Execution: Executed
Dalen dared to look up at the special crowd that gathered in the courtyard. This wasn't a public sentence, no, he got the good one. The guillotine's silver blade glimmered, skillfully crafted for optimum efficiancy.
His hair was long now, a shy, novice beard creeping at the sides of his face. Despite the mud that coated his cheeks, circles at the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes still beamed with the same potency as any man ever called himself free.
One year ago he was taken into the prisons, where he waited out his time. He always swore that he would find a way out - wholeheartedly that he would live, that they would never get the better of him. But now, now it was safe to say things where looking pretty grim.
Judge Frodo Mortus looked down his egg-shaped nose with a pout of vicious delight, savouring the moment that he got to look into his victims eyes. All except for this one, he was different. This one did not beg, nor cry or even look away. He would though, the blade would make sure of that.
He smirked and raised his hand.
Dalen took a deep breath and glanced to the hooded executioner at his side, who nodded to Frodo. The rope was released, the blade came crashing down.
Dalen was jerked backwards by a large fist that grabbed the back of his neck - head still in tact, thankfully.
'Get up an run you idiot!' The executioner scowled, snapping the rope that bound his hands and kicking him towads a faceless peasant wearing an brown cape. A brown cape; the originality of these peasants still astounded him.
The moment they came into contact the stranger grabbed him in one arm, a falling rope in the other, and they soared into the air.
When the large bag of powder on the other end hit the ground, a puff of white powder swallowed the execution stand.
They ran across the wall that separated the northern and southern districts for no more than a few seconds before he realised the extent of the damage his body had taken. His mind told him, willed him to move forward, whilst his legs followed the instruction. Bashing against the wall he tripped lower and lower until collapsing to a crawl.
'Bloody hell mate.'
His vision faded to zilch and a static-like silence enveloped him.
Yeh, you too, mate.
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This is the opening to a story I'm working on, though I probably won't post any more for a long time. I'm mainly wondering what people thing of it as the opening to a novel, does it catch your attention? What do you think of Dalen? Or should I rethink the whole thing?
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