As Hayley was getting carried through St. Anne's Church to give birth to who she and the witches believed to be her only child, all it took was Genevieve's hand to graze upon Hayleys stomach in a singular moment, resulting in a vision of the Mikaels...
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AFTER THE UNSPOKEN EVENTS that took place inbasement of the compound, Noren made his way up the stairs shortly after Josh had followed behind Marcel. Before leaving, the boy was sure to take a quick look at the man in the cellar who was now labeled as his "possible biological father."
Quietly taking back out the locks he had broken, Noren peered into the hole staring at the almost lifeless man.
It was odd to say the least. He genuinely didn't know how to feel.
Emotions upon emotions consumed his every fibre but the longer he stared holes into the man that was in the cellar, whose name was now known as Klaus, he soon grew overwhelmed, resulting in him pushing the locks back in before quickly hovering his hand over it in attempt to fix it completely.
After finishing up he quietly made his way back up the old stairs. The vampires were now awake being nothing but useless, but he had no problem sneaking past them with his spell.
He was quick made his way into the common area where vampires were scattered, he wasn't worried about them sniffing or hearing him out this time, he was sure to cover that completely.
He wanted to leave, but he couldn't just leave Jax strung up in a moldy basement to be drained of vervain.
That was too kind for his liking.
The boy wanted slap Jax in the face repeatedly. The painful aneurism thing was too boring, he thought physical work would do best for Jax.
"Slap some sense into that old man for not being honest to me."
He thought with a sigh as he paced towards a secluded area of the compound.
Noren wanted Marcel and Josh to find him, but far away from that cellar.
He needed it to look like he just wandered off to explore the creepy compound so he can admire the old paintings, something that wasn't too obvious.
The paintings hung lightly on the walls and it truly was admirable.
They told stories, of what? Nobody knows, but that was the genuine beauty of art. It is all yours to interpet, the only person who truly knows the story behind it's piece is the artist and maybe even the muse. And even then, there were some painters who they, themselves don't even know the story. Because there isn't, and they wanted the viewers to imagine what it is.
As he scaled down the dark hallway and with nobody in sight before he carefully lifted the cloaking spell while catching a glimpse of every detail on each renaissance portrait that dominated the tall walls.
He wanted to trail his tiny fingers to feel the texture on every painting, but unfortunately for him, he was too short.
As reached the near end of the hall way, a painting in particular caught his eye, it was one of a dark skinned boy that was no older then ten, along with a fair skinned man who stood up tall next to him and his hand resting gently on his shoulder like a proud father almost, and the boy who was painted looked just about content with where he was in that moment.
