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sinnerlikehim:
"Glad to know that your needs are satisfied even though neither Elijah nor I was around. Although we probably couldn’t be considered close enough to share these gory details."
"You were not close? Did you not travel as brothers through the centuries?"
A flick of her brunette locks over a shoulder and she's leaning against the wall, having sidled a tad closer to Niklaus. Quietly, she listens to the dull thumping of a heart beat.
"It's nature's joke; not Marcel's."
"You again."
Mystic Falls seemed too small a place, still, much larger than years ago. At least, in the 10th century, she had truly enjoyed his presence.
"It is easy to promise something impossible."
A short stroll along the seine takes her into Musee d'Orsay, the change in scenery much welcomed from the weekends in the Caledonion market and the London that had grown dusty since her short visit in the 19th century. Paris had always been one of her dearest homes, aside from brimming along the outskirts of Eastern Europe. Her apartment on its own extolled the sybaritic pleasures of fine dining and quiet living, yet the memories of her past life bleeding her hands for survival at the splintered handle of the sickle scraped constantly in her mind. Some things could never be forgotten, some weaknesses never completely eradicated despite her delicately deceiving physique.
Having entered the edifice, she spends a good half an hour in the same section in admiration of the Neo-impressionism paintings--
of how poor the copies were to the originals in the basement.
Tomorrow, the Pissarros would be hers; Sophie Moreaux, her favourite alias lying on the deeds to the museum.
The pigment splashed across the canvas was too vibrant; vulgar; the fails of restoration irking her faith in the human race. Her finger reaches her temple, providing solace in a simple gesture, but movement in the room drives her attention to a man she hasn't seen before. Mechanical eyes watch him behind the masque of a pretty lady; whatever he wants not of importance to her unless he revealed himself a warlock and offered his services.
A long shot, indeed.
"Rainy day," she casually remarks, a harmless smile sliding across her features. The faint pattering against glass whisper only a drizzle, but the material of her coat reeked of luxury.
sinful-solitude replied to your post: What do you hate most about Klaus?
"Being /nice/ to me."
I quite despise your hair, Niklaus.
Tatia intruded the mansion whenever she pleased. After all, nothing assembled by mortal hand had ever stopped her. And even though acutely aware of Niklaus's errant need for violence with no regard to location, she never once hesitated as the door to the outwardly immaculate house swung wide open. Encroaching far into his terrain, her boots clicked relentlessly against the peach-white tiles, her slender form slipping gently into the nearest armchair.
"Niklaus," she spoke calmly; he'd certainly hear her wherever he was. Her fingertips brushed the burnished edge of the armrest while she marveled in surprise at how he didn't have hybrids enslaved to the doorposts.
Klaus,
Your acts of bloodletting never fail to repulse me. What species of sin have you not entertained?
