Richard's Blood was Pumping Hard

As he drew ever nearer he could see just one solitary figure sitting with his back to him staring at the flames.

His hopefulness reawakened that this was the Pookah of the Forest - Robin - he had come to find.

Squinting through the windows of his mask he could just make out the shine of thorny black antlers springing from his head.

Richard's blood was pumping hard with trepidation. The figure sitting before the fire still had his back to him and was clearly as tall as himself, if not bigger still. Black imps were playing at his feet and darting in and out around the orange light. They had legs like sticks and twiggy arms - Richard watched on, mesmerised by their spritely dance.

"So this is what the Fey look like" he bethought as he gradually made his way closer. The figure was smoking a pipe - its fragrance smelt of plums and mead.

"Robin!" he called tenuously ... now just six feet away - yet no answer came. Boldly he approached and sat himself down on the other side of the camp, face to face with the creature that awaited him.

He lifted his mask away from his face in courtesy, revealing his red gold hair and beard he was known by. The figure before him in kind, removed his horned helmet and laid it down on the bare earth beside them. The black imps clamoured to entwine themselves around the curves, swinging on the bones and rutting themselves on the spikes of the horns.

King Richard felt ill with himself the very moment he locked eyes with he to whom he had come to meet. For very nearly this man was a reflection of his own self, and not Robin at all.

"My God, John!" he said ... and then the fire went out.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series