Jack's shoulder that makes him glad it's not the bruised side.

"Was the man taken to fright that he had to leave by any means ?" Brigitte helped as best as she could when the time came to move. She then mounted her horse and prepared to move off.


-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:44, Thu 26 Nov 2020.

Jack grunts at Murphy's weight.

"God is me witness, seein' him was like lookin' at me own corpse. He reeked o' death indeed. Knocked me off Brass, he did, an stabbed th' poor beast's withers an' they was gone.

"'I need t'find her at th' minute,' he shouts, 'I'll come back fer ya!' An' away he went through th' bush. Don't know who he meant. I was that worried it was you, Milady."

"No Jack, not me. Perhaps he saw someone else.... it was all so confusing. So what next, do we return home and hope those missing make their way back or camp for a day and hope they find us ?"



-

Murphy gracefully ignores Madame la Contesse's momentary inclination to bolt at the last, looking pensive. "...Miss Towler's still alive," he surmises.

"He's kept her alive and now she's seen her chance and made a break into th' bush...she'll die if no-one finds her. She'll die if Bowen finds her, sure, but I never got th'impression he'd keep her for...for a wife," he says, trying to soften the horror of what some bushrangers stole black girls or farm maids for to save Brigitte's courage. "After this long I'd say there's sometin specific he wants her for."

"Th' choice is," he says, pointing onward so that Ngarungadurung can tell what kind of discussion is underway, "-d'we gamble on Miss Towler's life that she'll be caught up by Bowen horsed and dragged back t'his camp where we can set a sure an' certain ambushcade f' himself, or," he points across, off left, what might be west-southwest, "-d'we try and track him direct an' hope t'God we don't get mazed so much as t'be lost forever an' picked off like Calder's men?"

The pulse of the cicadas' seething song comes in clear when he's finished speaking. The slight and constant variation of the background roar sounds almost as though a great crowd were counting something with uncontainable excitement: aristocrats brought up to the guillotine, lashes across a convict's back, moths being picked and stripped and smashed for the festival, or just counting down to some vast thing that would take so many observers simply to see, a happening so huge one human mind could not compass it.

"We'll try t'raise sign of others, either way," Murphy says. "They surely can't be so far yet."

The aboriginal glances briefly upwards to the mounted man, [Language unknown: "Haain rearomati o lomawa lian conhatate. N est entureati th yinrat'thuartwas ckive a Bowenfellah di nider pe."]

Ngarungadurng turns and seemingly asks a question of the bush itself. [Language unknown: "E houll tic eticnd ckmen vorure-ovenceion ofnopl al?"]

Jack gives his head a thorough scratching before replacing his hat. In truth, going home has a certain appeal now. But Murphy doesn't seem to see it that way and if he were to light out--lost and unhorsed into the bargain--he's certain Wilkins would take it as flight and proof of guilt and hang him. He sighs.

Taking her horse's bridle, he kneels. "C'n I be givin' ye a leg up, Milady?"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:35, Mon 30 Nov 2020.

Murphy frowns, swiping remnant sweat from his brow and looking about. [Language unknown: "Ort atetek? El moiosi misa."]

Giselle makes an uncertain rumbling at Jack's blood-smeared hands near her face and drops her head to shake away flies as soon as he lets go. The cicadas sing of passing yet eternal time and the last of the smoke-smell blows away.

Ngarungadurung scents the air again, and again seems to address the forest.

[Language unknown: "An ekat somng m aiss oshi sa, nc ivene olnc. Rilar lat eve saour. Urpro thtesi stwi whiourvir lewe rongadee paho p, heti menectugh."]

Murphy's frown doesn't ease any at that. "Jack, d'you know who he's talking to there?" he asks, as though the answer might be obvious to only him.

"He says Bowen's left more traps but they're marked somehow," Murphy adds to Brigitte. "Talkin to a ghost best I can figure...I did think I saw sometin whilst I was half-fainted but I haven't the Sight myself."

A shadow of uncertainty passes across his face but he seems to reason that if he was actually out long enough to dream someone would've told him about it.

In reply to Jack Duggan (msg # 81):

"No, no I am fine." Once up she asked "Do you think this speared man had a lair of sorts ? Any captives may still be there regardless as to who is holding them ?"



-

"I...don't think that speared devil took captives, not the way he came at us," Murphy responds, pensive. "If there's another 'her' Bowen was away after it's my thought he took her himself, and," he swallows hard on tension in his throat, dry from heat and loss of blood. "-and I truly hope he's been up here all that time, and that's as long a stretch as we've experienced.

He shifts a little with discomfort, causing his horse to take an uncertain step and turn an ear back, uncertain of what he wants from her. "I don't really believe Bowen's dead - you said Cadlow would run through what was in his way, and Calder couldn't touch the witch-ghosts, not this side o' dreaming. The Speared Man was speared; he had some part of here in his body and when that was out he went t'mush. His skin was unnatural hot, too, like hot metal - did Bowen give that kind o' heat, Jack?"

Ngarungadurung notes that the riding-beasts' smell is less sharp and unpleasant than that of the foreigners in general and he can only smell it from those nearby, suggesting at least that the other riding-beasts are downwind. He hasn't caught the thick stink of woollymen again. Flies land on him, as on all of them, and the bush yells with a thousand insects in all directions, blurring any sense but down and up.

Ngarunadurung advances a little way into the bush, using a spear tip to prod and sweep the bush ahead of him like a blindman with his cane.


Picking out some semblance of a trail he turns to face the group and waits.

"Sure, I sensed no heat from him, though I wasn't in contact with him but fer a moment. I don't think he was a ghost, though he looked unhealthy, like a plague victim, aye?"

Jack wipes his hands on his trousers and breathes deeply, preparing to try to keep up with the two horses.

The blood is already dried to the consistency of tar, loath to leave his hands and leaving scuff marks on his trousers. The back of his neck feels exposed.

"You go directly after him and help milady's horse," Murphy gestures Jack on. "I'll take the rear in case o' woollymen. Not sure what he's at but we'll trust him awhile on that - he might easy have cut me thigh-vein an' bled me out dead if he were minded to harm us."

Ngarungadurung leads on. Those that follow get a sense both of enclosure and of precipice where they go directly in his wake. It's harder for the horses, sometimes necessitating a tiny detour that leaves Brigitte or Murphy some seconds out of view and alone with the bush, instincts afire with the notion they should be plummeting, or crushed.

Giselle gets harder to negotiate with in these moments, eyes and nostrils wide, her motions sharp, and Brigitte is reminded that for all humanity's supposed mastery of the horse she is still sitting perched on a beast larger and stronger than herself. The presence of the dust-coloured horse behind them is half-comfort, half awareness of how the crash and crackle of mounted movement hides any such strong sounds that might come behind. The cicadas stop up all gaps of sound.

By the time Ngarungadurung stops before a thick ironbark, the whitefellas are half-sure they have made a broad loop to be scarce further than where they were. Murphy looks troubled and uncertain in the diffused and shifting light, aware of the westering sun yet unable to be confident in pointing to it. The urgency of deciding to locate the others, wait in Bowen's camp for the murderer to return or camp where they stood presses yet closer. Ngarungadurung stares at the tree.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:34, Mon 30 Nov 2020.

Ngarungadurung takes a deep breath and holds it, staring at the tree for a moment more. Then he exhales, lifts his left hand and stretches it carefully towards the tree's surface.

Jack steps up with murmurs of comfort for Giselle, his hand lightly gripping the cheek-piece of her bridle. He maintains that posture as best he can through the narrow way. He is attentive to her propensity to nip when upset, but keeps close as he can to avoid feeling that she might shoulder him over an invisible drop.

At a halt, he shakes out Peggy's scarf and ties it around his neck again, seeking in vain for any sniff of her scent, but there's only blood and red earth.

When the tracker stops and gestures at the tree, Jack takes the opportunity to let his cramping arm dangle while he watches every move the blackfella makes.

The cicadas surround them in the hot spaces, chanting. Jack has become popular with those flies that followed them and Brigitte can see him wearing them in dark and sickly-glittering constellations across his back when they pause; Jack feels them probe about his neck for some wound, edge and settle and fly, restless. Occasionally there comes the close burr of one near his ear or an impassioned buzzing as two fight or fuck and fall away to bother the horse. Giselle gives a heavy huff. Murphy edges up to join them.

Ngarungadurung stands and reaches, and his arm vanishes almost to the elbow in the tree.
Skin, bone, smeared paint and the living blood of the limb vanish without disruption into a surface that looks equally solid. He stands, apparently unhurt. Then the shift of his muscles in the visible part of his arm suggests he has found something else within...

[[That's a SAN check, observers.
Ngarungadurung, you're down a Magic point, though hopefully that'll never really be a concern.]]

Brigitte had been busy with the flies that crowded around the group when she hazards a look over towards the native. She stands a gape and then comforts herself that it is some trick of the light here under the trees as she continues to watch intrigued as to what the man has found ?


Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 34 using 1d100.  SAN = 59%.



-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:41, Tue 01 Dec 2020.

"Gawd..." breathes Jack, "That can't..." His mouth gapes open until a fly buzzes in and he chokes and spits.

Jack Duggan rolled 58 for SAN check 36.

Murphy gestures flat-handed for quiet, trying not to look at the proof that either the tree or the Aboriginal man wasn't real, or physicality had become as uncertain as Time. "Let him concentrate," he murmurs, though he keeps half his attention on Jack to be sure he doesn't choke.

Once hacked up and spat out, the sodden fly struggles dumbly on Jack's palm, not understanding what has come to it. A couple of its fellows land on his wrist and thumb. The cicadas screech.


[[Jack understands that the fly is regretting its life choices, though that's probably unrelated to the loss of 1 SAN point.]]

Sweat beads Ngarungadurung's brow as he withdraws his arm with equal care, slowly, along the same line of transit. He watches it rematerialize, inch by inch, until his hand emerges, grasping... something. He looks down at the object in his palm.

It's a collection of sticks, carefully tied together into a shape not quite a pyramid nor a tree. Some of the cordage swinging loose below it is weighted by a large square bone - no, tooth - he doesn't recognise wrapped in a stained strip of cloth, its form flatter and more massive than a kangaroo's.

Looking up, he sees what the rest have already noticed - the tree has changed without transition and is as instinct says it always was, a fork that Ngarungadurung just reached into filled with the crazed precision of a stick-cradle for the marker he has just removed. The bark around this structure is marked with dark smearings:

                                   

Above these marks (and a few others the Europeans cannot parse, that bring an ache in the temples to stare at overlong) is a focusing of witchcraft so simple it is almost comical: a simple eye sketched in blood and slashed through. This shall not be seen. A crude device, yet linked to enough raw mind-affecting power to be effective.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:12, Wed 02 Dec 2020.

Amazed, Jack stops just short of applauding as he would a conjuror's trick at the fair.

"How can a feller 'ascend beneath'? Or have I got me words twisted-like?"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:07, Sat 05 Dec 2020.

"Seems Bowen was goin on about angels n' "stars beneath the earth" from what I heard was written where he was witchin'," Murphy says, unable to stop staring now though he winces at a slight shifting of his mount. "Sounds like he's lost all sense of up or down...or holy."

"Then what is to be done to find this man and any of his potential victims ?" Brigitte was getting uneasy at the time they had stayed in one place and was eager to move off.


-

Ngarungadurung turns the talisman over in his hand and examines it from all angles. [Language unknown: "E on ted et wil meus ceos. Com ni ven iouck poncsi u ec weyin istren ai."

"Redcoat eetema t ponti."

"Avewiteve moeelare osul nassof are, onsio whie ro, ieil earfi Bowenfella."] The tracker points in a direction running deeper into the bush.

Despite the recent flush of fever and exhertion Murphy goes almost white at the tracker's words, making the darker spots of his speckled skin stand out like lichened bark. He can clearly feel the change himself, for he rubs at the bridge of his nose and visibly tries to arrange his thoughts faster.

"He says we can use these markers against the mazing," he translates to the others. "-but he thinks Bowen's killed Wilkins an' the others've gone after - I can only think he's made off wit' the baby."

Murphy looks in the direction pointed, then back to Ngarungadurung, tense as a bowstring and ready to be off with a moment's direction.

"Aye, up there," Jack points the way, though he doesn't understand how he knows, "Bowen wants th' babe fer some awful purpose. I'm with ye, Garungdun."

Murphy frowns at Jack's uphill pointing, decidedly at an angle to Ngarungadurung's gesture, but seems to trust the instinct behind it, or at least that others are seeing more than he. He looks up there as though it'll show him anything, the cicadas' chant scraping urgent seconds into the past. "...a'right, you two afoot go up there and set ambush in case I can't catch him headin' straight after. Madame, d'ye think y'can keep up wit' me if it's hard ridin?"

He looks to Ngarungadurung. [Language unknown: "Me is, ulany ri tioearers. K ad il Astbleund, nte ica setsheeve i ie, asons day ectol, e ce, of i Iv t rison anyearset. P thi loar hi ichen bleur i p italcabele, wiee Bowenfella me wawhi, m olie papro ineherble. Neme ntishe hi? P any?" ]he asks.

Ngarungadurung hands the small bundle of twigs up to the wounded rider. [Language unknown: "Io hatese ad moofou ngispr outourwas a. Era ectfi st lar ll ant thaforwhe strhastraave. Rutai conar tacklo admo."]

"Just a minute please, what if the note is about us, that he expected us to come. It was written sometime ago perhaps he is expecting us .... He seems to be delaying us for a reason as if he needs us at a specific time and place.... It's the same thing with keeping hostages, why would he do that considering the trouble it would cause ?"



-

The furrow between Murphy's brows becomes more pronounced. "Then we'd better catch him b'fore he gets us there - or if he gets us there, make sure he can do us no harm," he concludes as best he can, freckled fingers curling around the offered sticks almost absently.

"If that's what it is then we're in the trap now an' we'll not get out by tryin t'retreat," he adds, swallowing on dehydration and another wince, or perhaps a shudder for what he holds, horse tooth and all. "Are you t'go wit' me, or up there for if I'm not fast an' tracker enough?"

He nods to Ngarungadurung. [Language unknown: "Lo untic, ro eau,"] he says, though he seems deeply troubled.

"Sure, I'll go with Garungdun, as best I'm able. God bless th' both o' ye an' keep ye safe. Am' us too, aye."

He gives Murphy a half-salute and Brigitte a bow of his head. Turning to the tracker, he smiles and nods to show willing.

In reply to Charles Murphy (msg # 104):

"I can keep up with you well enough, lead on>" She follows Murphy, but giving his horse enough space should something happen.



-

Murphy nods in response and leads off, even Giselle's pale haunches vanishing into dense and undistinguished foliage moments after. The leaves sway back to their normal pattern and the cicadas screech to each other in the vacated space as though they never were.