The Newe Adventures of Robyn Hode (IC)

'Tis a sunny May morning in jolly old England. The larks and starlings sing among the boughs of the Sherewood, and the dew lays sweetly upon the grassy meadows where Robyn and his merry band sit a-feasting on pheasants and mince tarts purloined from the larder of Nottingham's finest sheriff. Robyn is in a gay mood this morning and rakes his fair Saxon hair back beneath his cap so his bright countenance and piercing eyes of blue can be seen by all his company. "This be a fine meal, lads and lasses, but finer still it would be to wash it down with a tankard of brown ale. Our stores yet be empty from the Candelmass celebration. So let us set garlands in the trees and shoot at them for the prize to lead our next adventure, wherein we shall find some unfortunately laden soul from whose heavy-weighted shoulders we may lift the burden of ill gain!"

And so some of the younger lads, clad in Lincoln green, weave ivy into circles and hang them from the branches of trees some fifty paces off, such that the finest of the band may vie for the right to lead the next adventure.

Not far away, ambling more or less aimlessly through the forest, is Yonn Lainson. Clad in shapeless brown robes tied with hempen rope, the short, balding man resembles nothing more than a wandering friar. In his right hand he carries a tall, twisted wood staff. Under his left arm he carries a hefty cask of beer.

A brown pigeon flutters to the top of his walking stick and lets out a rolling coo, nodding to the east. "All right then." Yonn turns east, toward the nearest encampment of people.

Somewhat behind him, a small greyish terrier dog uses its paws to roll a second cask in Yonn's direction. It clearly isn't very good at beer delivery, but it aims to succeed even if it takes all day to catch up.

Her mouth was full when Robyn set the test for who would take the lead on the next quest. She glanced to her bow, set down beside her as she ate. An archery contest, is it then? She smirked as she thought about it, knowing that her skill was second only to Robyn's himself. Still, others here are quite good and it was by no means a given that she'd win.

She reached over for her bow as she rose from her seat, still chewing a mouthful of pheasant-leg. With a skip in her step she hopped into line, wanting to be the first to take a shot.

Thomas looked at the garlands,
"Those don't look to hard to hit. I wonder if Robyn will let me use my crossbow."

In addition to Thomas and Allison, there are a few other hardy lads who leap at the chance to prove their mettle. Little John is not among them; he gnaws a bit of pheasant and says, "Let the younger ones have a play at adventure. The spring is too old to be getting lathered without proper ale to cool one's brow--unless yon Yonn has brought enough to share! Ho ho!" he slaps his knee at his own play on words, having thought it funnier than most. Robyn curls up a slight smile but chooses not to respond.

Will Scarlet, Edward-of-the-Lee, and Bruce the Chandler's Son toe the line, each jesting with the other as they take their turns at the targets. Edward shoots poorly, his arrow missing the garland by a hand's breadth, and a mock cheer goes up among the merry men. Bruce's shot zings through the ring of ivy, tearing one of the leaves as it passes by. But Will Scarlet outdoes them all, firing a perfect arrow that passes through the dead center of the ring and embeds itself three inches into a stout oak some ten paces beyond.

"Huzzah!" cries Robyn. "Come now, Thomas, show us how that contraption will change the manner of shooting in England in the years to come."

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Difficulty is 7.
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With the contest under way, Allison and Corey step up to the line to take their shots. Corey draws back the string of his bow, looking like someone who well knows what he's doing, but as he looses his arrow he pulls another inch back on the string. The arrowhead drops from its resting place on his finger and the full force of the bow presses against his finger, bending it in such a way a finger should never bend. The arrow soars of on a deflected path, missing the garland wreath by at least 15 feet. Holding his dislocated finger in his other hand with a smile on his face, Corey looks over at Allison, "No one will be able to beat that shot! I'm sure."

Allison can't help but smile as she lines her shot. "We'll see," she replies before releasing an arrow of her own. Her arrow soars cleanly through the center of the wreath, as did Will's, striking the tree just beside his. "You're right, you can't be beaten," she adds before looking over to Will. "It's hard to tell whose was better. Shall we shoot again?"

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Allison's shot: [roll0]

OOC note: Will rolled a natural 6 and you didn't do the exploding for it. Was that intentional?

"Robyn, I'd wager nothing shall change the noble art of archery more!"
With this, Thomas fires his crossbow.

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I get exploding dice for that, don't I? Crossbows are awesome.

Llywelyn doesn't bother with archery competitions. He would much rather try to hit a moving target. Or use his axe. So he sits at the table chowing on food and conversing with the merry men around him.

There are more than a few whistles of amazement among the merry men when Thomas's bolt goes screaming through the ring of ivy and buries itself to the fletching midway between the arrows shot by Allison and Will Scarlet.

"A fine effort," Robyn calls, duly impressed. "Set yourselves four score paces back from the garland, and let you fly again!"

Will squints at the dark shape of the garland, where it hangs in the shadow of a heavy oak bough, and lets loose his shot; it passes through by a whisker's breadth. Edward looks crestfallen and tries his own shot, but the arrows sails outside the garland by the span of two fingers.

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Difficulty 9.
Rollv ends up being best to include the possible explosions. In this case it doesn't really matter other than for style points :smallcool:
[roll0] +4 = 9
[roll1] +3 = 7

Allison readies another shot which sails just outside the wreath. She finds herself both disappointed that she lost the contest and relieved that she won't be the one calling the shots on the next adventure. "So in the end, you were no better than I was," Corey comments sarcastically, giving Allison a pat on the back. He then falls to his knees with a whimper, realizing he just whacked her with his injured hand. Allison shakes her head with a laugh.

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[roll0] +7 = 8

"Once more!"
Again the crossbow's string twanged.

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Awww yeah :smallcool:.

Robyn is about to call for the two men to move back another twenty paces, but Will waves him off. "By my father's beard, that queer device may just be the death of the longbow--provided you can find a way to fire it faster!" he quips to Thomas. "T'will be great pleasure to follow your lead on the next adventure."

"Yes, let's hear it, master Thomas," Robyn echoes. "What new endeavour shall we be about?"

Yonn waves his staff in the direction of the merry men. He's glad that Broo led him here-- Robyn's camp was always a welcoming place when he'd visited before, though mayhaps that was because of his ready supply of ale more than any other thing.

"Hail, fellows!" he shouts during a lull in the twanging of bowstrings. "Is this a contest that I see?"

Yonn treads into camp and sits down heavily beside Little John and Llywelyn. He heaves the cask of beer onto the table and selects a breast of pheasant for himself, muttering a few words of thanks over it before he eats.

Seeing the looks on some of the men's faces, he gestures to the beer in a "go right ahead" motion. "I dumind, drnkup," he says with his mouth full.

"Well, master Robyn, I was thinking. Perchance there be many a keg like this, or near enough to make no difference, in the cellar of some lord or abbot, who would do no more with it wet his throat e'ry fortnight. It would be a matter of duty, nay, honour, to liberate this drink from bondage!"
Thomas finishes speaking, and lifts his own tankard for emphasis.

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Is there anyone with more beer than sense near the wood? If so, I feel a plan coming on. Medieval heist, commence!

Yonn's cask is savored mightily by the lads, but there's scarcely enough for each man and woman to wet their whistle before the last foamy drop is drained. Looking at his own empty tankard, Little John nods in solemn agreement with Thomas's words. "Methinks 'tis this time of year the fair Bailiff of Yorkshire does pass by our woods on his annual visit to his cousin and our good friend, the right Sheriff of Nottingham. It would seem to be a great shame for the brewers of our neighbors to the north to have their efforts wasted on such unrefined palates."

"Well spoken," rejoins Robyn. "Take with you, Thomas, some number of our company that you may properly welcome the good bailiff to our Sherewood."

At the mention of more ale Llywelyn jumps up on his bench and shouts Well what are we bloody well waiting for?! Lets give the Baliff a welcoming he won't forget!

"Aye Welshman, I will need thine aid! Yonder lass, too; thou wert near in archery to me. Yonn; wilt thou accompany this band upon our way?"

OOC:

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Is everyone else ok with the beer-raid? If so, we will probably need basic information about the Baliff's party. Or we could just ambush him with no preparation; that might work :smallwink:.

"Aye, yes. I shall join you," Allison responds cheerfully. She looks over to see Corey still holding his injured hand in his good one. "Though where I go, Corey tends to follow. Might he also come along?"

Yonn is properly surprised to be invited to join the men on a criminal adventure. These men, clad all in Lincoln green, quick and sharp with their arrows and witty remarks-- surely a fat, brown-robed little scribe doesn't belong among them. Ah, but he has a bit of magic, and his good sense. Good enough.

"I will join your quest, fair Thomas. 'Twill be better to drink beer that I've not had to haul through the forest under my arm!" He means for it to be a joke, but it comes out a mite bitter.

He thinks of his friend the the little dog struggling to deliver the second cask. He'd likely arrive at camp while they were out-- a surprise for those remaining behind. The terrier would be a hero!

"As you have bested me with your peculiar device, I should see it put to better use," Will Scarlet adds with a grin. "I shall follow your lead, Thomas."

"So be it, then. A half dozen merry men will doubtless make a fine stew of any sundry guard the bailiff may provide." Robyn concludes his speech with a mock-bow to Thomas, and a hearty "Huzzah!" goes up among the other thirsty lads and lasses in the company.

"In that case, comrades, let us hasten through the woods! At this very moment, the beer that is our right could be supped by unworthy lips!"
Thomas sets off into the forest, in the general direction of the baliff and beer.
Someone may be needed to think of a plan...

The group of six head out through the woods, their brows shielded from the heat of the coming May afternoon by the spreading green above. "The eaves of Yorkshire be a good ten miles to the north," Will Scarlet notes from the back of the troupe. "Who might regale us with a bonny song to make glad the hearts of the merriest men in all England?" His bright eyes go quickly to the incapably foppish Corey, as though Will is certain something comically untoward will pour out of the poor lad's mouth at the slightest provocation.

As the silence stretches on, even Yonn begins to notice the awkwardness. Well, he reasons, these men like songs. He knows a few idle rhymes that he could sing. Perhaps...

"A dozen, a gross, and a score," he belts out tunelessly,
"plus three times the square root of four
divided by seven
plus five times eleven
is nine squared, and not a bit more!"

He glances at his outlaw companions with a grin. That one always got a few laughs from his old friends after they worked out the math in their heads.

There is a long pause from among the walking group. Will Scarlet is the first to break the silence. "A clever jest, friend friar," he commends the brown-robed fellow. "Though I dare say too clever for a warm May day such as this!"

Banter whiles away the remaining hours of the journey, whereupon the half-dozen merry men find themselves on the south bank of a pretty brook that cuts across the Sherewood. A small bridge, wide enough for an ox cart but not an inch more, provides the only crossing in sight.

Will regards the trees nearby and looks to Thomas. "Think you this be a fine place to await the good Bailiff?"

"Indeed, goodman Will. Let us spread out, and hide midst the trees on either bank. We shall waylay the baliff when he reaches the centre."
Thomas promptly steps behind a tree and loads his crossbow.

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Rolling to hide: [roll0]

Yonn silently asks Broo the pigeon to fly back to him when people approached, and the bird flutters off in the direction they expect their quarry to arrive from.

"Friend Thomas-- I've a bit of magic I could provide you. Would you like a bit of enchantment on your cross-bow?" He flips open his little spellbook with his left hand and mutters a few words over his own staff, which glows white for an instant and then fades.

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I auto-succeed on the casting roll and enchant my staff for [roll0] extra damage that I can spend 2 at a time this encounter.

The group takes up places in the trees, where they can enjoy the fine weather without being parched by it. Before long, Broo's white-and-grey plumage flutters back along the path, and Yonn grins when the arrival of his friend is shortly followed by the soft, slow hoofbeats and jingles of men on horseback. Peering through the foliage, the merry men can see a well-dressed rider clad in shining chain and bearing a circlet of silver upon his haughty brow. His retinue consists of four men in sturdy leathers dyed black, and two ride afore and two behind. They close ranks tightly as they come across the bridge, the horseshoes clattering loudly on the worn wooden surface.