"ffft.. stupid...jumbling rat-face.. ptth!..pompous pratifying...cobbles..hrrhg...clot-pole!..."
The sound of grumbling half sentences and agitated footsteps stomping on hardened stone and moulding hay echoed densely in the dungeons of Camelot. Had there actually been anyone in the other cells they would surely be reduced to insanity by now, but as there seldom were, the ruckus made by the sole inhabitant disturbed no-one... and was heard by no-one.
Merlin was not pleased.
"That supercilious pig-adorned mule!" He threw up is hands in the air and stomped once more to demonstrate his frustration [to no one what-so-ever watching] before plumping down opposite the 'bed' with a grunt like a thrown potato sack and the attitude of a fit-throwing toddler.
Flaring his nostrils Merlin drummed his fingers impatiently against the bricks while plotting the worst imaginable way to hasten the demise of the current heir of the throne. Destiny be damned, if he wasn't let out soon he would unleash the most horrible, diarrhea inducing, mucus clogging, shame bringing curse ever to have been seen, or so help him god.
Merlin was not pleased.
Another grumble echoed in the otherwise empty dungeons.
And he was hungry.