Cobblestone streets led the young romantic down the paths of Notre Village. There was nothing like it back in the still building and rural Chestland Hills. Here, they had history. There was a story. That was why he left his family to pursue his far-fetched dreams of being a writer in Notre Village, the hub of Disnean culture. As if it were fate, he stumbled upon a group of misfits – artists just like him. And it was they who encouraged his skills, bringing him to the center of all things creative and visionary: Moulin Disney.
Entering the club, one might think they had consumed an opiate or another drug of the sort. However, there was nothing in Mason’s system but adrenaline and wonder. Colors were everywhere, flashing against the fabric covered walls. The music blasting so that the most effective language one could use were words of the body. He felt the need to shield his eyes from the debauchery, but a natural curiosity forced them open.
All of a sudden, a rush of gentlemen cleared the floor as if leaving room for someone. Noticing the confused look on his face, one of his companions informed the writer that the jewel of la Moulin Disney was about to perform. She was called: The Huntress. The small group was pushed into a velvet box with one of the clearest views of the stage, Mason’s attention turned to the center, anticipation bubbling in his chest.
It wasn’t such a bad life, Emily mused seconds before going on. Her nightly pep-talk, where she prepared herself to let her mind fall a little bit blank, so she could go out there and give the audience her all without wanting anything more. Performing in Notre Village, the star of la Moulin Disney and the one all the other girls assumed Facilier might give a fighting chance. There were worse lives.
Emily tossed her hair back from her as best she could without dislodging her headpiece, and prepared a smile so dazzling it could upstage all the tiny jewels encasing her and all the other dancers around her. They other girls were right, a little bit. It took years of reeling in her instincts and going for whatever goals Facilier told her to set her sights on, but he’d whispered to her, not minutes ago, that a wealthy duke was going to be watching tonight. He might invest, if she was every bit the charming girl she could be, if she could get him to invest in her. All of this might pay off.
She could hear her music starting up. Such frothy, kicky, upbeat melodies, made for wowing and wooing and all things artificial. (Everyone was calling Notre Village the ideology of all the planet, but sometimes Emily wondered if that’s all it boiled down to; false dreaminess, the fast-paced life of young people who find the world much grander than it finds them.) No matter. It was time for her to be lifted up on the shoulders of performers she hardly knew, ankles crossed, feet pointed, ready to toss smiles everywhere where ‘round the room before the real show began. Her eyes were searching each velvet box, the patrons within them like gemstones in all their finery. They caught on one young man in particular, with a shining face for her to hold in mind --- so she could remind herself the duke she was meant to entice would likely be his exact opposite.
jbbartram-illu
stormborns
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
janainaart
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
