It was growing increasingly hard to promote something that he barely had a grip on himself. Banjo knew it was a club of sorts that he’d come to be part of - at least one in the woodworks, the making, it was barely skin and bone at the moment. This whole project however seemed to be his near mate’s pride and joy however, and who he to rain on Ashamin’s parade.

The day was warm, bright and more or less everything one might expect of the the middle of spring. All throughout the threshold the clashing chorus of different birds lifted merrily, oblivious entirely to the headache they contributed to; the incessant pounding of blood in his ears and the brutal stab of pain overtime his head veered this way or that. Even the ever-present stink every Tom, Dick and Harry around him was wearing his thick coat of patience quite thin.

“Bloody nora…” he sighed flatly, glancing between boughs overhead to try and spot those invisible pests as they went about their business in blissful ignorance. It was time to leave the forest and all of the pandemonium behind - at least for one day or two, like a weekend. Banjo thought of Brisa and the beach with its cold salty air and soft, slippery sand, but he remembered also the crashing waves and imagined that would only serve to aggravate his situation.

He began a slow trek west, humping between trees at a snail’s pace as the thought of anything faster (more active) made his stomach turn. No, he wasn’t in a hurry… he just needed a moment free from the overly sensory world which was mostly his home.

A mild wind blew up from the south and it helped a lot to disperse the musty, thick scent he felt so opposed to that day. The further he moved from the confines of his forest, the weaker it became and the better his head felt - the softer the nonsensical garble of the wild seemed to be. It was win-win, and the smile which was usually permanently etched into his features began to return.

Within a few hours (it might have been a hop skip and a jump should he have felt so inclined), Banjo found himself following the foot of a long mountain range - perhaps still more of the one he had descended originally to get into Helovia. He was pleased for the shade it still offered, the sun lurked like a mean-faced jack-in-the-box, just waiting for that perfect moment to leap up and stun the piss out of him. Though the buck rather loved his big red friend ordinarily, he felt hermitish today, and clung to the shade like a fly on poo.

He came eventually upon the path that carved upwards through the steep, rock face and turned onto it curiously, distracted, intrigued to find out just exactly where it lead. According to him (who loved the outback most and then the rugged dry bush scrub), no one in their right mind would actually want to spend time on a mountain top - buffeted by wind, choking on thin air and freezing their balls off; but there it was, a track worn down by more than just the light tread of busy wombats.