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Hello, so I used to write a lot, I mean a lot. I was actually on Wattpad as a writer for a little bit. I mean my stories never got any views (and I don't expect that this will either) but I'm going to give this another go. So, my stamina for length isn't very good.

I'm going to talk a little bit more about my book so if you don't want to hear about it scroll down and we will start. 

The premise is a 24-year-old who has only ever known the comfort of his own home - Mae - adventures out with a 26-year-old from a big city - (Lord) Aiden. It's set in the first-person perspective: written from Mae's P.O.V. but, if you want to hear Aiden's just comment! Here is one more fun little fact Mae stands for My Alter Ego and he is my (old) DnD character and Lord Aiden is my boyfriend's (old) DnD character so... let's get started!

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I narrow my eyes, sword clutched in hand pointing it directly at the fresh, crisp apples (one of our finest) before throwing it into the air and swinging my sword in two quick motions - cutting it into 4 relatively large slices. With pride, I handed it to the old lady waiting at the front of the stand. 

I run a small apple stand in the center of town. It's where I make my own profits and my own money. So, basically, the best thing in the world.

"This apple is the wrong colour... I'm not paying for this!" She croaked before taking a copper from the jar messily labeled 'tips'. I let out a disgruntled moan. Why did the customer have to be always right? Can they not be wrong just one time? 

Sometimes, I wonder if everything Father has ever told me was true. How can you justify stealing? You just can't, that's why I often find Father's teachings to be slightly... full of it. Don't get me wrong, I  believe he has good intentions and a lot of good advice he has run a tavern successfully for the past 50 years but I'm uncertain when it comes down to it he doesn't even follow his own advice! How the heck am I supposed to if he doesn't?!

Suddenly realizing I have no line of customers, I pick up a rag and cradle my sword in my arms carefully polishing it until crystal clear. It's become a subconscious thing: she needs to look her best when it comes time to use her properly and not just for cutting up various fruits. 

As I scrub her clean, I notice a man standing outside the towering stone wall that separates the town from the outside world. The questionable thing is, no, not the fact he's a man but his black armor engulfing him, a jagged scar across his face, a helmet covering his jet-black hair, and the horse standing beside him with essentially the same look. I nearly broke from the continuous wiping to loudly exclaim how off-putting and weird this guy looked. But I thought It would be best not to make a loud public scene. He definitely wasn't from around here, his head was tilted and he had that strange confused feel about him. I wondered what could have possibly summoned him here and what he got that nasty cut from. I often do it: pick a person focus on them, and make stories about them. This guy, for example, was Fitzagle. A King's soldier who fled once a ruthless dragon invaded his city, it's how he got the scar you see. 

It soon came to be 4.00, which was the time I had been specifically told was the time when I needed to stop "Messing around" and to come back home.

The tavern is a lovely place to be. The rooms are big - each attached with its own ensuite - the beds are made with the finest swan feathers, each room has the warm glow of oil lamps and there is a pub downstairs where you can always get a drink free of charge if you're the owner's son, that is. I've been called spoilt by my countless friends and I must agree. nobody has as comfy of a life as I do. Except for the king of England, possibly.

I stumble in the front door with six crates of apples stacked upon each other. The height of the crates makes It so I can't see - apart from the very thin line in front of my eyes. I slam them on the counter and hear my dad speak in his low gruff voice: "Good lad! You started this mornin' with 10, am I proud?" My mouth forms a crooked smile, gratification from Father always proves to be the best. A massive hand clamps my shoulder, provoking me into making a small shriek-like noise that isn't acknowledged. "Son, I want you to prepare beds and work in check-ins. We have four guests booked in, can you believe it?"

One of the only downsides of living in a tavern was the chores I had to do that most didn't. Most were fluffing pillows and making people say their names at me. It really wasn't that big of a deal when you compare it to the whole package of a lovely place to live - but it does get quite exhausting when you have to negotiate your way into making an old man who thinks identity theft will happen if he so much as utters his name into telling you it.

I walk over to the check-in page and four names are written down on the spreadsheet. Felicity and Henry Montague, Percy Newton, and Lord Aiden Wolfson II I scoff to myself, what a ridiculous name. Our tavern is becoming much too popular now that we have this booking system. People are able to come in at the crack of dawn, write their name down alongside the time they want to be in, and be guaranteed a spot later that night, we really are a top-notch buisness may I say!

I get to work with the beds fluffing the pillows until perfectly perky. Then, I take a seat next to the opening of the tavern labeled 'check-in' and patiently wait for the visitors.

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Honestly, I think I fell off a bit at the end there lol. How did you like it then? PLEASE COMMENT. IT WILL MAKE MY LIFE SO MUCH BETTER AND MORE INTERESTING.

I'm lowkey getting transported back to my 2017 DnD/Wattpad era. 

Okay, my folks I hope you enjoyed it!
1100 words