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·° 。: ✰ : ·° 。
THE PATH WAS UNEVEN and littered with dried leaves and pebbles. They were trekking through the greenery, deep in the New Orleans's Bayou. Though, surrounded by nature, Rosalie could hardly find it in herself to complain.
Since her so-called death, the Monet felt as though she was experiencing life for the first time all over again. The innocent, rose-colored lenses only a child could have had been instilled in her. She couldn't help but marvel at the mundane.
Since her awkward conversation with Nik, he took a step back, deeming it the better option. Rather than feel the sting of his action, the brunette turned her attention to her surroundings. Rosalie glanced everywhere, taking in the thicket of trees, with their large branches, jagged leaves of green, and rooted trunks. The texture of the soil and mud, the sound of insects and birds chirping above, the scent of evergreen and rot, she took it all in.
Everything, everywhere, all at once.
So deep in her wonder, Rosalie felt ingrained, one with the earth. She breathed deeply, amber eyes twinkling in the moonlight.
"Hi," said the unfamiliar blonde woman, stepping up next to her. "I don't believe we've had a proper introduction. I'm Freya Mikaelson."
The Monet had been wondering about the blonde, only ever catching a brief glimpse of her in the short time she'd been awake so far. Now that her identity had been revealed, a coldness swept upon her.
"Mikaelson." Rosalie repeated, sounding more like a disbelieving question rather than a statement.
"I'm the firstborn." Freya explained, a small smile on her lips. A Rosalie's confusion, she offered, "It's a long story for another time."
"Right. I'm Rosalie Monet," The brunette introduced. "It's nice to finally meet you."
"Please," Freya grinned, "The pleasure's mine. I've heard great things about you."
Rosalie furrowed her eyebrows, great things? As far as she knew, the only great thing about her was the fact that she was still breathing.
"Does the curse involve an allergic reaction to shirts?" Klaus nearly growled out, glaring at the amount of topless men approaching them, and successfully disrupting Rosalie's train of thought.
They stopped long enough to observe the men, somehow emerging from the forestry with only jeans as their clothing.
"Sorry, mate," one of the men approached them, grinning good naturedly. "We needed to hurry. The sooner this takes place, the better."
He was tall, miles of tanned skin and muscles, with a boyish smile and puppy eyes. That messy, black hair, combined with that country accent of his was a recipe for the perfect heartbreaker.
