"You feel trapped by your tale," Athena surmised, not without empathy. A memory plucked at her: Odysseus on the beach of Ogygia, head bowed, broad shoulders slumped in despair. Again and again, with cunning and trickery he'd defied the vengeful Sea, but every escape had stripped him of something, until at last he had washed ashore broken and alone, and still no closer to home. Their fight against the Sheriff of Nottingham had become a protracted war of attrition and, just as Poseidon had shattered the spirit of Odysseus, the Sheriff did not need to kill them all in order to break them.
Ah, it was no wonder she felt a soft spot for these motley folk heroes. They shared much of her Odysseus' polytropos: resourceful, wily, inventive. Men of twists and turns, indeed. Perhaps she could clear a way for them, as she had for him.
"I think I understand," she said. "The Sheriff was built to hound you; it's all he knows what to do. And perhaps there is no escaping that reality. But remember, he was also built to fail. You are still the heroes of this story, and on a level field he stands no chance. So we need to start by evening the ground."