The tiny young lad looked upwards to what seemed higher than the sky, his bright green eyes peering through the toussled red-brown bangs that hung to his cheekbones. In the pudgy fingers of his one small hand he gripped a barely ripened apple, a small, single bite taken from it. As if in slow motion, the unchewed piece fell out from the small boy's gaping mouth as he stood frozen in the damp dirt of the road, his wide eyes looking up, and up and up.
With hooves the size of the boy's head a broad chested warhorse stamped the ground, kicking up mud onto the small human, freckling his tiny face with mud. The warrior steed was covered in armor, the chestpiece bearing the insignia of the king, a Crimson Raven. The helmeted knight had reined the beast quickly as it came galloping around the corner at full speed. The Warlord had spotted the boy ambling aimlessly, and came within six inches of trampling him as the numerous peasants in the market gasped collectively. The horse shrieked as it's reins were yanked, the bit in it's mouth digging in, spittle shooting out of it's muzzle.
Not recognizing that death had nearly visited him on this day, the youngster giggled, wiped the snot from one nostril, and walked away.