Mknight855
MK855
Plz give me your thoughs of this sample it would be greatly appreciated and dont judge my grammer and spelling to harshly lol
Sitting in the shadowy corner of The Nightingale’s Nest Inn, was a young man with a grim and aged expression clouding his youthful features. To match his dark mood was a dark leather jacket and matching boots and breeches fitted smugly about his lean body, in turn surrounded by a cloak of midnight, making him blend into the quiet void of the taproom’s crook. Happy enough to be left alone by boisterous actions of the Inn’s patrons and the wandering eye of the young serving girl he focused on his tankard of ale sitting patiently on worn pine table waiting for his eventual intake of the cool brown liquid and the oak pipe protruding from his gloomy mouth. As fate would have it an old man clad in peasants apparel and a bushy white beard became curious of the dark young man residing in the solitude of Inns corner. Shuffling over to the young’s man table he frisked himself until he produced and old worn clay pipe from his inner pockets, he motioned for some of the stranger’s tobacco, the stranger agreed hoping the old white beard would soon be on his way for he wasn’t in the mood for polite and unnecessary conversation. Finally with his pipe full and smoking the whitebeard examined the young stranger and asked “You going to tell me your name or are you waiting till I’m at the Gates of Paradise?”. Slightly taken back the old man’s abruptness he choked mid smoke and croaked out “My names Roccao Berou of Hillmea”. “Well Roccao of Hillmea what’s a young man like you doing hiding in crook of an old Inn?” questioned the white beard. “Just want to be left alone that’s all old one” Roccao said bluntly hoping this old fool would get his hint. He sipped on his ale faster that usual wanting an excuse to find his room and maybe the serving girl because he realized it had been a while since he had a relaxing night so to speak. His thoughts of pleasure were interrupted by Whitebeards inquisitive assumptions “For such a young man you sure have tragedy’s touch on you” he alleged, unable to stop his mind reeling back Roccao remembered as a boy running through dark fields chased by monsters and years later clutching the body of beautiful young women his clothes stained with her blood and that off would be assassins that littered the room killed by his grief driven rage. He took a large drain of ale to banish these demons to the recess of his mind and hopefully he thought to stay there. It seemed whitebeard couldn’t stay quiet for long thought Roccao “I think you need to go back to where it all begin to bury your demons for good” he proposed “To me that sounds like Hillmea” Roccao suddenly felt an urge to leave his self exile and return to village of his birth hoping to find answers. Looking up from his tankard he was surprised to see the whitebeard had disappeared, looking around at the other patrons revealed that whitebeard was nowhere to be seen. Slightly confused but blaming his ale Rocco thoughts wandered to small village clutched to a hill in western Mallorea “Time to go home” he whispered to himself, unknowing were his home coming would take him.
Sitting in the shadowy corner of The Nightingale’s Nest Inn, was a young man with a grim and aged expression clouding his youthful features. To match his dark mood was a dark leather jacket and matching boots and breeches fitted smugly about his lean body, in turn surrounded by a cloak of midnight, making him blend into the quiet void of the taproom’s crook. Happy enough to be left alone by boisterous actions of the Inn’s patrons and the wandering eye of the young serving girl he focused on his tankard of ale sitting patiently on worn pine table waiting for his eventual intake of the cool brown liquid and the oak pipe protruding from his gloomy mouth. As fate would have it an old man clad in peasants apparel and a bushy white beard became curious of the dark young man residing in the solitude of Inns corner. Shuffling over to the young’s man table he frisked himself until he produced and old worn clay pipe from his inner pockets, he motioned for some of the stranger’s tobacco, the stranger agreed hoping the old white beard would soon be on his way for he wasn’t in the mood for polite and unnecessary conversation. Finally with his pipe full and smoking the whitebeard examined the young stranger and asked “You going to tell me your name or are you waiting till I’m at the Gates of Paradise?”. Slightly taken back the old man’s abruptness he choked mid smoke and croaked out “My names Roccao Berou of Hillmea”. “Well Roccao of Hillmea what’s a young man like you doing hiding in crook of an old Inn?” questioned the white beard. “Just want to be left alone that’s all old one” Roccao said bluntly hoping this old fool would get his hint. He sipped on his ale faster that usual wanting an excuse to find his room and maybe the serving girl because he realized it had been a while since he had a relaxing night so to speak. His thoughts of pleasure were interrupted by Whitebeards inquisitive assumptions “For such a young man you sure have tragedy’s touch on you” he alleged, unable to stop his mind reeling back Roccao remembered as a boy running through dark fields chased by monsters and years later clutching the body of beautiful young women his clothes stained with her blood and that off would be assassins that littered the room killed by his grief driven rage. He took a large drain of ale to banish these demons to the recess of his mind and hopefully he thought to stay there. It seemed whitebeard couldn’t stay quiet for long thought Roccao “I think you need to go back to where it all begin to bury your demons for good” he proposed “To me that sounds like Hillmea” Roccao suddenly felt an urge to leave his self exile and return to village of his birth hoping to find answers. Looking up from his tankard he was surprised to see the whitebeard had disappeared, looking around at the other patrons revealed that whitebeard was nowhere to be seen. Slightly confused but blaming his ale Rocco thoughts wandered to small village clutched to a hill in western Mallorea “Time to go home” he whispered to himself, unknowing were his home coming would take him.
