2021-10-26 - Perdita Hood and the Sad Knight

Graywood Forest. Home to a merry band out of outlaws who have inspired many a tale to spread from inn to market square to feast day across the land. Ye Olde England may be a lawless place in the absence of good Queen Ricarda; the iron fist of her younger sister, Princess Jane, rules the land, and life is hard for peasant and burgher alike. And yet, out there in the free, green forest, where only the queen's deer have any business, you find the outlaws: The Merry Women of Graywood Forest, lead by the diminutive but spirited Perdita Hood.

Perdita Hood hasn't entirely gotten this memo. For one, she goes around most of her time thinking her name is Perdita Leontes, and that she lives in 21st century USA. When something --

-- someone? --

-- tossed her into this setup last time, she found herself scaling a tower to rescue Maid Ravn, as played by an equally baffled folklorist. The man has good legs for a dress, granted, but the couple still managed to make a narrow escape, talking their way past the Sheriff of Harborham -- a seven feet woman with a crew cut, resembling a genderswapped Rutger Hauer right out of Ladyhawke, all the way down to the impressive black horse. They eloped together, to live happily ever after, and neither are likely all that unhappy that this happy ending apparently took place off camera because really, that's a thing to have to explain to your partner.

And that's that, right?

It's never just that. After all, everyone knows there are two reasons for Dreams: To harvest the despair and misery of the living, or to harvest their power. Neither player emerged broken in spirit, and neither had to use their shine to escape, either.

Time to up the odds. Maybe add a few more contestants to the show.

Now picture a group of people in Lincoln green, perched on the branches of tall trees along a forest path. A traveller -- more travellers -- somebody will turn up inevitably. And as so often before, they will be given an offer they cannot refuse: To dine with the Merry Women of Graywood in the green, only they'll be expected to pay for their fare -- with the contents of their purses and saddle bags. On a lucky day, a fat abbot or a wealthy merchant might come by. On a less fortunate such, just a couple of peasants trying to poach a deer to survive (they, on the other hand, eat free).

Soon, a hunting horn will sound the signal; prey is on the path below, and it is time to call out the stand and deliver. Until then, nothing to do but wait.

Which is exactly what Maid Ravn finds himself doing as he blinks and realises he's no longer sitting on a dining chair on Oak Street. He looks around himself, and at the figures in green surrounding him. He blinks again. He looks at his legs. He looks at Perdita. And then,

"How the fuck did I get up into a tree in a corset gown?"

"I think a better question is why haven't you been wearing them all your life?" Perdita asks, tilting her head to one side and smirking. "Climbing a tree in a corset isn't that hard, if you remember to breathe with your chest, and not your abdomen. The gown part is slightly more difficult, what with snagging branches at all, but... I'm sure you'll sort out how to get down, somehow. I'm more curious about how the pointy hat and veil stayed on, it's not like you have a lot of hair to braid and pin into..."

She shrugs slightly, clearly enjoying Ravn's discomfort just a liiittle too much. "Try doing all of that AND fending off grabby old men all night who just happen to be nobility." she sits along one of the branches near Ravn, long legs, clad in green tights and brown boots, dangling casually as if she weren't a good twenty or more feet in the air.

"The better question, my dear Maid Ravn, is how you intend to get down."

Lounging - at least till she realizes this isn't just another nighttime - on a nearby branch is Isi Scarlet, looking younger than her twenty seven years. Mostly because her face has the markings of some serious adolescent pimples. (Apparently climbing trees and sitting by fires doesn't do wonders for one's complexion.)

She's got one foot hooked securely between two branches which hunts at her personal experience with being in trees. Blinking at the sound of voices she glances over... "Fuck Ravn, I didn't know you..." excuse her, "fuck. This is a dream isn't it?"

Last time Fern checked, she was doing some last minute crafts for the upcoming HOPE Halloween Party. She'd been throwing herself into more hands on things to resist those stronger temptations to drink. Had she dozed off? Or just blinked? Whatever had happened, she was pretty sure she wasn't near any trees and now she was in one! Fern looked downward. She was in a pair of green tights and a green shirt. Peter Pan?

A look towards the people she found herself with - one of whom she definitely knew, the other two she only vaguely recognized. Maid Ravn? "...Do I even want to know what's going on right now?" Fern (as Little Jane!) sounds perplexed more than anything. Did her accent turn a little....English or something? Though reaffirmed that she wasn't Peter Pan! "Where are we?"

Maid Ravn rests his forehead against the tree trunk. He's going to learn the first name of this tree just so he can claim to be on a first name kind of relationship with it. This is a good tree. It's the tree that's between him and a very steep fall. Ravn isn't great with heights. "Usually I am the nobility," he murmurs at Perdita. Because of course Perdita is laughing at him. She would be; like him, she has a fair idea of what's going on. He manages to dig his fingernails out of the bark long enough to turn a little on his branch and look at Isi and Fern alike.

He manages to not laugh at Isi's appearance -- at least a decade younger and oh so very obvious which part she's playing, all the way to her bright scarlet doublet. "Isi Scarlet, I presume?" And then there's Fern -- Little Fern. The folklorist holds on to his best friend slash tree and tries very hard to not laugh (or scream).

"I think we're back in Graywood Forest," the Dane suggests and plucks the pointy hat and veil from his own head. "Last time it was like Robin Hood but with a bad Hollywood set designer. Perdita Hood saved Maid Ravn from the evil Sheriff of Harborham, and they -- lived happily ever after or something. I guess we're doing that part now? Seriously, who the hell came up with the idea that I'd be up in a tree with the rest of the Merry Women, in a dress? I demand tights!"

A new feminist has seen the light of day. In a world where women are in charge and men are meek damsels to be rescued. Which technically makes him a masculinist, Ravn supposes. Technically.

A hunting horn sounds in the distance. Somebody's coming down the path. Somebody worth robbing.

"I'm afraid it is, Isi. Doesn't he have nice legs?" she asks, gesturing toward them, Vanna White style. While Ravn seems terrified of the heights, Dita... doesn't. If anything, she seems perfectly at home in the branches of this tree, utterly unworried about falling. Of course, she should have the mental abilities to grab herself by her own belt, should she start falling in an uncontrolled manner.

"... Fern, right?" She sounds a little hesitant at the other woman's name. The woman in fancy green garb waves to the other woman, smiling.

"Yes, but you are neither grabby, nor are you that old." Dita murmurs, tilting her head just so. She's less than a decade older than Ravn, so she's got to be messing with him for her own catlike amusement. "Also, do you really want tights in an era where dancers belts haven't been invented? Aaaand trust me, they haven't been invented." She gives Ravn a significant look, one eyebrow raised from behind her heavy bangs...

And then the horn sounds, and Dita... looks vaguely confused. "Is this... where we swing down and rob them?"

"Robin Hood? Okay, I think I can deal with that." Fern decided and nodded to Perdita. "Right you are, the one and only." She offers an apologetic smile. "Though I do apologize that I can't quite remember yours. "

She peeks over to Ravn, smirking just a bit. "You wear the dress so well though, love." Fern blinked a little again, yeah - no - definitely a bit English. W-E-I-R-D. Then again, so was everything about their current situation! She looks towards Isa, "I don't think I've met you before, Fern - nice to meet you." But before she can offer much more than that, she hears the horns too.

When Perdita asks if this is the moment, Fern shrugged. "It might be? I'm afraid I don't know too much about robbing people, but it seems like the right moment?"

"I think there was a meeting at the HOPE-" Isi begins, then wrenches herself back into what is the only same thing to think right now, "How the fuck are you people so caustic about this shit?" Her voice takes on a light falsetto and breaks mid way through - the Dream does know that adolescent puberty sucks, right? Especially the opposite gender issues? " 'Hi, yes, I met you once in the real world let's be friends?!'"

The falsetto falls away as Isi looks between them. "This is one of the old English tales, right? I feel like I remember some movie where the, " she nods at Dita, poetically referring to Robin Hood, "had a shadow member every one really enjoyed." Men in tights, yes.

The pair of Maid and Hood are talking though and she eyes them. ".... we are robbing people? But how about no?" Anyone down for that option?

"I really do want tights," Ravn confirms, daring a glance down -- bad idea. "Dancer's belts or no, I really want to not break my legs. Have you see these shoes?"

Seven inch heel curly toe stiletto shoes, and bright emerald green to boot. They match his emerald green gown, and that's just about the only nice thing one could possibly say about them. Anything like them has definitely never existed in actual medieval England.

Ravn glances at Isi and then looks down again. "I'm kind of up for just staying right here if it means I don't have to try to climb down. There's just the narrative issue -- the only way is through, and all that jazz? Fortunately I'm just a helpless damsel with no agency or brain to call my own, so I'll let you strapping gentlemen decide between yourselves how we're going to handle this one." He pauses and then adds, for good measure, "Tee hee."

How long has Perdita Hood and her Merry Women turned the paths of Graywood Forest unsafe for travellers? The jury is out, depending on which version of the original story one goes by. Regardless of which version, though, it's long enough that whoever is travelling past ought to recognise the significance of that single note blown on a hunter's horn. Long enough that they ought to do the sensible thing and turn right back around, to ride around the woods rather than through.

The clippety-cloppety of hooves implies that whoever the rider is, they're not that genre savvy.

It's a single rider approaching -- and on a horse too big and burly to be a regular destrier (yes, Ravn, we recognise that you're probably the only person in the room (tree) to know -- or more significantly, care -- what a destrier is). A steed built for battle -- and its rider seems to carry both sword and lance. A knight, then, but not proud with her long hair down her back and her jaw steeled to brave the future. No, this one looks -- tired. An older woman, some forty years or so of age, with patched tunic sleeves over her not too well maintained chain mail, and an air of indifference.

The kind of air that says, yes, I heard the horn too, I just don't give a fornication under commission of the king.

"It was months ago, don't worry about it." Perdita flashes a cheeky smile at Fern and Isi. "As Perdita Hood, it's entirely in keeping with my role to remark... It's always the right moment to rob people." Glancing over at Ravn, she wraps one slim arm around the man's waist, the other reaching up and grabbing a cleverly concealed rope.

"We're swashbuckling, so we may as well do it right, right?" She kisses Ravn on the cheek for luck, makes sure her arm is firmly gripping him, and suddenly she's pulling them BOTH off the branch to swing down, and as she does, her clear voice rings out over the woods.

"ADVENTURE!!!"

There is a littany of words rolling from under Isi's breath. They seem to be a cascade of 'fuck' 'insane' and 'got to be kidding me' in random order. However, she does grab onto the branch under her and swing out so she can clamber down into the ground. Once she hits the ground she settles herself firmly before glancing towards Ravn and Perdita. To no one in particular, "I'm thinking he looks better in colors and heels. Someone needs to get him a new outfit in real life anyway."

Isi lands not far from the tired talks-of-fornication woman's horse and blinks at her. "Ah, hi? I think we're suppose to rob you."

"Well, I certainly can't speak for the other two, " Fern offers to Isi, "But when you've lived here as long as I have it's just a fact of life that this happens. But I will say this is certainly a first for me." It might even be a little entertaining. She watches Perdita and Ravn go, then Isi. Well it looks like fun! She tried to follow their movements - grab on to a branch anddd SWING!

Except the swing doesn't quite happen right and she yelps in surprise instead, falling to the ground and just lays there for a second, dazed. A brief touch of panic running through her as she does a mental check to make sure all her bones and such were in working order. It wasn't that far of a height but she was still prone to things possibly breaking! She doesn't feel anything though so quickly tries to scramble to her feet.

She clears her throat and dusts off her outfit as she tries to focus on their target. Fern is definitely reddened but tries to play it off like nothing happened! "Yes. Robbing you. That is our mission!"

It's not that Perdita kissed Ravn's cheek. While his neuropathy didn't see that coming, granted, it's the arm around his waist he didn't see coming at all -- and consequently, the man's neuropathy is about to have a field day. Perdita lands on her elegantly deerskin booted feet; Ravn continues downwards in a fashion not unlike a bag of wet cement, collapsing on those impossible shoe contraptions (to be fair, most people would) until he's face down in the grass, groaning. At the time he gets there, his nervous system has run him through an entire series of options -- vices, flames, acid burns, ghost hands, snakes under his skin, the full experience.

Give him a moment, to pick himself up and stop planning Perdita's murder.

The knight halts her charger as it suddenly rains women (and one man). She lets go of the reins and the horse does what any other horse would do under similar circumstances -- it makes a long neck and starts grazing the edge of the path in a display of not very intimidating, docile behaviour. "What art thou, friend, who dost stop a traveler in this manner upon his most gracious Majesty's highway? Methinks thou wilt find me but an ill-seeming and sorrowful guest. Thou hadst best let me pass on my way in peace."

At least one script writer of this bizarre Hollywood fantasy has actually read their Howard Pyle.

"... oh my god, I am a moron..." Perdita gasps as Ravn continues down, down. She struggles to keep him upright, but... well, she's 5'5 and strong, but Ravn is 6'3 and suddenly dead weight, so they both go down... but she manages to avoid either being crushed beneath him, or falling on top of him, neither of which seem like a good idea.

"I am so sorry, Ravn, I got wrapped up in the moment..." she, at least, recovers quickly. At least the grass is soft, and she's already wearing green. "Just tell me your corset didn't pop a bone and stab you through the lung, because I don't know first aid." she crouches next to him, hands hovering, clearly wanting to comfort the man but realizing that touch is the LAST thing he needs right now.

She then looks up to the knight, tilting her head slightly, expression irritated, "Perdita Hood and her band of Merry Women... and the Lord Ravn. You travel through woods under my protection. Where do you travel and to what ends?" great, now her accent is slanting toward British, though not quite there, just yet.

After Fern's recovered from her own tumble she would move to assist Ravn if he needed it, all the while trying seem Totally Normal to this person they're probably going to rob? "Are you okay, Ravn?" She asked softly, giving him his space of course once he had risen.

She does a quick peek over the person while they talk to see if there's anything worth robbing them off and glances down the road to see if maybe they were just one part of a bigger group. She is going to keep quiet for now while she does this scoping out, giving a firm nod in agreement towards Perdita's questioning of the rider. If she spots anything noteworthy? She'll give the silent signals that they definitely have.

"Wait - so we aren't going to rob her?" Isi backs up a step and scratches at her head, this being the moment she realizes her hair is the fucking WRONG COLOR.

Excuse her, she is going to have a small moment.

'The Lord Ravn' is busy having a moment too. One of those where a man finds himself fervently praying for the bliss of unconsciousness. After a moment he manages to raise one hand -- ungloved, because gloves are apparently not part of the Maid Marian statement -- and make a thumbs-up gesture in response to Fern's question. That he's fine is a blatant lie, but it might possibly mean that he will be in a bit.

The knight does appear to be all on her lonesome. Not even a page girl or a squire to lend a hand. She acknowledges Perdita's statement with a side glance to the figure in the grass -- after all, young lords in their fancy gowns, all but face planted in the turf are probably not a common sight anywhere. Then she shakes her head, deciding to not ask. These women are outlaws, who's really surprised that they don't know how to treat the fragile flower that is a nobleman?

From the looks of her, not much worth taking -- though chain mail and castle forged swords are always good to have. The knight's charger, peacefully stuffing its face on the dandelions of English summer, might be worth a bit too. "Truly, good Perdita," said the Knight, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, "thou hast a quaint conceit. As for the pair of eyes with which I regard thee, I would say that they are as favorable as may be, for I hear much good of thee and little ill. What is thy will of me? I know not why I should be ashamed, for it should be no shame to me; but, friend, I tell thee the truth, when I say that in my purse are ten shillings, and that that is every groat that Sir Richard of the Lea hath in all the wide world."

How does this story go again? The memory surfaces in the minds of every Merry Woman (and one currently face planted Lord) present quite simultaneously -- accompanied by a certain breeze of presence. Anyone who has dabbled at tabletop roleplaying games at some point will recognise the situation; while this happens live, to so speak, and not around a table -- the proverbial game master just slipped somebody a note and told them to pass it on around the table.

Perdita Hood invites her 'guests' for a feast in Graywood Forest's, uh, green. A gorgeous feast on poached deer and wine under a starlit sky (and apparently it never inconveniently rains, in spite of England being infamous for its bloody English rain). The kicker is, of course, that the guests are made to 'pay' for the feast -- first they are mocked as befits their station in life, then stripped and sent on their way wearing only their undergarments and bad tempers.

"I think I'm going to be all right," Ravn murmurs and finally gets himself hauled on his feet. He nods his appreciation at the hand offered by Fern but deigns to take it; possibly because his lady's costume does not come with gloves.

Isi gives a final disgusted look at her hair as she looks up to examine the woman before her. There is a slow blink before she stage whispers, "my degree is on statistical modeling. What the fuck is she even saying?"

The young woman everyone knows as Perdita pushes herself to her feet at last, and looks up at the Knight, her brow furrowing. Which... she shouldn't even be able to do. "Great, Botox hasn't been invented yet." she mutters to herself, dusting her legs and rump off.

It's ninth grade. English class. She sat across from Brantley Huntington-Moore, a senior, in the semi-circle of desks. He had these green eyes that... these arms that... Focus. English class... Reading Robin Hood. Why won't the Ballad of Tam Lin get out of her head, and why is she thinking about some utter d-bag who made her life hell, even if he was cute?

"I..." she pauses, reflecting, seeming to truly try and focus in on this, despite... lacking focus. Normally it's easy for her to get out of her head and slip into a role. She's been doing it for years. She made a LIVING doing it.

"Oh!" it's as if a light bulb... candle? lights up in Perdita's mind. She begins to speak, sounding confident, eloquent, mimicking the knight's accent without sounding mocking, her speech easy and flowing, "Now, I make my vow, Sir Knight, thou hast surely learned thy wisdom of good Gaffer Swanthold, for he sayeth... He sayeth..." For a moment, it seems as if she's going to fully embrace the role, and... stage fright. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out except for a strangled squeak, followed by a groan.

"Fuck. I knew I should have paid attention in English lit instead of drooling over that jerk." She sighs, defeated, "You look hungry. Are you hungry? We have food to share." She... does not sound convincing. She did for a second but that second passed a bit ago.

Fern was too busy in school abusing her Glimmer to get better at acrobatics to care much for Literature class. She confused Peter Pan with Robin Hood briefly at the start after all! She just gives a little silent shake of her head that there doesn't seem anything remarkable on the Knight as she listens to their conversation. A grin is cast towards Isi, speaking softly. "I missed Old English day in school I'm guessing. I'm about as lost as you are."

She gets the gist though, she thinks, and Perdita's plain English invite is helping! "We do have food! Plenty of food. You really should come join us. It will be a delight."

Quoth the Knight, "I have a son but twenty winters old, nevertheless he has won his spurs as knight. Last year, on a certain evil day, the jousts were held at Chester, and thither my son went, as did I and my lady wife. I wot it was a proud time for us, for he unhorsed each knight that he tilted against. At last he ran a course with a certain great knight, Sir Walter of Lancaster, yet, though my son was so youthful, he kept his seat, albeit both spears were shivered to the heft; but it happened that a splinter of my boy's lance ran through the visor of Sir Walter's helmet and pierced through his eye into his brain, so that he died ere his esquire could unlace his helm. Now, Robin, Sir Walter had great friends at court, therefore his kinsmen stirred up things against my son so that, to save him from prison, I had to pay a ransom of six hundred pounds in gold. All might have gone well even yet, only that, by ins and outs and crookedness of laws, I was shorn like a sheep that is clipped to the quick. So it came that I had to pawn my lands to the Priory of Emmet for more money, and a hard bargain they drove with me in my hour of need. Yet I would have thee understand I grieve so for my lands only because of my dear lady wife."

It's hard to not have this strange, niggling feeling that somewhere, somebody who is not so very old is remarkably proud of herself for not even messing the grammar up once. An achievement which in turn seems less impressive to anyone who's actually read this stuff and knows that whoever she is, she's blatantly copypasting.

Ravn raises his head from the grass to stare blankly at the knight. He pulls himself to his feet (and kicks off those seven inch, curly toe stiletto heels, die in a fire, seriously, stop happening to him). He's a university level lecturer; even he's not used to literal walls of text. He's already mentally grading this performance badly; blatant plagiarism.

He also doesn't want to be here for forty more pages. "Feast, right? Right? We can fast forward through explaining how King -- Queen Richard's Crusade is going? Richie? Ricky?"

Ricarda. Thank you, helpful invisible presence.

Isi squints hard at the Knight as she talks. HARD. A few words penetrate - enough that she answers, "I mean, it kind of sounds like your kid and you deserved it. He did murder someone - or manslaughter at least."

Isi leans towards Fern slightly, brushing too bright curls out of her face as she does so, "So we're going to feed her and not rob her blind because someone.... already has? Or are we helping her, cuz I have to say, I'm not so down with that."

Dark eyes focused on the Lady Knight who keeps misgendering herself, her husband (unless she's a lesbian. Lesbians in Robin Hood would be awesome...) AND, presumably her daughter... and... she actually understands this bit, or at least remembers enough from muddling through it in high school staring at Brantley.

"But where now is thy child?" she asks, tilting her head to one side and actually managing to look sympathetic, caring, and well intentioned.

"Please, brave knight. Let us continue the tale over a feast of fresh caught game, around a roaring fire, for my lord is... sick with the moon, and must soon rest." When all else fails, blame the weak, pretty lord in his ridiculous finery, right?

"I mean, it sounds like it was a very unfortunate accident that happened to her...son?" Fern murmured to Isi. "It sounds like she was already robbed? But, I'll be honest, I've no idea." She gives a touch of a grin. "I think the important bit is getting them back towards the feasting area to start."

Then, louder, for the group, she agrees with Perdita. "Yes, and don't you feel a slight chill coming in? It would be much better to talk around a fire with a full belly." Probably. It'd be ideal to be inside completely but somehow Fern doesn't believe this is an option.

Ravn not going to think about the anatomical challenges here. Just as he wasn't going to think about how the Sheriff of Harborham hoped he'd die in childbirth. Some things are best simply erased from conscious thought right away. Censored right the hell out. No, not thinking about it.

The Knight opens her mouth to launch into the next chapter of her story of woe and Ravn just... No. No, he's not going to stand here, balancing precariously on bare feet in a ridiculous dress. "I'm freezing," the Dane agrees with Fern instead, and tries his very best to look like the kind of 6'3 fragile flower that Perdita is painting him as; in his corseted gown it's easier than it sounds like -- he's struggling enough to breathe that he manages the slightly out-of-breath tone of a soft and sheltered lady without much effort.

Might have to ham it up a little to spare everyone an hour's worth of 19th century writer does Middle English. He squints at the Knight, and then declares, "I feel faint, oh my." Time to crumble up and attempt to fall into arms of the story's hero.

If only Perdita wasn't so short.

Is he... swooning? Into her arms? "Son of a-!!" that's all she manages to get out as Ravn falls, the petite grifter's instinctive reflexes snatching Ravn back from a very painful fall, staged or not, with a grunt of effort.

She manages to keep him aloft, though it looks like she might stumble for a moment. Still, shifting his weight about with a groan, Dita turns to the Knight, "As you can see..." another grunt as she strains to keep him upright, "he's wasting away to nothing. I'm afraid if we don't get him out of the cold soon, he'll be bedridden for weeks... uh... without a bed."

She lowers Ravn, as gently as she can, to the soft grasses, muttering to him as she does, "You're lucky I work out."

Fern feigns a gasp as Ravn swoons. "Please, Sir Knight, if you wish to continue on with your story you must come with us back to your camp." She would maneuver over towards Ravn and Perdita to 'help' if necessary with getting Ravn back to camp. Wherever that might be.

Isi was NOT expecting the damsel in distress play from Ravn so when he falls she gasps and steps forward a half pace to make sure he's okay.

Then she remembers this is Gray Harbor. This is a dream.

The gasp turns into a bark of laughter she attempts to cover by slapping a hand against her mouth. Less she undo the antics of Ravn taken to forestall more arcaic English from pouring forth she manages a garbled. "I'll go," pause to strangle laughter, "see it is all ready, k?"

Then a turn and a FIRM WALK AWAY. Is that smoke from cooking? She goes that way. The dream won't let her get lost, right?

Ravn manages what he hopes is a not too dramatic gasp; he's usually quite good at playing his part in a grift but the corset isn't doing him any favours -- it's like air wants to exit his chest much faster than normal. As a historian he knew that's where the whole fainting damsel in distress archetype originated -- with corsetry that turned any kind of agitation into a desperate attempt to breathe. There's a difference between knowing that intellectually and having to wear one of the things, though. He's pretty certain it's the wrong kind, anyhow. Corsets weren't invented until the 17th century, and they didn't become the kind of bone crushing nightmare he's currently stuck in until well into the 19th. Oh for the useless knowledge of academia, indeed.

Fortunately for the narrative, Isi Scarlet knows where she's going. One might question the wisdom of setting up a camp of outlaws in the woods this close to a well travelled path -- some seven or eight minutes' time away only. One might recall, again, that strange sense of presence -- whoever's directing this parody is not a fan of overlong cut scenes.

And there it is, the camp of Perdita Hood and her Merry Women of Graywood Forest. Tents that look like they escaped from a Civil War Reenactment sit side by side in neat lines, surrounding a central campfire upon which a bear roasts on a spit.

It's a very big spit.

It's also a very big bear.

One might question the presence of grizzly bears in ye olde Medieval England but then, there's a lot to unpack here already.

Story must apparently stick to the script, though. Even if the Knight on her bedraggled charger was cut short there is supposed to be another 'dinner guest' -- and so there is. A fat, bald woman in a luxurious fur robe, with a handful of servants in humbler nuns' habits sitting on donkeys or standing next to their donkeys, guarded by women in green tunics and feathered caps, carrying longbows (the women, not the caps).

"But look ye; not only did this fellow stop me, but he threatened me, saying that Perdita Hood would strip me as bare as a winter hedge. Then, besides all this, he called me such vile names as 'fat priest,' 'man-eating bishop,' 'money-gorging usurer,' and what not, as though I were no more than a strolling beggar or tinker." The fur clad woman -- clergy, no doubt -- is complaining loudly to whoever will listen. And like the Knight earlier, somehow managing to use the wrong gender form of address, persistently.

Putting an outlaw camp within a short hike of the road is perfectly sensible, right? Looking around as she walks, following Isi who at least seems to know where she's going, Dita looks slightly more uncomfortable, the further they go into the trees... And then they're there, and there's a bear on a stick and a priestess whining about her.

Perdita lets out a low groan, "Why did Brantley have to have the face of an angel and be absolutely distracting during English? Why did I never bother to learn Shakespearian English properly? I have a Shakespearian NAME! Also isn't bear meat supposed to be gross or something?" she asks the last a lot quieter, to Ravn. Because clearly, Ravn would know this, right?

The rest of the group closed in on Isi when she stopped short to stare at the furry religious woman with her eyebrows close together in consternation.

Thankfully Dita asks a question Isi actually knows the answer to! "I wouldn't eat it from the spit like that, it's chewy and apt to carry disease if not fully cooked, but it isn't bad in stews and stuff."

A split second decision and Isi blurts out, "To be real, you are really fat. Aren't priests suppose to be pious or something? Fasting and shit?"

"Look, my experience with bear meat boils down to there's a joke about a whole bear on a spit in Asterix & Obelix in America," Ravn murmurs back to Perdita. "And I think bear fat was important to First Nations people? We don't have bears in Denmark. We haven't had bears in Denmark since the Stone Age. I presume somebody ate them."

Just like Isi is saying. Along with other things Isi is saying. Ravn manages to bite back the bark of hysterical laughter that almost got him as she calls the bishop out. Sorry, very busy clasping hands in front of face and being fifty shades of dainty princess shocked, here. "Man-eating bishop gains a new meaning in this version," is all he mumbles. Very quietly. Maybe because he's the only man present. (Almost. There are a few drudges in patched shifts because what woman, even an outlaw woman, does her own cooking, cleaning, and sewing).

The argument over there continues. It turns almost theatrical, as if somebody is mightily impressed with the dialogue of the original story, and will bloody well shoe-horn it in regardless of whether their players have read the script. Maybe it won't matter that Brantley in English Lit was a stud because Perdita will say her lines if someone else has to stuff them into her mouth and make her spit them back out.

And so will, apparently, Little Fern. Quite likely to her own surprise. The fat Bishop looks at her, clearly blaming Fern for her capture and ill words spoken -- and never you mind that Fern came back with the others just now. Never let such a silly thing as plot coherency get in the way of a good dialogue -- right?

Perdita turns to the Bishop of Hereford and said, "Is this the woman who spake so boldly to Your Ladyship?"

At least she gets the gender right this time.

"Ay, truly it was the same," says the Bishop, "a nasty woman, I wot."

"And didst thou, Little Fern," says Perdita, in a sad voice, "call her ladyship a fat priest?"

"Ay," says Little Fern sorrowfully.

"And a man-eating bishop?"

"Ay," says Little Fern, more sorrowfully than before.

"And a money-gorging usurer?"

"Ay," says Little Fern, in so sorrowful a voice that it might have drawn tears from the Dragon of Wentley. Whoever the heck that might be.

"Alas, that these things should be!" says jolly Perdita, turning to the Bishop, "for I have ever found Little Fern a truthful woman."

At this, a roar of laughter goes up, whereat the blood rushes into the Bishop's face till it was cherry red from crown to chin; but she says nothing and only swallows her words, though they well-nigh choke her.

It's not a very good feeling, though -- being puppeteered like that. Much as the dialogue might be amusing, the sensation of being somebody's animated sock puppet is vastly overrated. Ravn glances at Isi; so far, neither Maid Marian nor Will Scarlet seems to have a speaking role in this scene, and he for one is not sorry about it.

"//Fat. Period. For a know it all Miss Ravn," well that was fun to say, "You have some gaps. Sitting and drinking would be great." Isi eyes the festivities beyond the bishop and her name caller speculativly..

"If the dream is going to put it here then I'm gonna eat it." This announced to no one in particular beyond a sideways grin at Ravn. "Enjoy your date with," handwave at Dita and the Bishop. and she trots over to the nuns the PICTURE of innocent youth, "Spare some drink for a poor acne cover girl maybe?"

"My experience with bear meat involves a drunken weekend at the Pearl Champagne Lounge and-- I don't wanna talk about it anymore." Perdita trails off... only to find herself being puppeted by the narrator, having the back and forth, her body being moved without her consent, her voice speaking without her intent... and afterwards, her face going very, very still.

"You're not going to do that again, or I'm going to hunt you down and cook you on a spit, do you hear me?" she hisses through clenched to the puppeteer, shaking out her body, regaining control of it. The bishop's face isn't the only one gone red, though Perdita's is in cold fury... which is choked down only through supreme effort, and suddenly it's as if she was always in control, and that entire patter was her own doing. She's not going full Carrie at the Prom. Yet.

The fat woman in the fine fur robes stare at the group; eyes travelling from one to the other and lingering on the ones who stand out. Maid Ravn on basis of being a fragile, masculine thing in a woman's world, easily dismissed as irrelevant. The knight -- definitely not dressed in Lincoln green or looking like she belongs with this merry band of outlaws. A familiar face, as it turns out. "Sir Richard," she says, reproachfully, "methinks thou and I are companions and fellow sufferers in this den of -- " She stops suddenly and looks askance at Perdita.

A helpful, feminine and most of all young voice in Perdita's mind prompts: You're supposed to say, 'Speak out, Bishop, we of Sherwood check not an easy flow of words. 'Den of thieves' thou west about to say'. Be nice. It's supposed to be fun.

"First Nations culture is not my forte," Ravn returns to Isi, apologetically. He's not completely ignorant but his field is very much Scandinavian folklore -- not world. He decides to follow in her wake -- though whether it's because he thinks he needs to keep an eye on her, or because he too could use a stiff drink is anyone's guess.

A horn of mead is passed to Isi Scarlet by the nearest merry woman sporting a big grin. And maybe there is indeed something to be said for Graywood Forest and the free society of outlaws within, because another horn is handed to Ravn, along with friendly advice to go easy, it's a strong drink for a man.

"It's supposed to be a tankard of beer," Ravn murmurs under his historian's breath. "Thin barley beer with no bubbles. Bloody philistines."

This is the part of the story where they drink themselves into oblivion with all night riotous living right?

Regardless, that is what Isi will do. There doesn't seem to be any danger at the moment beyond Ravn falling out of those shoes.

"Anyone got some dice or cards? Because gambling in a dream seems like a good idea.

There's a glance skyward, the slightest of nods, and Perdita smiles at the Bishop. Quoth Perdita Hood thusly, "Speak out, Bishop, we of Sherwood check not an easy flow of words. 'Den of thieves' thou west about to say." Perdita can play nice when she's being held hostage. She can even work from a script. She refuses to be puppeted and then play along like it doesn't bother her, however.

Still, there's booze, there's bear meat (that isn't demanding it be sacrificed to assure its place in the afterlife) and Dita is enjoying watching Ravn squirm in that corset. Who could ask for anything more?

Graywood. I got it wrong. The voice in Perdita's head sounds almost -- apologetic?

Dice materialise, along with horns of foamy, anachronistic mead and similarly anachronistic plates overflowing with roast bear meat -- which tastes a lot like pork chops. Even Ravn gives up on commenting; something, something, hard bread trenchers, plates not even invented yet. At this point he's just going to mourn his poor toes in these curly-toe stilettos and endure the repeat attacks on his historian's soul. He looks at the fork he is handed as if it personally insulted him. It did. It's not supposed to be invented until the mid-17th century.

Maybe it's that Isi Scarlet is supposed to be the youngest and strongest member of the merry band -- but not the smartest? Whatever the reason, the accountant's number crunching talent doesn't save her from losing every bet to a brawny woman who plays like she's done nothing else for her entire life. Here's to hoping money are lost in the dream only.

Wilhelmina Stutely leads up four pack horses. She also brings a clay tablet upon which are listed the contents of their packs -- and makes to hand it to Isi.

No. Bad idea. Let's not do that.

The voice is in Isi's head too, now -- and from the look on Ravn's face, in his. And sure enough, Stutely takes the tablet back at the last second and reads it aloud herself.

"Three bales of silk to Quentin, the mercer at Ancaster," Stutely says.

There's a moment of silence.

Perdita's supposed to answer that, the voice murmurs thoughtfully.

And then Stutely answers herself: "That we touch not, for this Quentin is an honest fellow, who hath risen by his own thrift." So the bales of silk are laid aside unopened.

"One bale of silk velvet for the Abbey of Beaumont. What do these priests want of silk velvet?" Stutely continues, speaking Isi and Perdita's lines alike. "Nevertheless, though they need it not, I will not take all from them. Measure it off into three lots, one to be sold for charity, one for us, and one for the abbey. Twoscore of great wax candles for the Chapel of Saint Thomas. That belongeth fairly to the chapel," quoth Stutely, "so lay it to one side. Far be it from us to take from the blessed Saint Thomas that which belongeth to him."

The candles are laid to one side, along with honest Quentin's unopened bales of silk. So the list is gone through with, and the goods adjudged according to what Stutely thinks most fit. Some things are laid aside untouched, and many are opened and divided into three equal parts, for charity, for themselves, and for the owners. And now all the ground in the torchlight is covered over with silks and velvets and cloths of gold and cases of rich wines, and so they come to the last line upon the tablet -- "A box belonging to the Lady Bishop of Hereford."

At these words the Bishop shakes as with a chill, and the box is set upon the ground.

"My Lady Bishop, hast thou the key of this box?" asks Stutely.

Really should be Perdita. There's a rather unbecoming teenage pout in there.

The Bishop shakes her head.

Look, it's how the story goes. Just play along, okay? You're doing really well.

"Go, Isi Scarlet," says Perdita, "thou art the strongest woman here—bring a sword straightway, and cut this box open, if thou canst."

Then up rises Isi Scarlet and leaves them (much to the surprise, no doubt, of Isi herself), coming back in a short time, bearing a great two-handed sword. Thrice she smites that strong, ironbound box, and at the third blow it bursts open and a great heap of gold came rolling forth, gleaming red in the light of the torches. At this sight a murmur goes all around among the band, like the sound of the wind in distant trees; but no woman comes forward nor touches the money.

And... this is why Isi doesn't have money and seriously needs to be bared from Casinos. Trusted with the town's financial future? SURE. Her own? Yeah, no. She uses up ~all~ of that responsibility at work.

Isi doesn't understand WHY she gets up and gets a sword - her face is a scowl of 'do not like do not like DO NOT LIKE' but she does it. The story doesn't give her extra skill, so it's an awkward chop, but since it does the job hopefully no one complains too much about the inelegance of it. When the gold coins pour out she's just going to STARE at them in utter disbelief.

Then break with the rest of them and reach down to touch the money. ".... do we have to give this to the poor?"

"You are so damn snarky." Dita mutters to the voice, but there's a certain amusement to her tone.

"Yes, we needs must give it to the poor, forsooth and suchwith." Dita says, louder, looking to the priest and tutting softly, "The people of these lands suffer greatly, wearing rags, while you wear furs and silks. They eat hard, flavorless bread without even salt or butter, while you dine on the softest breads slathered in jams and feast on roast boar."

She looks to her Merry Women, "Our guests should eat well this night. They have a long walk home, and I imagine they'll be quite cold in the rags of the commoners they will be wearing come morning."

"...but think of the positive impact we'll have on the local economy when we boost their sales and lower the supply so there is more demand for their goods." Isi over there mutters even as she drops the coins with a VERY LARGE SIGH.

No subtle horror so great not everyone should get a taste of it. Maid Ravn finds himself stepping up to speak the next line whether he wants to or not. "Now, Sir Richard, the church seemed like to despoil thee, therefore some of the overplus of church gains may well be used in aiding thee. Thou shalt take that five hundred pounds laid aside for people more in need than the Bishop is, and shalt pay thy debts to Emmet therewith." And as an afterthought in a decidedly less pretentious accent, "Isn't that Robin's line? I mean, Perdita's?"

It must be. At least the knight ignores him entirely. She looks at Perdita with eyes that grow incessantly sparkly; were she a man surely she would have cried her sweet tears of gratitude at such a gesture. At last she says, "I thank thee, friend, from my heart, for what thou doest for me; yet, think not ill if I cannot take thy gift freely. But this I will do: I will take the money and pay my debts, and in a year and a day hence will return it safe either to thee or to the Lady Bishop of Hereford. For this I pledge my most solemn knightly word. I feel free to borrow, for I know no woman that should be more bound to aid me than one so high in that church that hath driven such a hard bargain."

Then Lady Ricarda arises. "I cannot stay later, good friends," said he, "for my lady will wax anxious if I come not home; so I crave leave to depart."

"Medieval England is more liberated than I recall from my classes," Ravn grouses to whoever's nearest.

Medieval England blah blah boring, says that somewhat sassy voice that apparently only visitors from other realities can actually hear. And now it goes on for like, forever, and everyone keeps giving this guy stuff because he -- I mean, because she is totally awesome though all she's done is not whine when they tried to rob her and she had nothing. And she didn't even do that very well, I mean, come on, my son is at the Crusades, blah blah, woe is me, everything is horrible, and I owe this guy money. Like, Isi Scarlet there, she needs money but the script doesn't say anything about the Merry Women getting to keep anything. Hey, Isi, let's do something about that sometime, hit me up, right?

After all, who doesn't want to get in touch with a disembodied teenage voice? Do disembodied teenage voices have cell phones?

"WE're just going to give her the money?" Isi asks incredulously. "And trust she'll pay it back?"

Isi may or may not actually understand what is happening. This story is so far beyond the Disney adaptation as to be in a different language completely. Her head snaps up at the disembodied voice. Wait - what? "... and now invisible things want me to collaborate on a money making scheme. Yeah. This checks out." #sarcasm.

"I mean... she did give her knightly word, and... we should respect her desire to pay us back in a year, right? So... let's get her the money and if she doesn't pay it back in a year we can shit talk her to everyone around..." Perdita offers, and then, softer, for her material plane companions' ears, "It's not like we can take it with us right now..."

"Unless... is there a way we can take it with us, Ravn?" Dita asks softly, looking, well... very hopeful. Who wouldn't want a bunch of frickin' gold?

"I wouldn't get my hopes up too high," Ravn murmurs back with a slight shake of his head under the ridiculous headdress. "Robin Hood is a fairytale insofar it runs on the same tropes, and you know how this works in fairytales -- greed is punished, the true treasure was the friends you made along the way, and so on. And if you're unselfish enough you get the princess and half the kingdom, and well, you already got me in the previous episode." He glances about. "Maybe you can prove yourself unselfish enough to earn some kind of reward, but remember how the story ends -- Robin bleeds to death in a monastery, alone. And he's the good guy."

Robin does what?

Someone else hasn't read the ending either, it seems.

"What are you complaining about," the Dane murmurs at the voice. "I end up in a nunnery."

Then he falls quiet because Wilhemina Stutely isn't done laying down the speech that rightfully should have been made by Perdita, only Perdita seemed kind of upset about it, and apparently managed to impress her displeasure enough on the -- story runner? -- for the torch to get passed to -- a character not played by someone from Gray Harbor. The stately Stutely looks to the Bishop and says, "Three days hence Lady Ricarda must pay her debts to Emmet; until that time thou must be content to abide with me, er, us, lest thou breed trouble for the Knight. I promise thee that thou shalt have great sport, for I know that thou art fond of hunting the dun deer. Lay by thy mantle of melancholy, and strive to lead a joyous yeoman life for three stout days. I promise thee thou shalt be sorry to go when the time has come."

So the Bishop and her train abided with Perdita for three days, and much sport her ladyship had in that time, so that, as Perd--Wilhemina had said, when the time had come for her to go she was sorry to leave the greenwood. At the end of three days Perdita set her free, and sent her forth from the forest with a guard of yeomen to keep freebooters from taking what was left of the packs and bundles.

But, as the Bishop rode away, she vowed within herself that she would sometime make Perdita rue the day that she stopped her in Sherwood. Graywood, dammit.

"Fucking bitches...." Isi, over there regretting so many choices. There isn't anything wrong with honest greed damn it. It makes the economy spin!