Murdoc was playing by the balcony. He held his wooden horse securely like he really was riding one and jumped about, neighing. Murdoc was small. Smaller than the rest of the other eight year olds and he had one crimson eye and one brown eye which made the others in his knight sessions look at him peculiarly. He was small, but he was also big. Inside.
He pretended to leap over a thin stream, landing boldly with a high stance. Chest puffed and shoulders back. Galloping down a slope, he accelerated abruptly. Feeling the wind rip at his skin, the bumping of the horse lifting and dropping. Then he felt his nose crumple.
He must've bumped into a boulder of some sort. Murdoc peered up and clenched his horse tight so much his fingers turned white. "Apologies, Sir Hannibal", Murdoc's voice was just above a whisper, "you are forgiven, young brother, however it would be most appreciated if you attend to your 'duties' in the Palace Gardens".
Murdoc bowed and stepped to the side, not once looking up. Sir Hannibal resembled their father in many ways: dark eyes, tall, intimidating. He always wore the same leather belt with emeralds engraved around the sheathe. It was feminine which made Murdoc query his sense of wear.
Murdoc walked along the corridor. It was silent except for the echo of his shoes against the stone floor. Continuing forward, he could hear more. Distant mumbles and the clatter of chains near the Dungeons. It was most likely feeding hour for the prisoners, despite that fact; the disturbance has never been this great. Perhaps they are preparing new slaves? No. Not slaves. Murdoc stopped and listened intensely. Is it just one slave? Murdoc could not contemplate a suitable purpose for only preparing one slave. It was enough trouble with twenty or so; the entire concept of it just presumed bizarre. Or perhaps it's...
Murdoc shook his head. He erased the thought clean from his mind. His curiosity had gotten the better of him once too many occasions; he was going to be in control now. It was his weakness: curiosity, mother stated so herself. Murdoc shrugged and sprinted to the Gardens
The boy's breath was shaky and it hurt him to breathe in. Observing, the boy scanned the area. A bench to sleep on and a lavatory created by compiled news sheets. He wriggled his fingers and referred, for the first time, the shackles clasped around his wrists and ankles.
Rusty and worn out... The boy frowned. No purpose feeling sympathetic, the ones who survived were the ones who forgot. The boy searched for any guards outside his cell. Praise be to Kubglasyn! There were none. He smiled then winced, that hurt him too, but nevertheless, he would have to endure the pain if he ever desired to get out.