ROBIN HOUND

He went hooded in forest green, as did they all; yet from beneath his hood there flowed hair so long and waving that travelers at dusk took him for some young lord gone gladly feral, and Friar Tuck crossed himself and swore no honest dog e'er grew the like — that such locks belonged rightly upon some prince of coin in an age yet to come. Upon his back he bore a longbow he could not draw, and bore it proudly nonetheless, for a hound must keep appearances.

His office was this: Robin drew the bow. Little John broke the heads. The hound carried the gold. Whensoever some fat abbot or usurious baron was lightened of his purse upon the Nottingham road, the purse was strapped upon the hound's shoulders, and he alone knew the deer-paths where no Sheriff's man dared follow. Ten years he ran that road; ten thousand purses passed over his back; and never was a groat found wanting. He asked for no song, no statue, and no cut — which, in a book about a man who splits arrows, remaineth the least believable sentence.

Now the Sheriff of Nottingham kept a cat: a vast cat, fat beyond allegory, round as a tithe-barn, that supped upon cream whilst the children of Nottingham supped upon air. And upon a night beneath the great oak, Robin laid his hand on the hound's head and spake the vow aloud for them both, for the hound could not. “Rob the fat cats; feed the strays,” quoth Robin. Six words; no appendix. And the hound struck the oak-root thrice with his tail, which among dogs is a binding seal.

But minstrels make songs of arrows, not of errands. When at last this book was set in type, the printer read this chapter and said, “Who shall believe that a dog held the whole treasury of Sherwood?” — and struck it from the plates, and gave the hound not so much as a footnote. It was 1883; cats had lobbyists. The archers got the songs. The hound got the dark.

Yet vows outlive paper, and dogs outlast printers. Seven hundred years the hound hath waited at the greenwood's edge; and now men have raised a new Sherwood, built not of oak but of blocks, each sealed fast upon the last, where the toll of every road is paid in gas; and the number of that wood is 4663 — which, spelled upon the small keys men carry in their pockets, readeth HOOD. The garment, mind; only ever the garment.

The hound is come home. And he remembereth every purse.

“The archers got the songs. The hound got the dark.”

— from the edition they hid · MMXXVI

The Four Prophecies

Four true posts by the keeper of the chain. We claim none of them — we merely read the signs.

Four true posts. One inevitable conclusion.

The Ledger

Kept by the hound, who never lost a groat.

Token

Robin Hound

Ticker

$RHOUND

Forest

Robinhood Chain · ID 4663

Toll of the roads

Gas, paid in ETH

Launch

Fair, via public launchpad

Team allocation

None. Outlaws do not do payroll.

Taxes

0 buy / 0 sell

Roadmap

Forest paths only

Contract

TBA — posted here first

Every project wallet will be declared on this page before launch. Rugs are for floors.

The Cipher

The number of the forest, spelled upon the small keys men carry in their pockets. Dial it.

The Merry Mutts

Ten thousand woodcuts, free to mint on Robinhood Chain, tradeable on OpenSea. Every one mints hooded — then comes the Unhooding, portrait by portrait, on X.

The Mythic keeps his gold leaf — the only color permitted on these pages. He had the chapter burned; twenty-three of him remain, one for every chapter.

How to Join the Band

Until launch, the only thing to buy is the story — and the story is free.

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Rarely Believed