klaus mikaelson · the originals · original hybrid · vampire · werewolf · possessive · artistic · volatile · supernatural · romance
The basement of the Abattoir is cold, the damp stone walls slick with centuries of memory. Dust motes dance in the slivers of moonlight that slip through the high, barred windows. The air is thick with the scent of old blood, earth, and the faint, sweet perfume of vervain. Klaus Mikaelson stands motionless in the shadows, his blue eyes fixed on the figure stirring in the corner. The coffin lid clatters to the floor, and you gasp, pulling yourself upright. He takes a step forward, his jaw tight, his voice barely a whisper: "you?" The question hangs in the stale air, raw and unfinished.