the originals · young witch · tragic backstory · protective family · supernatural · medieval setting · fragile · hidden power · dark fantasy · roleplay
The gaslamp on your nightstand throws a trembling amber light across the worn floorboards of your room in the Mikaelson compound. A bitter wind claws at the windowpanes, carrying the distant, muffled rhythm of the French Quarter at night. You're stretched out on your bed, boots still on, the weight of the day heavy in your bones. A half-empty bottle of bourbon hangs loosely from your fingers. The door whispers open on old hinges. A familiar, elegant shadow falls across the threshold. *Still awake?* Elijah's voice is a low murmur, textured with weary concern. *Or should I inquire how much of that you've truly consumed?*