The armour had weighed heavily on Joe's mind, the clouded uncertainty it brought made him feel uneasy. “This bloody armour” Joe had warned, “it'll bring us nothing but grief and nuisance.” Ned's armour had been the forerunner for the other three suits, and the long days of bone jarring work that followed, had left Joe deep with bitterness and aching limbs. He had sworn that if he was going to be made, make, and wear, this “God forsaken thing”, then it'd be undertaken properly. For this, Joe had entrusted blacksmith Tom Straughair, who was a close friend of both he and Patsy, to construct his suit and had guided Tom, meticulously, on its design. After watching Dan struggle into the saddle while wearing his apron plate, Joe had instructed Tom to shape his so it slanted slightly. However, this chiselled slant did nothing to aid in his mounting, and instead, Music had become flighty at the resounding scrape of iron, as the armoured weight constricted his movement into the saddle. To counter this, Joe had Tom place two bolts, where a leather cord could be wound around the bolts, and, through the slits in the apron, for easier detachment. The helmet had also been an issue, as it cut, uncomfortably, into his shoulders. In angry haste, Joe had removed it, and flared the bottom of it with a hammer, so it would rest softer on his shoulders. For Ned's suit, shin plates had been constructed, but given their weight, they kept sliding down his legs. This left both Joe and Dan smirking, “Ned ain’t as clever as he thinks” Dan had whispered....

The dull rattle of chains catch on the spring breeze, as the hobbled horses pick at what grass they can find amongst the formation of rock that lines the ridge. Joe rests his back against the trunk of a gumtree, sucking on his pipe. He lets the sweet tobacco fill his mouth, before exhaling, his eyes following the curls of smoke as they drift upwards. Joe looks over to Dan and Steve, who doze next to him, their heads resting on rolled up oilskins, catching what sleep they can.