Marian, dead. Gang, missing. Gisborne, alive and here. Way home to England, non existent. Things were not going well for Robin of Locksley and now... plague.
It was a sickness the likes he'd never seen; appearing to affect not only the body but the minds of those carrying it. Pallor and moaning were conditions he'd witnessed before. There were remedies for those. But the mindless wandering, the bloodlust, the absolute void of reaction, emotion -- if Robin believed in such things, he might have been tempted to think it was the devil's work.
After one wandered into his camp, Robin had taken to higher ground. His bedroll had been modified into a hammock, strung in the branches a good fifteen feet above the ground. From the branches and rooftops of park buildings, he'd watch as the masses of infected swarmed the streets. Adept at keeping a low profile, he'd quietly watched in disgust as healthy citizens dispatched of the ill with blows to the head. What kind of place was this? Had they never dealt with an epidemic? Had they not heard of quarantine?
Having not seen the progression of infection, he wasn't quite sure what spread the disease, so as a precaution Robin had wrapped a layer of fabric over his mouth and nose -- looking much like a proper bandit now, especially with his hood drawn.
This was how he was attired when the ear-splitting howl cut through the otherwise quiet of the park. In Sherwood, a howl wouldn't draw much attention -- but here, there was only one resident canine that he knew of. Quickly darting through the trees and brush as if he was back in his own familiar forest -- Robin followed the sound of the mournful cry.
His friends in this City were few and far between, as the evening at the party had proved -- he had to make sure Lady Kestrel was safe. Nearing a clearing, he could make out the trotting figure of the large wolf.