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Chapter One

The author's hands quivered over his new typewriter, purchased on ebay from an antique collector who was latter in life and was ready to sell his finding to people who he deemed worthy. This typewriter truly was an antique in every sense of the word. Rust covered a fair amount of the metal workings and when it came to the author, some of the things that slam on the paper and splat English letters on said paper were intertwined. It took the author ages to get them straight. Now he was ready to brave the wondrous world of fantasy writing.

Arthur Penndragon, for that was the author's name, began to type. Word after word. Sentence after sentence. Paragraph after paragraph. After writing three chapters his eyes began to droop. Arthur looked at the grandfather clock that he stored in his spare room, the same spare room in which he now worked. It read eleven o' clock at night. No wonder he was tired. He had hardly slept the night before now he stayed up until practically midnight and it always took him a couple hours to get to sleep. Alas, our poor writer could not make it to his bedroom in time before he fell asleep. He simply laid his head down on the desk and slept.

"Did he hit his head?" Asked a feminine voice that sounded concerned. Arthur slowly opened his eyes and saw a man and a woman standing over him. These people had pointed ears and wore green robes with golden embroidery. "Oh! He's awake!"

"That he is." Chuckled the man. "And no, dear sister, he did not hit his head...at least, to my knowledge. I simply found him unconscious on the forest floor."

"Where am I?" Asked Arthur. That simple phrase took Arthur so much energy to say that his eyes again closed and he knew no more. When he again opened his eyes he saw only the girl.

"How do you feel?" She asked.

"Horrid." Said Arthur Penndragon.

"Horrid? Now that's a fancy word." Said the girl. "Where did you learn to talk so eloquently?" {to add more}

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