A/N: Wow, it's been a while. Please thank Taylor Swift's "Love Story" for giving me enough inspiration to want to continue this. Honestly, it's been in my head since my last update, but this part was so difficult to write I almost gave up, so I shortened it and just put what needed to be said. I know it's crappy, but I just wanted to get this scene out of the way. More coming soon, and this time it shouldn't take six months - I hope.

The man walked back over to where we had been sitting when we first began to converse, and picked up a very large bow and a leather quiver that had about a dozen crudely made arrows in it. His bow looked like an old Middle-Eastern recurve, and was already strung.

"Do you always have the line tied up like that?" I asked before I could stop myself, nodding at the weapon. "The longer you keep it strung the more the string'll fray unless you have some super-expensive wire custom-made."

He turned and gave me the 'ol once over, an incredibly obvious guy maneuver that always made my blood boil. Was there no hope for male tact, even in serial killers?

"I'm always prepared," stated the man, before walking past me out of the clearing seeming to know where he was going. I followed him, trying not to laugh out loud at my stupidity.

What are you doing? This guy probably wants to kill you, so you're following him out of the sight of witnesses, carrying a bunch of arrows that are probably this guy's favourite method of killing. You are dumb, and if you die, you'll deserve it.

I'm just brimming with self-confidence; can't you tell?

We walked for maybe a minute through thick foliage, with him just staring straight ahead, occasionally pausing to hold up a tree limb or loose brush out of my way. Each time he would look at me for just a second before turning to face forward again.

"What's your name, anyway?" I asked realizing I didn't know.

"Robin," came the pained reply. What was with this guy? Why was he so - oh, wait, that's right: HE WAS GOING TO KILL ME.

Very quickly we came to another clearing, this one much larger than the camp. The sun had come up as we were walking, and it's light made the green forest around us shine. Birds were chirping as well, and the air felt perfect, with only a whisper of a breeze. English Fall seemed to have turned into spring almost overnight.

About 75 feet from where we were standing were three large bales of hay, maybe 6 feet high, each with round wooden disks that spanned the width and length of the bale. The one Robin moved to stand in parallel to was on the far right, and littered with what I could only assume were arrow marks. The middle and left targets were well-marked too, but not as much as Robin's target.

For a moment he looked confused, glancing at the target, me, then at the target again. Then, still carrying the quiver and bow, moved to stand next to me and dropped the quiver on the ground.

Pointing at the middle target, he said, "Five shots, closest to the middle wins. We'll take turns."

This is it, I thought to myself. If I lose, I die. If I win... I'll probably still die. Time to make the best of this.

I brought my arm up in front of me, wanting to test the lineup of the notch I'd made just above the riser (the thick middle part of the bow where you put your hand) that helped me aim. When I'd lined that up with the bull's-eye, I brought my arm down and reached into the pocket on the lower leg of my cargo pants, where I kept my bowstring. With the deftness that comes from having done this for years, I quickly looped the length of twine around the limbs of my simple red birch short bow and then immediately brought it up and drew to check that I'd done this correctly, although I knew I had. Glancing sideways at Robin, I found that he looked a little impressed.

"Well then," he said, bending to pull an arrow out of the quiver. Offering it to me, "he said, "Ladies first" with such heat in his eyes and his tone that I almost forgot that I was about to die. Confused, I slowly took the arrow from him and he stopped back, still regarding me closely.

I shook myself and returned to the task at hand.

I put the arrow into the same hand as the one holding my bow and pulled my thick dark braid from off my right shoulder so it would hang down my back, almost to my waist. Then, everything goes like quick, precise clockwork: Feet go two feet apart so my heels are in line with the middle of the target, arrow goes into my right hand while my left elbow locks down at my side. Then the arrow's fletching is placed against my left wrist so the shaft rests along my thumb. Deep breath, then bring the bow up and the arrow back until the point lines up the target and... release!

The product of my preparation soared through the air, straight and true, to land exactly... right above to center?!

Dumbfounded, I stared at my failure, unwilling to believe that for the first time in weeks I hadn't gotten it right. Then before what I knew what had happened, a whoosh was heard an another arrow appeared on the target, right below mine.

"First shot unlucky?" said Robin, handing me another arrow.

"Th-that doesn't usually happen," I said, still shocked. I reached to grab the offered projectile when, from behind us, there was the sound of someone running. Robin and I turned quickly to see Simple sprinting toward us. As he got closer one could see that he was terrified.

"Master!" He shouted as he ran. "Sheriff's men took the camp! John and the others were taken!"

"Where were you?" I shouted, the noticed that the man was adjusting his trousers. Figures, I thought to myself, then looked to Robin. He wore a very intent expression, and his eyes were darting back and forth almost like he was reading something on the forest floor. Then he shook his head quickly, as if snapping out of a trance and turned to me. "Can your grandmother wait another few hours? Another good shot wouldn't hurt and if we hurry we'll catch them while they're still no the road." As he spoke he adjusted the sword at his back - where had that come from? - and tied the quiver around his waist. "Think of it as repaying me for not leaving a lone woman on the road." His eyes pleaded with me. This Robin guy really seemed to have the wounded puppy look down to an art form.

Not knowing what else to say, I nodded. Robin ran straight to Simple, who had stopped when he reached the clearing, staring at me. Robin grabbed him by the arm and the two started running back towards the camp, and I followed. I had no idea how to get back to the road where they had taken me, so I didn't really have a choice.

For some reason, it didn't occur to me that this might just be another trap. The two men looked so desperate that I really believed that their friends were in trouble. I forgot that we were really just at a glorified Renaissance Faire, and that my first priority should have been to escape. The look in Robin's eyes simply told me that he needed my help, and I'd be happy to provide whatever aid I could.

This should have been my first warning that things were about to get very, very freaky.