Frederick Steros rode into town in a black 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. The vampire siphon was a stickler for old muscle cars. The deep rumble reminded him of hoof beats. As much as he enjoyed his 2-door convertible, he couldn’t help but miss the good old days when people used to ride horses. Though he was well aware a horse couldn’t go zero to sixty in nine point two seconds. Not without a little magical interference. 
Fredrick drove down the main strip. Windows down, and fingers drumming the outside of his door. This sleepy town never ceased to surprise Fred. There always seemed to be some magical catastrophe on the horizon. Hell, he noticed the Originals made the trip from New Orleans to Mystic Falls a lot more than he would expect of some backwater town. It was one of the reasons he had come. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about.