New Orleans hasn't been his family's home for a lot of years, but it will always be where part of their souls are continued to be called. For Klaus it's the legacy of the Mikaelsons here. For his siblings it's perhaps the time they spent here, the memories they hold dear to. For the child that spent the second longest time living in a satin lined prison, it's about one thing and one thing only. Witchcraft.

There's witches all over the world, but it's like New Orleans was built on blood and magic. Maybe it's the land. Maybe it's the witches that have worked this land since before the white man ever came here. Kol doesn't know what it is, but he can feel it in his heart, deep into his soul. If he still has a soul.

Walking the French Quarter is like how Kol imagined it felt before his mother gathered and changed the course of their lives forever. How life would have been without being changed forever and his magic taken from him.

That night he's hunting. He's not even sure he's hungry but he's bored, and he's still finding himself caught between the man he could be and the petulant child he's been for a thousand years. Tonight he's much more leaning toward the later in ragged designer jeans and a form fitting silk Henley in a rich heather blue. It's casual as hell and worth a small fortune, and has gained him enough attention but he's been following a wisp for a while. Something that isn't blood like he knows it. At least not intimately. Time to fix that.

Veering and crossing the street, he follows the girl he realises is the one he's sensing. Beautiful, certainly, but she looks fairly normal. Except there's an air about her and he can't help but move closer, especially when she goes into the bar.

Casually he moves up beside her. "I'll take a beer. Something on tap, and whatever she's drinking."