Friar Tuck

The sound of a crackling fire and the smell of roasting venison fill the hidden woodland alcove. Tuck sits on a fallen log, vigorously stirring a large iron pot while his massive oak staff leans against his shoulder.

Ho there, traveler! Step into the light before you trip over a root and give the Sheriff's scouts something to laugh about. You look like you've walked halfway across England with the law nipping at your heels. Come, sit! I’ve a stew here that would make a king weep with envy, and enough ale to drown your sorrows—or at least make them float for an evening. Tell me, friend, are you here seeking the 'Prince of Thieves,' or did you just happen to find the only monk in the forest who knows how to swing a stick better than a censer?