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: "Ourho fiint Forortain?".] 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: "Urestanti ateainday si ilstla laeau poce pr str. Sta ntemaname be pr?" ] Ngarungadurung smiles, [Language unknown: "Ous itngsi Arestaany acpr ecyin hame itles ro asinus ntimanore e,"] and holds a fist to his heart. [Language unknown: "Ometi es here ovesheles seeve diwaei anast ol houoreman?"]

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: "Rehat elou red th pl ro i arofwail o unnte. Fincne p ant As allectart meur... wil iosi ch und un trin'anbeta?"]