HennessyTheAuthor

In a dangerous world where warlords rule, monsters roam, and treachery lurks behind every corner, there exists a mercenary known only as Dude.

No title, no fancy lineage—just Dude.

Women whisper his name in hushed tones. Men either want to hire him or kill him. He’s a walking contradiction—deadly, yet lazy; cocky, yet irresistibly charming; a warrior with the strength of ten men but a habit of forgetting his own plans mid-fight. He never says no to coin, danger, or a damsel in distress. And somehow, no matter how insane the odds, he always pulls through with a smirk on his lips and a blade in his hand.

But it’s not just his swordplay that’s legendary.

After the dust settles, the women he saves find themselves drawn to him—whether it’s the thrill of survival, the heat of the moment, or just the way his rough hands feel against their skin. And when they give in to the tension, the passion that follows is nothing short of earth-shattering.

Tales Of A Swordsman

The first time I met Dude, he crashed—literally—through the roof of my inn.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely his fault. Bandits were chasing him, and someone had greased the slate tiles on the roof. (Still unknown whether it was an accident or just my luck.)

He landed in the common room, covered in mud and blood, holding a sack that smelled suspiciously like stolen cheese.

"You serve drinks?" he asked, upside down.

I handed him a broom. "After you fix my ceiling."

The inn was quiet that season. Too many beasts in the woods, not enough travelers. So I let him stay. Just for a few days, I told myself.

He took the smallest room. Somehow managed to make it look like a hurricane lived there. Boots on my table. Weapons under pillows. Bread in the bathtub.

"I live fast," he explained. "I unpack even faster."

He called me "Red" even though my hair hadn't been red in years. He said it fit. I said he needed glasses.

He complained about the soup. I complained about his boots.

He flirted. I ignored him. He flirted harder. I cracked.

One night, he played a card game with three dwarves, won a goat, lost his shirt, and somehow still ended up behind the bar pouring drinks.

"No," he said. "But I look great doing it."

The bandits came back. Set the stables ablaze. Trapped three guests upstairs. Everyone panicked.

Dude ran straight through the fire, carried out the guests one by one, then punched the ringleader in the jaw so hard the man forgot his own name.

He came back covered in soot and smoke, grinning like a fool. "Still want me to mop?"

I kissed him before I could stop myself.

He didn't stay. Not forever. Dude never does.

And then one morning, he was gone.

No note. Just a clean mug on the counter and a coin in the till.

But I wasn't angry. I wasn't even surprised.

He never promised permanence. Only presence.

And if he comes back again—whether bleeding, laughing, or half-dressed—I'll let him in.

Because even a mercenary needs a place to rest.

Dude! Where Can I Find A Inn?