Robin Hood: Dragonslayer

Here's our first story this month, as voted on by you! Join Robin Hood for a swashbuckling, dragon fighting adventure, where he gets swole af to save merry olde England once again!

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In the days after King Richard was restored to the throne of England, the land knew peace and plenty. The new royal champion, Sir Robin Hood, was able to hang up his bow for a time and enjoy a quiet life on a prosperous estate. But, as far more ancient stories will show, whenever a land is prosperous and rich, it will not stay so for long without attracting the greedy and those with a lust for power. 

The reports soon arrived in London town, of farms and villages plundered and burned. Some believed it was viking raiders, others believed it was the French. Some of the King’s more zealous advisors even suggested the Saracens had followed their king home, looking for revenge. But soon, as more details came in, there were no armies sighted, but a single, massive beast: a dragon.

King Richard felt the weight of his crown as he slumped in his throne, the great lion’s brow furrowed as he thought over his increasingly desperate options.

“Sssire, you ssssummoned me?” a snake slithered his way across the throne room, Sir Hiss coiling himself before bowing his head to the lion looming above him. 

The King chewed on his lip, glowering down at the snake. Sir Hiss was his brother’s servant, he knew that. But not even Prince John would want England burned to the ground by a dragon; burnt peasants, after all, weren’t known for paying taxes.

“You have a clever mind, Sir Hiss, in spite of your many… lesser qualities. Let’s see if you can win back some small favor. What would you do, to defeat a dragon?” The king leaned forward, his great mane framing the cold glare that bored into the snake. “The army I led is used to fighting foreign enemies and laying siege to castles, while my brother’s men were well-trained in little else than fighting unarmed peasants. Neither is well-suited for fighting beasts of legend, and I can ill afford to lose either.”

“Well, graciousss King, sssurely there is but one answer. The people are frightened, and need to rally behind a hero, one of their own that can lead them against such a foul monster. Such as, sssay, a royal champion,” Sir Hiss explained, hiding his smug smile.

The great lion stroked his mane, thinking it over. “Robin Hood may be the best archer in our kingdom, and even talented with the sword…” he muttered.

“And he even bested our most elite soldiers,” Sir Hiss added.

“He bested John’s elite soldiers, a bunch of jumped up mercenaries and thugs,” Richard grumbled. “The true elite were with me on crusade… still. If I need a man to fight a great, stupid brute, he may be my best bet. Very well, Sir Hiss. Prepare the summons for Sir Robin at once.”

“A most wise decision, sssire.” Sir Hiss bobbed his head down again, then slithered out of the throne room. The snake sniggered to himself as he wove his way through the royal court, before returning to the Tower of London. Interred in the castle, Prince John had been placed under house arrest for his mismanagement of England in Richard’s absence. It was the King’s idea of the joke; beneath John’s quarters, just out of reach, was the royal treasury. The lanky, maneless lion was pacing around his room as Sir Hiss entered, staring holes in the floor at the crown jewels, precious relics, and all the great treasures of England that laid only inches beneath his feet.

“Well? Did my oaf of a brother take the bait, as it were?” John asked.

“Yesss, sire. It took some convincing, but he sssaw reason by the end.”

“Excellent! That puffed-up bandit won’t stand a chance against a dragon!” John leapt up, a menacing glint coming into his eyes. “And with his champion dead and himself humiliated, I will sweep in with the army to take care of the dragon myself, and my brother will be forced to surrender the crown! Ah-hah, ah-hah!”

A few weeks later near Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood stared down at the parchment on the table in front of him, stamped with King Richard’s seal. 

“He can’t be serious,” Robin muttered.

Robin’s wife, Maid Marian, wrapped her arms around her husband’s torso, resting her muzzle on the fox’s shoulder. “You’re the best archer in England.” Robin’s ears flicked, and he glanced over his shoulder at Marian. She rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, best archer in the world. Why wouldn’t the King come to you for something that can fly? You can shoot a sparrow mid-flight, at fifty paces.”

Robin scoffed. “Marian, my dear, I don’t think I’ve ever shot a sparrow that can breathe fire, roughly the size of a house.”

The vixen sighed. “What will you do, then?”

“Run away to France?”

“Robin!”

The fox chuckled, holding up his hands. “It was a jest, dearest. Ah…” He scratched at a bit of his scarlet fur, looking back at the royal summons. “A dragon! I don’t think I’ll bring him down with a disguise and a well placed arrow… unless it was a really, really big arrow. Even then. How does anyone fight such a beast?” 

Marian drummed her fingers on the table, thinking alongside her husband. She then gasped, snapping her fingers as a spark came into her deep brown eyes. “Robin! You’re hardly the first person to fight a dragon in English history. Why not speak to Friar Tuck? He has a library in his church all about history. If you need to defeat a dragon, why not look at others who did?”

Robin rapped his knuckles on the table. “It’s the best I can manage for now…” He stole a kiss on Marian’s cheek. “At the very least, I can save a trip and get my last rites before the dragon swallows me whole.”

The fox made his way through the forest to the humble church of Friar Tuck; round and robust as ever, the badger was only too happy to see his old friend, his belly preceding the rest of him by a few feet as he waddled forward, immediately enveloping the fox in a quick embrace.

“Robin Hood! You thieving braggart and sinner, how are you? You never drop in anymore,” Tuck chuckled.

“Yes, well, Little John and I have been busy and all, putting Sherwood and Nottingham back together” Robin gasped, the wind knocked out of him as several hundred pounds of badger slammed into him, sweeping him off his feet. It would have been a hard landing, if not for Tuck’s ample padding.

“And how is the new sheriff?” Tuck asked.

“Trying to end up fatter than his predecessor, but immensely more popular with the people.” Robin twiddled with his fingers for a moment, clearing his throat. “I came by for a purely academic query, my friend… ah, how might someone best dispose of a dragon?”

“A dragon?” the Friar’s brow arched. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the treasure dragons hoard isn’t worth it, Robin. Or are you bored now that there’s no usurper to harass?”

“You heard about the little spot of trouble going on, in the south, near Cornwall? Our king has decided I’m the best for the job, and I was hoping to rely on historical accounts to see how I might get out of this without getting cooked well done.”

The friar grimaced. “Then the rumors were true.” He shook his head. “Those poor people. I have some books, but… have you considered St. George?”

Robin frowned. “Hasn’t he been dead for some eight hundred years or so? I don’t think he’s available for consultation.”

“Oh, Robin, my son, he’s the patron saint of England, a dragonslayer bound to the land. Who else better? Some prayer and meditation should lead you to the solution.”

Robin didn’t love the plan, but a bad plan, in this case, was better than no plan. “Right, well…” He looked over the church. “Could I get a little privacy?”

Friar Tuck frowned. “Pardon?”

“Well, you know, prayer, it’s supposed to be intimate, no? Between me and God?” The badger stared at Robin Hood, uncomprehending. “I can’t do it with you watching, is what I’m trying to say.”

Friar Tuck blinked. “Oh, well, that’s just fine. It’s only my church, I’d hate to intrude, Sir Robin.” Tuck muttered darkly to himself as he waddled out. 

Making a mental note to leave a generous donation to pacify his friend, Robin knelt, clasping his hands in prayer, and then felt the awkwardness creeping in. He cleared his throat. “Well. Hello there, George. Your… Saintliness? If you know who I am, I’m sure it will come as no surprise that I’m not exactly reverent… I didn’t think this would be the best idea, but a Friar I knew recommended it. See, I’m supposed to fight a dragon, and I’ve been told you’re England’s resident expert. So… any good tips? Strategems? Maybe just a hint?” He paused, his ears flicking slightly. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen. “Right. Sorry to bother you. I suppose I’ll just consign myself to a fiery death.” Robin sighed, his ears and tail drooping as he turned to leave.

“You, a thief, would face a dragon?” A deep, gravelly voice echoed through the church.

Robin spun around, his eyes wide. “...Oh, dear.”

The biggest bull Robin had ever seen towered over him, filling the apse of the church. He was dressed in a strange breastplate of interlocking plates and little else, leaving the rest of his body bare, save for a red kilt to preserve his dignity. His limbs, roped with heavy muscle, were each thicker than the fox’s entire body, the bull’s chest alone wide enough that Robin would have struggled to reach around it all. His horns had been broken off, and his craggy face was heavily scarred. He was iridescent, not truly there, and his form was devoid of all color.

“Speak, bandit!” the bull demanded, his voice strong enough to shake the church rafters.

Robin cleared his throat. “Ah- yes. I am Robin Hood, and I assume I have the pleasure of speaking with St. George?”

The bull snorted, nodding his head, his chin hitting the peak of his broad chest.

“Ah, excellent. So… as I said, I need to defeat a dragon. And I have no idea how.”

St. George canted his head, shrugging his vast shoulders. “I would not come to anyone unworthy… even if I cannot see how one who flouts the law could rise to the challenge.”

“Old boy, if you don’t mind my saying so, I am not a bandit.” Robin was smiling, bouncing on the heels of his feet, but his patience was wearing thin. “I helped bring down a vile usurper, until our rightful king returned. I stole from a greedy man to feed the poor, so if we could move along from the condemnation, I would greatly appreciate it.”

The bull cocked his head again, his eyes widened. Clearly, he had not been expecting such a response. He even looked impressed. “Very well. How do you plan to hunt this beast?”

The fox stroked his chin. “Well, I imagine tracking the dragon down won’t be the hard part. I would track it down to its lair, sneak in while it’s sleeping…”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Robin arched his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“There is no sneaking with dragons. They sleep on mounds of gold, and unless you can turn invisible or float, they will hear you coming, then eat you,” St. George said grimly.

Robin blinked. “Then I suppose I’ll tie a rope to an arrow and fire it-”

“No, it’ll hear the bowstring and cut it with one sweep of its claws.”

The fox rolled his eyes. “Then I suppose I can poison it…”

“Ha!” the bull laughed. “The dragon is a beast of Hell. No poison can kill it.”

“I will try to reason with it-”

“No.”

“Trick it-”

“No.”

“I’ll disguise myself as a princess-”

“I would disappear in disgust.”

Robin Hood threw up his arms. “Alright, fine! I suppose the dragon is such a perfect predator that there is no clever plan to get around it!”

St. George finally nodded. “Thus endeth the first lesson. There are no clever plans, no grand schemes when it comes to dragons. To truly be rid of such a hellish creature, you must face it head on, its might against the might god has granted you.”

The fox’s face fell. “That… isn’t quite my usual style of dealing with problems.”

“I’ll contain my surprise.” The bull crossed his arms, his biceps pressing up against his metal armor. Robin could swear he could hear it creak.

The fox’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. “I suppose my next question is, can you give me that might, then?”

“No.” St. George locked eyes with Robin Hood. “But I can show you how.”

A few days later, and Robin was nursing a suspicion that St. George was toying with him. The fox could not remember working harder; every day, he toiled along the road on their journey south, dragging along a cart that, with each day, was loaded down with more and more lumber that the saint had ordered him to cut down. It was after a particularly arduous session of felling more trees that the fox finally spoke up, canting his head towards the bull.

“George, old boy,” Robin grunted, grating his teeth. “I don’t mean to question the wisdom of a saint, but how exactly is my acting like a pack mule, trudging around all of England, going to help us slay the dragon?”

“Patience is a virtue, Robin,” the bull declared, smirking softly to himself. Perhaps Robin hadn’t noticed it quite yet, but the gruelling work he ordered the outlaw to do was already having the desired effect; the fox’s lean body rippled from the exertion, hard muscle bulging just under his rust red fur. He was filling out his tunic like he never had, his chest puffing out with each labored breath, and his limbs tensed as they grew thicker from hard work. In a few days, St. George had already molded him into a build befitting a typical knight, but that was just a start, if a dragon was to fall to this reformed outlaw.

“Patience is in remarkably short supply!” Robin shouted, throwing down the reins of the wagon. “A dragon is laying waste to who knows how many villages, and you have me playing lumberjack! Where the bloody hell are we heading, anyways?”

St. George, with a glimmer in his translucent eye, jerked his head upward. Robin turned around, and there, perched up on a hill, was a ring of stone monoliths, weathered by time.

“Stonehenge?” Robin swore in a very unheroic manner. “You had me drag lumber all the way to bloody Stonehenge? Why?” 

“I believe in a baptism by fire. You will either sink or swim here, a place that has helped mold all English legends,” George explained.

“So I’m an English legend now, am I?” Robin grunted, stretching as he cracked his spine, his tunic clinging to his newly broad back. “I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

“Go and pray in the stone circle. It is a place of ancient power. You’ll find your strength there,” George said cryptically. “Don’t forget your weapons.”

The fox raised his brow, pursing his lips. “Right. Well, I’m glad you remembered time for prayer and mass while the south of the country burns.” He grabbed his bow and sword, and trudged his way up the hill. The ancient stone circle was silent, with nothing but the wind blowing through the grass and weathered pillars. 

“I’m going to wring Friar Tuck’s neck,” Robin muttered under his breath, kneeling in prayer. “Pray to St. George, Robin! Whatever could possibly go wrong?”

He closed his eyes, whispering some half-remembered prayer from when he was a kit, when he caught the sound of some low growl. Robin’s fast reflexes kicked in as he opened his eyes, spotting a shambling creature coming towards him. He deftly dodged a heavy swing from an axe, staring at four wild looking bears, all larger than him and clad in kilts. Like George, they were translucent, held together by mist. Ghosts, or whatever it was the saint could be called. 

“Ah… I see,” Robin huffed, leaping behind one of the pillars. Mists clung to the ground,  tendrils of fog snaking into Robin in such a way that the fox didn’t even notice, even as his chest pushed out with each breath, and his arms filled out his sleeves, stretching the green fabric taut. One of the spirits cornered the fox, swinging his axe in a wide arc that caught at Robin’s arm; it was like being cut with the wind, sharp pain biting into his arm and a clean cut up his sleeve, showed Robin how dire these foes were. Grabbing his sword, Robin exchanged blows with one, landing a well-aimed thrust. Coiling his strong legs, he leapt up, hands scrambling for a purchase in the weathered stone as two more spirits rose to replace his latest foe. With less effort than he thought he would need, Robin pulled himself up on the lintel, enlarged biceps tensing and tearing at his other sleeve.

From this vantage, the fox saw he was outnumbered five to one, and with each one he struck down, two rose up. He ran across the top of Stonehenge, leaping from one stonetop to another to buy himself some time. The spirits climbed after him, and Robin was forced to cut down three more as they drew too close, the mists rising with the fallen specters. His tunic was in rags as his chest, now wider than a shield, pushed against it.

Robin’s mind strained for a plan as he leapt from the tops of Stonehenge to avoid the specters, shoving them back with a kick or a punch. He looked to the center of Stonehenge, where a strange, blue fire caught his eye. The blue flame burned in a brazier that belched out more of the mists, overseen by a shrouded figure with its hands outstretched over the fire.

“Ah, hello! Terribly sorry to bother you, but would you mind calling off your legion of the damned?” Robin shouted, but the hooded specter didn’t respond. The fox fired, but unlike the other spirits, his arrow passed right through the phantom, clattering harmlessly as it hit the stone behind its target.

Speaking in a language Robin couldn’t hope to understand, the hooded figure pointed a bony finger up at him, and commanded the spirits to attack. All of them swarmed the columns, and attempted to overwhelm Robin. The mists were seeping into his mouth and lungs, his eyes wide, but from his envigored strength and willpower, Robin roared, throwing them off with a mighty swing of his battering ram of an arm. He had mere seconds as the spirits began reforming and doubling; he leapt down, shrouded in the mists. He rolled behind the monolith the shrouded figure stood near. Tensing his bulging arms, digging in his heels as his legs coiled, his back forced off the remains of his tunic as it billowed out like a full sail. With all his strength, he slammed into the monolith. The giant stone came crashing down on the hooded figure and its magical fire, crushing them both. The mists and spirits began to fade; it was done.

Robin gave out one great sigh of relief, but then his ear twitched; just to the side, leaning against one of the other monoliths was the ghostly form of St. George, the great bull clapping. The fox’s tail swished irritably as he stomped over to the saint.

“Why didn’t you help?” Robin demanded, his chest mirroring George’s in size, mashing up against the bull. “What game are you playing at?”

“Did I forget to mention, the spirits here don’t take kindly to prayer? They take it as an insult.” George grinned, looking over the now hulking fox. “It had the desired effect, however.”

“Desired effect?! I nearly died!” Robin sputtered. “What kind of saint are you? You waste my time when a dragon is running rampant over England-”

“Robin.”

“Drag me to a haunted ruin, let me get attacked without any warning-”

“Robin.”

“What would become of Marian were I to die? All my friends, my country? I was entrusted with fighting this overgrown lizard, and you haven’t even begun to help-”

“Robin!”

“You may as well be helping Prince John seize the throne again, for all the good you’ve done me and the rest of England. Some Patron Saint you turned out to be, you pompous-”

“Robin!” 

“What?” the fox snapped. “What could you possibly say for yourself?”

St. George had a small smirk on his broad muzzle. “Look down for me.”

The fox did, only for his muzzle to wedge itself against the cleft of his chest. Robin’s eyes went wide as, for the first time, he looked down at his augmented physique. He gingerly touched his jutting, meaty pecs, only for his bicep to dig into the side. The surging muscles in his arms were round as wagon wheels, outdone, if only slightly, by his trunk-like legs. Straining to see past his chest, his hands ran down cobblestone abs, and just by moving, he could feel his wide back ripple, his rolling, hill-like shoulders bulging with each movement.

“You took in the power of the spirits, here. And you’ve been training, all this time. As I said, patience, Robin,” St. George explained. “You’re almost ready to take on the dragon; but first, you’ll need a new bow.”

“What’s wrong with my old one?” the fox asked, slightly defensive. 

“It won’t even scratch the dragon’s hide. You need something far stronger to knock it out of the sky; many underestimate archers, and view them as weaker and more cowardly than those that fight with swords or spears. But we both know the strength that is required to draw the string of a longbow, and you needed strength greater still to draw the bow I envision.”

Robin looked down, slightly mesmerized with his new size. He tensed his arm, feeling the hardness of his peaked bicep; power wasn’t something he was terribly familiar with, but he could feel great waves of it, churning in his titanic body. “The lumber you had me dragging around all creation,” he said with realization.

“Precisely. Grab the maple trunk, the one we found south of York,” George instructed. “The others will be made into shafts for arrows. And,” He nodded to the toppled monolith. “I think that bluestone will do well for arrowheads.”

“Stone arrowheads? This is hardly the age of the druids anymore,” Robin scoffed.

“The stone is ancient,” George explained, crossing his own burgeoning arms over his vast, armored chest. “Imbued with magic from over a thousand years of druidic rituals. With a blessing from a saint,” he bowed his head magnanimously, now smirking wider. “It will cut through dragon scales when all other metals would fail you.”

Robin’s eyes widened. “Well… that’s something, isn’t it?” The following morning, Robin Hood began his work, carving the maple trunk into a bow, the others into arrow shafts, carving out the arrowheads, and fletching the arrows. After his final day of hard work in the shadow of Stonehenge, Robin Hood had two dozen arrows, each one thick as a normal man’s arm and long as their arms spread wide. The bow was thick as a board, and stood almost a head taller than the archer. 

George looked over the weapon with begrudging approval. “It may do. We should test it, first.” He pointed down the rolling fields surrounding Stonehenge, to a wheat field. “Do you see that lone tree, some three hundred yards away?”

Robin cupped his eyes. “I do.”

“Hit it.”

The fox grinned. He notched his arrow, and pulled back the string. The maple bow creaked as his arms tightened, his buckler-sized bicep digging into his shield-sized pecs. His triceps bowed out, taking on the shape of a horseshoe, and just as hard as one. His back flared out like wings, and even with his new immense strength, his arm began to tremble, sending ripples through his carved musculature; drawing back the bow was a feat that would require the strength of ten men, and he only just about had that. When he was finally certain of his aim, he let the bow loose. With a swift twang, the arrow soared through the air, and but a moment later, a soft, barely audible thunk reached Robin’s pointed ears, and a flock of birds sprung out of the far-off tree.

Grinning wide, Robin raced across the field, his powerful legs churning with each stride. He had to laugh when he came across the tree; his arrow had sliced straight through the trunk, cleaving it right down the middle. “By- well, you,” he doffed his cap to the saint. “That felt good.”

The bull snorted, grinning wide. “Now, you’re ready.”

With his new weapon in hand, Robin Hood raced towards the south to do battle with the dragon. Metal armor, he had been warned by the saint, would be useless against the monster; broiling hot metal would be the death of him if he was hit with a baleful of fire. His only protection was a new tunic, the sleeves long since discarded to give his burgeoning arms more room, and a leather hauberk, only just managing to traverse the expanse of his rolling shoulders, and cover part of his engorged upper arm. Soon, Robin Hood spotted the telltale signs of a dragon attack. He came across villages left in still-burning ruins, fields scorched, lakes and ponds dried up, and all of them pointed not to Cornwall, but to the east; towards London.

It was a mad dash to the capital, and as they reached the Thames, Robin saw plumes of black smoke rising up into the air. Gripping his bow tight, his heart sank as he saw them coming from the very center of the city. Rising up from the burning mass of houses and churches, a great, red beast bigger than a ship soared into the air, spreading vast, leathery wings until it landed on top of the Tower of London, its roar echoing across the land.

“Ah, well. I was right, George. Finding it was the easy part.” Robin sighed deeply, and then charged after the monster.

The stout walls surrounding the fortress were crumbling under the dragon’s might, and the drawbridge was groaning under the weight of people, with guards either scrambling in, or commoners and servants running out in a panic. Robin Hood waded into the mass of animals, standing head and shoulders above everyone around him, and more than twice as wide as anyone. Those that recognized him gasped as the archer pushed his way in.

“Is that… Robin Hood?”

“He’s big as a house!”

“It can’t be- he’s a skinny fellow, isn’t he?”

“Look at the size of his… bow!”

Robin Hood fought the urge to smirk. St. George, apparently invisible to everyone else, floated beside him. “Remember, Robin. Knock it out of the sky, first. Attack it from the side. The tail can be just as deadly as the front.”

The dragon let out a earth-trembling roar, and with one swing of his tail, one of the turrets on the tower crumbled, sending a hail of stone and mortar on the courtyard below.

“Knock it down first, right…” Robin cleared his throat, and drew back one arrow, training his flexed arm to stay steady. Another roar, and the arrow sailed over the dragon.

“Focus, Robin!”

The fox was now in the dragon’s sight. He could see flames rising up in the beast’s throat, and hastily fired another arrow, which pierced the dragon in the leg. It let out an enraged roar, clinging to the castle as it moved to another side of the keep, out of Robin Hood’s line of sight.

“Why doesn’t it fly away?” Robin demanded, rushing towards the stone tower.

“It smells treasure. This is where the kingdom’s riches are kept, is it not?” George said.

The fox grunted out of frustration, and ran into the castle. Intuition told him that if the dragon smelled the crown jewels, there could be only one place to go; the treasury.

Robin Hood, his shoulders pressing against the pillars of the treasury’s doorway, burst in, his bow drawn. The treasury’s gold, relics, and crown jewels were scattered all around the place, a hole the size of a wagon in the wall. One of the dragon’s arms had forced itself in, each claw long as a broadsword. And he wasn’t alone.

“No! No, no, no! Away from my gold, you filthy beast! Hiss! Hiss, where are you, you servile serpent! You’re never around when I need you!” Prince John cried out, plastering himself on a huge chest overflowing with gold that the dragon latched on to.

“Oh, no,” Robin Hood muttered, fighting an urge to leave the Prince to his fate. He fired one arrow into the dragon’s arm, its pained roar shaking the castle to its foundations. “I have to save him?” 

“It’s the heroic thing to do, Robin,” George said consolingly.

“R-robin Hood?” Prince John gaped as he scrambled back with his treasure. “You’re- you…” he sputtered, the comparatively puny lion dwarfed by the hulking fox.

“Your hero, I know,” Robin Hood grunted. The dragon’s arm burst through again, and wrapped around Prince John, the lion letting out a very undignified cry. 

“Robin Hood! Please! Help!” John shouted in desperation.

It was a close thing; Robin Hood was tempted, very tempted. It was only for St. George’s disapproving look boring holes into the back of his head that the fox raced in, wrapping one massive arm around John’s neck, pinning his torso between his surging wall of a chest and peaked bicep. With one hard pull, he yanked the lion free, throwing him across the treasury to safety. 

“You can thank me later,” Robin quipped to John, but not before those iron-like claws burst in, an eye as big as a wheel burning with a bestial hatred at the archer. The sword sized claws clamped around Robin Hood’s leg, and he was swept out of the tower, as the dragon beat its great, bat-like wings, soaring up into the air.

Robin Hood barely held on to his bow, as his arrows fell out of his quiver, all save one, that the fox grabbed at the last second. He had one shot left, if the dragon didn’t drop him to crack him like an egg. There was a sudden shift as the dragon swung around, and tossed Robin Hood high into the air, its maw open hungrily, to swallow him whole.

With a split second, the fox notched his arrow, and fired. Even with the wind whipping around, the arrow sailed true, spurred on by the fox’s great strength. It struck the dragon, right in the heart. Its head jerked back, and Robin Hood hit just beneath his chin, sliding down the monstrous neck. The dragon cried out, desperate to right itself. Robin Hood clung to the scales, climbing on its back. The beast was hurtling down to earth, its wings flapping helplessly.

“Oh, no. No, no, no- you’re not taking me down with you, you scaly moron!” Robin Hood grabbed a hold of either of the dragon’s wings, his arms shaking as he threw all his strength into forcing them up, the vast valley of his back rippling with swells of muscle, his chest quivering with each labored breath. His arms cried out, but he couldn’t let go, not as the wind finally caught the wings, and the dragon was righted at last.

Robin Hood had mere seconds to brace himself as the dragon slammed back to earth, skidding across the fields just outside of London and leaving a gash of upturned earth and crumpled fields fifty yards long. When the fox dared to open his eyes, he almost laughed when he realized he and the dragon were on solid ground again.

The dragon, however, was not in a laughing mood. The beast lifted its head, and lunged for Robin Hood. Dozens of dagger-sized teeth glistened in the sun, but Robin caught the beast by the jaw, his shoulders surging up to brush against his cheeks, his feet digging in as his thighs exploded in size, great swells of muscle bulging against one another as he kept the beast at bay. He could see flames gurgling up to the surface of the dragon’s mouth, and jerked him away at the last second, snapping the great beast’s neck. With one explosion of fire shooting out into the sky, the dragon finally fell down, dead at Robin’s feet. 

The fox breathed deeply, his pecs so pumped they bounced against his chin. His tunic had been ruined, and his massive body ached all over. Still, he planted one foot on the beast as the curious folks of London came out, shocked into silence.

Finally, someone spoke up. “Robin Hood’s done it! He slayed the dragon!” A great, roaring cheer rose up from the gathering crowd. At the head of the procession was King Richard, in full regalia, and Prince John, looking like a sullen schoolboy called to the front.

“Ha! My champion! You- you look different than when we last saw you, but all of England has you to thank for this victory over a beast of Hell,” King Richard declared. 

“Well,” Robin grinned. “It was my duty, my King.”

“And, we understand you have you to thank for saving our… dear brother,” the King patted the smaller lion’s shoulder. “He wanted to thank you personally. Didn’t you, John?”

Robin couldn’t hide his widening smile as he saw John’s eye twitch. The Prince stepped forward, giving a stiff bow to the fox. “Yes. Thank you for saving my life, Robin Hood,” John choked on each word, gritting his teeth towards the end. “I am in your debt.”

“Well, dear Prince, those blessed with strength do what they must for those who can’t fight for themselves,” he bowed magnanimously. “You can always count on Robin of Locksley.”

“Three cheers for Robin Hood, dragon slayer!” a cry rang out from the crowd, and John’s sulking was drowned out by the roaring crowd.

Robin flexed an arm in triumph, his bicep swelling up like a mountain. He smirked as St. George appeared beside him, one last time. “So, tell me, when you slew a dragon, did you manage to do it mid-air?”

St. George snorted. “Show-offs don’t make good saints, Robin.”

“No, but they make excellent heroes.”