chaos. panic. blood. all things elena gilbert was used to. the brunette stands in the streets of the french quarter her own hands soaked with blood of strangers, but she looks lost. and to a degree, she is. doe eyes soak in the horror around her and she saw what was happening. people were shouting, rioting. but vampires were killing. painting the streets red as their blood was fed to strangers and necks snapped. were they creating a army? at loss, but with the strong drive to do none other than help, elena coaxes the injured one after one. explaining things were going to be different now whenever they woke. that they needed to stay out of sunlight. that they were dying. that she was a ( doctor ). she wouldn’t tell them the alternative, no, to feed, to become a vampire. a pattern to be noted was the targets seemed to be young people. perhaps because they could easily be shaped & molded. she comforts them, strokes hair, holds hands. one after the other as they wake. she was doing her best, having more use here than at the local nola hospital. it was a time like this elena wishes she wasn’t cured. that she could still compel and paint the victims a picture of something better than the future they were about to become. a presence is felt behind her, but instead elena doesn’t turn around. she stands still, chin lifting, weary. her only defense being her blood was laced with vervain and a dulled end of a wooden broomstick she’d grabbed for a weapon, fingers tightening around the stick.
