Muk fiddled with the lockpicks tucked in the secret pocket of his shirtsleeve. To the finely dressed men and women strolling down high street he must have appeared another louse-ridden street urchin scratching at his infestation. He was seventeen, but he was small for his age as a result of poor nutrition throughout his childhood. His black hair was sleek with sweat under the ragged hood, he was nervous. He sat huddled on the dirty cobblestone at the edge of a long alleyway that he knew to have many exits and stared out at nothing. His dark eyes were cold and emotionless, like those of a veteran of a war campaign who has seen far more trauma than they’ll ever say. Muk could summon up a glare that would freeze wine, and invariably made people look away, as it was intended to. He didn’t want to get close to anyone, he didn’t want to make any friends. Never again. Elora. Without warning, he was twelve again, and with her. Muk could clearly see her smile lit by the breaking dawn...
Just practicing writing. Feel free to comment.