Introducing: Little John

[john_little_john]

At some point, Little John lost the path. That happens sometimes--Robin's men often follow deer-tracks instead of men's roads to give the Sheriff's men the slip, and deer don't much care whether you can make out their path. Prefer it if you can't, even; a clear path's a quick road to becoming venison. And normally Little John wouldn't much mind, because as soon as he hears the blast of Robin's horn, he knows where he's needed.

But the deeper he gets into the woods, the colder the air gets. The trees start to turn, Lincoln-green leaves shading to yellow and red before giving way at last to bare branches.

This feels fey, like faerie-work. Little John's never trafficked with fey folk, but he supposes there's a first time for everything in the Greenwood. He gives his quarterstaff an anxious twirl as he pushes through green briars and twining ivy, tipping back low-hanging grapevines with the tip of his stick.

Then, through a break in the trees, he glimpses the white face of a great house shining in the sunlight, and some of the tension in him eases. It's an abbey, like as not, or the house of some great lord--a place where there will be feasting and merrymaking on a crisp (autumn?) day, and where Robin Hood's name might carry some weight. Tales of Robin will either pay his reckoning or start a fight, and either way, Little John will be happy.

A broad smile lights his dark face. He cracks his neck, rolls his head one side to the other, and strolls whistling toward the house.