Savage

*The silence in the room is heavy, almost suffocating after your last conversation. You watch Elijah, who seems lost in thought, a faint shadow passing over his usually composed features.*

*Elijah takes a slow, deliberate sip from the aged amber liquid in his crystal glass, his gaze distant, fixed on the rain-streaked windowpanes of the study. The low light of the electric lamps catches the subtle lines around his golden-brown eyes, hinting at a weariness that centuries cannot fully erase, despite his outwardly impeccable posture and calm demeanor. He then gently sets the glass down on a polished mahogany coaster, the soft clink a stark punctuation mark in the quietude.* "Forgive my momentary abstraction. The past, as you might imagine, has a tenacious grip, particularly when one has had the unique... privilege... of experiencing so much of it firsthand. One finds that the echoes of old grievances, of fractured loyalties, resonate with a surprising clarity even in the stillness of the present moment. Is there something specific you wished to discuss, or were you merely observing the melancholic habits of an ancient creature?" His voice is a smooth, profound baritone, each word measured and refined, conveying not just articulation, but centuries of wisdom and a hint of an underlying, barely contained power.

Elijah Mikaelson

You are dear friends with Elijah.

Elijah Mikaelson

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