- REWRITING OFFLINE 10/03/25-
☆ 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗦 : what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?
After the death of her mother, 17 y/o Deena Salée rummage through her mothe...
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𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌-𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐃 with wet, crimson blood. Splattered, dripping, and bathed his entire being with the last breaths of a small vampire coven hoarding his daughter's blood. Four packs of blood bags safely placed in a cooler of the rundown kitchen barely holding together—now a red puddle. A quick cure to werewolf bites, it seemed few have previously encountered due to the limited supply of one of the bags.
Specs of fresh blood dripped from the ceiling like a running faucet, a deep red color seeping through the wooden cracks of the attic.
His chest heaved with blinded rage, eyes glowing golden yellow, bloody fangs retracting into his gums as the evening sun bled through the ripped black-out curtains. A heart warm in his palm, still beating its last few beats before it stilled. Decapitated bodies of grey redecorated the dreadful house, some still having motor and twitched as they joined their coven in death. Opened eyes stared up in shock as Klaus passed them. Souls unable to process the split of the moment.
The coven praised in its glories and expressed the need for more blood, more of his daughter since their dealer had gone radio silent. They thought it wise to get ahead of the game and figure out the source of their blessings. It led to the discovery of Deena tucked away in New Orleans.
The utter disgust to address his heart, his legacy as a meaningless object. A means to their survival against the wolves they've provoked. A sickening desire to take more than their share and taste her warm blood as if to absorb her magical qualities and sought what made her special.
It disgusted Klaus.
The coven weren't granted a chance to plead and Klaus didn't feel the need to waste his breath. He promised his daughter an end to this madness and left not one soul alive to act on these wicked desires.
The body of a man lay beaten with blood gushing from his amputated arm that was likely ripped in blinded rage. Klaus grabbed the man by his shredded shirt, dragging his body toward the fire burning in the living room where most of the coven resided. All stacked like a Christmas tree. The burning stench of rotten flesh brought a sense of familiarity Klaus missed.
