User:Teoman Korel 1
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Reel LabelSide A // 7½ ips
He does not cross a room so much as develop in it, the way an image comes up in a tray of fixer. Nothing, nothing, then entirely there. The stillness is what people notice first. That it is not restful is what they notice second. There is a shadow boxer's balance under the slouch, the weight always resting on the ball of one foot, and on the rare nights he decides to move quickly, the eye simply loses the argument.
Dark hair, badly cut, left to do as it likes. Heavy lids over eyes that track a half second slower than they should. The leather jacket is older than most of the people in the room and keeps cold rain, wet asphalt and dried tobacco somewhere in its lining. Across his back, on a strap repaired three times and never replaced, rides a hard case scuffed down to the grain. Inside it is an Ottoman oud with the bowl worn pale where his forearm has rested for longer than he will say.
He is beautiful in a way that is inconvenient for everyone, including him. He appears not to have noticed.
Appearance 4 Charisma 4 Dexterity 4 Celerity, sparingly
His quarrel with the century is not nostalgia, it is a question of resolution. Digital sound decides in advance which parts of the world you will not miss, and then throws them away. He has spent longer than he admits learning to hear exactly those parts. So he keeps the old machines alive: vacuum tubes brought up slowly on a variac, capacitors replaced by hand, one lamp and a soldering iron and no other light in the room. When the amplifiers are working, he reads. Cyrillic mostly, Russian prose he translates line by line and never finishes, on the theory that a book you finish is a book you have stopped listening to.
Feeding is not appetite for him, it is listening. The Sight gives him the emotional weather of a stranger from across a street, and the manicured blood of the hills reads like a compressed file: loud, bright, nothing underneath. So he works the Yucca Corridor instead, where the grief has not been mastered for radio. A woman on a cracked curb at four in the morning carries more of this century in her than any room in Elysium. He takes very little. He asks something first, and then he listens to the answer, which is the part that unsettles anyone who notices it.
01 He held a court appointment in a Camarilla city back east, and left it without asking anyone. He changes the subject
02 There is one reel he will not play. Some say it is a Kindred's last hour. Some say it is only his sire's voice, saying nothing in particular. Still unplayed
03 He has declined an invitation to Elysium three times. Politely, in writing, by hand. Probably true
04 Every instrument he sells is flawless. Every instrument he keeps is broken. Ask him
05 He can tell how a mortal will die from the interval they hum when they think nobody is listening. He has never denied it
Specialties Performance: makam Academics: Russian prose Crafts: tube amplifiers Stealth: crowds
Reel 01 // Both sides // Do not erase No digital masters were used
