[Preview Alert] Axel, Roxas, Hunchback of Notre Dame
This is the very, very beginning to what I'm hoping will be the longest one-shot I have ever written. Any thoughts?
They arrive in the night, all the way from the World that Never Was. They both wear hoods, and the people are too afraid to do anything, fearing they might be angels from God. The taller one laughs and scares the children, and the shorter one stands motionless.
They both have their hoods up, so no one can see their faces. But they can see the faint traces of blonde hair from the shorter one.
They walk through the small village, their eyes seemingly set on Paris. The simple villagers run, too frightened and ignorant to raise a pitchfork just yet. They fear breaking the law, and that the two may be there to search for gypsies. Little do they know how smart their decision really is.
Even the horses are frightened of the two hooded figures; each dressed completely in black and silent as death. Murmurs ripple of the grim reaper and mothers clutch their children close to their bosoms. “Hush, child.”
They march together, a two man funeral procession. They reach the outermost stretches of the village. The tall one reaches suddenly, grabbing an unsuspecting farm hand. The boy struggles and begs for mercy. “Please, mon ami,” he breathes.
The hooded figure shrugs, his companion folds his arms quietly. “Who is in charge of the vicinity?” the man demands of the boy.
“F-Frollo,” the boy states and finds himself thrown into the ground.
“Let’s go, Roxas.”
And with that, they both vanish from the eyes of the villagers. They leave behind traces of black mist, and the old grandmothers sob. “It’s an omen,” they moan.
They arrive in the night, all the way from the World that Never Was. They both wear hoods, and the people are too afraid to do anything, fearing they might be angels from God. The taller one laughs and scares the children, and the shorter one stands motionless.
They both have their hoods up, so no one can see their faces. But they can see the faint traces of blonde hair from the shorter one.
They walk through the small village, their eyes seemingly set on Paris. The simple villagers run, too frightened and ignorant to raise a pitchfork just yet. They fear breaking the law, and that the two may be there to search for gypsies. Little do they know how smart their decision really is.
Even the horses are frightened of the two hooded figures; each dressed completely in black and silent as death. Murmurs ripple of the grim reaper and mothers clutch their children close to their bosoms. “Hush, child.”
They march together, a two man funeral procession. They reach the outermost stretches of the village. The tall one reaches suddenly, grabbing an unsuspecting farm hand. The boy struggles and begs for mercy. “Please, mon ami,” he breathes.
The hooded figure shrugs, his companion folds his arms quietly. “Who is in charge of the vicinity?” the man demands of the boy.
“F-Frollo,” the boy states and finds himself thrown into the ground.
“Let’s go, Roxas.”
And with that, they both vanish from the eyes of the villagers. They leave behind traces of black mist, and the old grandmothers sob. “It’s an omen,” they moan.