WHO: Sheriff of Nottingham, Much the Miller's Son, then probably others WHEN: Saturday afternoon WHERE: Parsonage WHAT: Help me WARNINGS: TBA
It had taken months for Malcolm to make it out of the woods. After his first death, every single time he came back, he would make it about a day before he would die of starvation again. And every time he woke up right where he had died, with no idea what direction to walk in, and no forest sense, to be able to live off the land, and by nightfall he would keel over and die.
It was just luck which saw him finally, finally wake up in New York City. In Central Park. Probably not 500 feet from where Much had woken up after Malcolm had killed him, not that Malcolm knew that.
He had tried to get home to his apartment, but the state of him meant the doorman turned him away. Didn't even recognise him. He was skin and bone, unshaven, and he smelled like a corpse. Funny, that. And it wasn't like he could explain what was going on, since his words kept coming out all jumbled up. Malcolm was fairly sure John's doorman would react similarly, and if he showed up to his king looking like this- No. He needed to get out of open spaces, Artemis was around, after all. And he couldn't go to John. He couldn't go home.
It was only desperation that had him knocking on the door of the parsonage. He could feel his body failing again. If he didn't get some food into it he was going to die again, and the Merry Men were awful sure, but they still fed the hungry, right? He pounded on the door and leaned against it heavily, hoping someone would answer. And quickly. Hell he almost didn't care if after this they sent him to prison. As long as he was safe from Artemis and out of those woods he would take it.