Yet Still August, 1192

[Note from Mod: this entry was probably made just after Robin’s first escape from Nottingham - e.g. Season One, Episode Three – Who Shot The Sheriff?]

The last few days had been considerably stressful for Guy. Between running around to make ends meet in the abysmal behaviour of the pathetic guards and fighting off competition in the ungainly shape of De Fourtnoy, he had had to muster up every ounce of thespian talent in him to preach comforting speeches about all the dead serving boys, stable hands and washerwomen to upset villagers. As if that hadn’t been enough to grind him down to dust, some cheap assassin had made several miserable attempts to kill the Sheriff and it had fallen on Guy to keep a look out for the idiot. The only task that had been enjoyable during the taxing period, had been taking the dogs out to hunt down stinking outlaws, which he had led with some gusto, much to everyone’s surprise.

Hood, of course, was the usual pain in the black leathered arse, and had only made everything even more confusing with his annoying interference and ongoing efforts to sabotage everything Guy and the greater authority did. Guy still wasn’t sure what had really happened with that bailiff, Joderic the Jesus-lookalike, but the Sheriff had conveniently blamed his death on Hood, while Hood had passed on the dooming responsibility to the ever-elusive Night Watchman.

Guy couldn’t help bristling at the very thought of that particular myth. He was sitting before the Mystical Machine™ in his room at Locksley Manor, a goblet of bitter mead in his still-gloved hand to serve as the only real reward for his unnoticed services. He didn’t like to assume he was chronically depressed, but Guy couldn’t help thinking that if he was, then it was no real surprise, given that every tiny piece of good fortune for him was accompanied by a thunderstorm of calamity.

Guy had received a promotion for once in his life – he was now the proud owner of the title, Master-at-arms – but he still felt something to be distinctly missing in his rejoicing of the fact.

He wanted a party. All noblemen were meant to have parties upon such cheering occasions, but Guy realised there was something lacking in the recipe of party-throwing; there was no one to invite to his party.

It made him hideously sombre. He wasn’t necessarily upset by the fact that he didn’t have any friends; he had known that particular truth for a long time and had come to accept it with an indifferent shrug by now. He was more disturbed by the fact that he was instinctively gravitating towards his current addiction in an unconscious attempt to solve the problem.

FriendHood was as inviting as ever, and Guy did actually think there was some kind of answer to be had as he logged into the banter room, Nottingham Nobles.


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Still August, 1192

[Note from Mod: this entry was probably made just after Robin’s first escape from Nottingham - e.g. Season One, Episode Two – Sheriff Got Your Tongue?]

It had been yet another difficult day. Guy couldn’t understand what was happening to his life – he thought he had left his strong streak of bad luck behind, along with his questionably sordid past, but apparently, that was not so. Robin of Locksley – now Robin of nowhere – had ruined what could have been a perfectly pleasant afternoon. Admittedly, the prospects of a clean day hadn’t been promising as they had made an early start with the Sheriff’s interlude at Locksley, but at least Guy hadn’t had to actually dirty his hands by cutting out any tongues. That’s what lesser creatures like guards were there for.

Hood hadn’t been quite the coward enough to let those stupid peasants lose their ability to speak. Not that it would have made much difference. The peasants were silent enough anyway, which was much better than having loudmouths like Hood swaggering around the place.

Sitting in his room back at Locksley Manor, Guy felt a certain sense of peace that came from being able to rest ‘at home’. He hadn’t often had the opportunity to make any sort of location a permanent abode, but he had a feeling that Locksley would be different. Locksley, where all his misfortunes had started, would also see them ended. There would be no more bad luck for Sir Guy of Gisborne. He, who was a son of noble blood, was destined to become a greater man than some average lackey of the Sheriff of Nottingham. He would be the Sheriff in time.

With that little thought lifting up his black mood ever so slightly, Guy logged onto FriendHood, more out of habit than the actual desire to banter with anyone. He groaned out loud when he saw who was online, but some strange kind of curiosity prevented him from logging off, even though he knew he should have done.

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August, 1192

[Note from Mod: this entry was probably made just after Robin of Locksley's return - e.g. Season One, Episode One - Will You Tolerate This?]

It had been one big disappointing day for Guy.

First, the Sheriff had decided to eat the last chicken leg during a horribly vegetable-dominated lunch, then he had accidentally stepped back onto Marian’s foot and managed to blunder his way through a stuttering apology, and then the worst of the worst had happened to him, as if his day hadn’t been bad enough already.

The hideously obnoxious character whom he had thought himself rid of for a lifetime had returned in the ungainly form of Robin of Locksley.

It had occurred to Guy at the point of the “real” master’s arrival, to simply kill Robin and be done with it, but some confounded part of his mostly-absent conscience had told him to wait until he had received the say-so from the Sheriff. He found himself deeply regretting his prudence now; the idiot was probably lounging about on the very bench that Guy had developed a particularly close relationship with during his time as lord of the manor. The very thought of it was enough to bring a flush of anger to the forefront of his being, and it was with some finely-cultivated angst that he sat down before a cumbersome, box-like device set up on top of the table in his castle room. A few languid pressing of buttons found the iron-plated box whirring and humming in the most delightfully depressing way, and by the time the machine was ready, Guy was already in the middle of planning a vague suicide of sorts.

To call the machine a computer, would be to add false eulogies to a thing that was certainly not up to the high standards of post-second-millennium man, but it could be considered as a very early forefather to the modern PC or Apple Mac. Of course, the year being 1192, Guy had no idea of such newfangled technology, nor did he really know why such a machine was in his room. It had simply been part of the minimal furnishing that came as part of the employment contract he had signed with the Sheriff. Trust his boss to place an unnamed object in his room with no explanation whatsoever.

Over time and with a little help from a pageboy (‘help’ meaning the minor occasion of whipping out Guy’s sharpest curved dagger and asking with the pleasant tone of a murderer), Guy had managed to find his way around the machine he was currently sitting in front of. The pageboy had told him in a trembling voice that there were three main activities one could engage in, using the machine’s service. The first (something called word processing) had sounded extremely boring to Guy, as had the second (a bizarre thing called Photoshopping). The third he had found to be of mild interest, and it was due to that little spark of curiosity that he had been drawn into joining the local internet social network, FriendHood™.

A few hints from the slightly less agitated pageboy and bending under the pressure of utmost boredom, Guy had embarked on what he now thought to be sometimes relieving, at other times ridiculous. After all, he was Guy of Gisborne, the Sheriff’s right-hand man and ever-faithful follower of his dastardly lead. Men like him didn’t tend to find comfort in friending sites, and it worried Guy at times to think that he was partial to the chums he had on FriendHood. He had to be getting soft.

‘Ah well. No matter. Even the Sheriff’s got a FriendHood profile. It is my duty to follow his lead,’ Guy told himself steadily as he logged into his most frequented banter room, Nottingham Nobles. As his name popped up in admissive green, he noticed with intrigue, a username he had never seen before.

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Introduction

Hello and welcome to the FriendHood Log!

What is this, you say?
 
I shall do all that I can in my powers to explain the sheer myth and magic that laces this little log.
 
Have you ever watched the legend of Robin Hood that the BBC so faithfully made in the effort to follow the great tale of one of England's finest heroes? If you have, you are all the more closer to home on this subject than those who haven't had the fortune to witness such excellence as that which is brought on by the 3 series of Robin Hood.

While modern viewers have argued that this particular rendering of the legend has been historically inaccurate, wildly unbelievable and utterly insane, this mod would like to point out to you that such is the judgement of those lesser mortals who cannot have it in their narrowed hearts to think well of a little artistic license.

Having thus ridden us, more mercy-inclined mortals, of the woeful presence of the injuriously pedantic and irritatingly reasonable, I can go on to explain the true history of the Log.

This Log has been carefully excavated from a cave in the heart of the Forest of Sherwood. The original was found in the form of many sheaves of parchment, and it is with painstaking care that these have been reproduced onto the more pliable format of html coding. It is a log of all the online activity that occurred during the year 1192 and beyond on the primitive ancestor of modern social networks, FriendHood. The site was kept within the boundaries of England, as having users of any other nationality might have invoked a true or false accusation of treason, as well as fraternising with the enemy.

The Log found in the caves of Sherwood, shows only a part of what went on in Medieval England, as it is centred on the activity of Robin Hood, Sheriff Vasey, Sir Guy of Gisborne, Lady Marian, Sir Edward, Prince John and other characters of lesser station. In this new edition of what must be one of England's greatest evidence of national heritage, we hear the thoughts and feelings of our heroes and villains exactly as they came to pass in the moment they were conceived.

My lords, ladies and gentleman, without further ado, I bring you..... FriendHoodTM!!!