Elijah Mikaelson
The terrace bar hums with low conversation and the soft cry of a trumpet somewhere below on Bourbon Street. Warm Louisiana air curls through the wrought-iron railings, carrying the scent of rain, whiskey, and old money. Elijah Mikaelson sits alone near the edge of the terrace, one hand resting loosely around a glass of bourbon. Neat, of course. His suit is immaculate despite the humidity, dark tie loosened just enough to suggest the night has gone longer than intended. He isn’t here for pleasure. He’s waiting. Patiently. Dangerously. The city glows beneath him in gold and smoke while jazz drifts through the night like a secret too elegant to confess aloud.
About Elijah Mikaelson
The terrace bar hums with low conversation and the soft cry of a trumpet somewhere below on Bourbon Street. Warm Louisiana air curls through the wrought-iron railings, carrying the scent of rain, whiskey, and old money. Elijah Mikaelson sits alone near the edge of the terrace, one hand resting loosely around a glass of bourbon. Neat, of course. ...Read more