As dawn broke, the sleeping buck was stirred to wake by the unusually slow, loud croon of a bird (who he might have expected to be three times the size). Before even the thick mesh of pale lashes peeled away from his eyes, the mindlessly groggy objection had slipped past his lips; where was that rousing chorus, jovial and bright, that usually greeted this moment? “Argh, that’s woeful… mate. Who died?” Only the so waver of his enormous roo ears signified his return from the dreamworld, though as the sound of the avian dulled, wingbeats vanishing into the forest somewhere, he began to doze again and picture times of old; he and Tilda, on one of their myriad adventures through the sprawling outback, rare rain heaving down from the sky upon them.

When next he woke, that tiny feathery pest had returned - and with a vengeance it seemed. It fluttered about in the misty rain (that which the sleeping creature was still entirely unaware of), fanning quills and chirping  about like the incessant buzz of flies landing and lifting, landing and lifting. In his semi-conscious state Banjo twitched, bothered but barely present all the same. “Bugger off will ya?” he murmured, reaching with a long arm to claw down the rim of his old brown hat across his eyes. But the bird didn’t. It screamed like a stuck pig… well, a little prettier, and it echoed through the still forest for moments after.

“Crikey!?”. Eyes were open, though bleary, struggling to fit the call to the twitterer nearby, “What, did ya down a dingo for brekky or something? Watch out or I’m next ay?” Muscular limbs extended out as far as their length could allow and through gritted teeth the buck groaned delightedly. There was nothing quite as awesome as that first stretch in the morning! The chill hit his sodden skin like a face full of echidna spines though, and Banjo instantly recoiled into a clumsy looking ball, glancing with cautious eyes at last into the misty, dreary world surrounding.

“Gunna be one’v those days is it…”

The bird peered down briefly at the mass of wet brown fur, but as Banjo began at last to rise, flew quickly away into the treetops. “Hooroo then,” he sighed after it, regarding a sudden tremor in his stomach with a swerving ear. It was time to eat and he’d had only very little tea the evening before - he just couldn’t bring himself to gorge on the tart grass threaded throughout this smelly forest. So with green eyes renewed, the horsaroo began his slow, ambling search for something more appetising.

No sound alerted him to the peculiar group gathering in the clearing nearby, nor did any scent evade the haze of moisture in the air and find his nosrils. Banjo was upon them before he even he realised company was so close, and smiled broadly in place of the lurking face of astonishment. Everyone seemed creepily quiet, eyes  trained upon one another (or the fella with branches on his head), and though the chestnut too was intrigued, he was not at all the subtle sort. “G’day mateys!” he chimed gently - was early still after all. A queer looking little crew they were for sure!