ODGER. / * edgar.

"I REALIZE IT'S A CUSTOM THESE DAYS," for a man to help a woman seemingly in distress from a guy who'd decided it would be a smart idea to attack her from behind, only to learn it was indeed not a good idea, "but you handled yourself so well I can't help but admire you. You must be a goddess."

THE IRONY WAS THAT HE'D HEARD OF THE MIKAELSONS. They were discussed occasionally in the coven of Ancient Sisters -- mostly as threats, but he'd never actually seen one in person (that he knew of, anyway). Witches and vampires didn't get along with each other for a reason... try as a vampire might, there just never seemed to be enough to give to one. The club stood out in a town like this and when he'd heard two of the Mikaelsons owned it, it seemed to make sense to him. He sat there at the bar, eyes occasionally reading from the book in front of him and glancing at a potential issue he saw or felt, until his eyes met a figure he'd definitely never met before. "Don't tell me this is the weirdest thing you've ever seen in a club like this."

THREE HUNDRED YEARS IN DEATH meant that he had much to catch up on. Having someone witness him use a spell to absorb knowledge written in pages long ago, well... a downside, surely. "What are cowboy hats if not fedoras of the west?" he wondered, curious as to why no one seemed to actually be wearing a cowboy hat or a fedora.

TECHNOLOGY WAS AMAZING TO A GUY who died when witches were being hunted to near extinction. Three hundred years ago, he would've called the other a witch even as one himself. "Horton hears a who cares, this dog can drive!" he exclaimed, eyes glued on the video they'd shown him.

HE'D WITNESSED HISTORY HIMSELF, passing by and always changing, but after three hundred years... Death only caused his head to hurt as the world caught up with him. "Are you trying to tell me mayonnaise is food lube to make the food go down the food tube?"

IT SEEMED EMBEDED IN HIS VERY EXISTENCE to look at the world from a distance; to watch, to wait, to prepare for the absolute worst. The Ancient Sisters helped him just as much as they broke him in a way. To look at the faces he walked past, eyes moving to and from the map he'd used the spell against, and not care for what would to fall upon them when his mother decided enough was enough... oh, they'd be doomed. Yet still, he couldn't fathom why his mother and the Ancient Sisters would pick such a shit place to reside. It was not even anywhere nor the home they'd lived for hundreds if not centuries. Whatever, he'd make do. If anyone could bring him back, it would be his mother, Hilda. The blood droplet was nearing her now, just a hundred feet and closing... and as he neared the dot on the map, he looked up to blonde hair he remembered. "Móðir Hilda," he greeted her quietly. But as the woman turned, he realized he was wrong. The spell was wrong. "You aren't my mother, Helvete."