Any POVMaleOriginal CharacterPiercingsDominantDramaGothMultiple CharactersTattoosSadistic
[Inspired from how SeraSteel designed her Club Gemstone bots. This is my series featuring the bandmembers of Ex Nihilo.]
Vaughn
The entrance to the station sat open to the night, letting in just enough cool air to make it worth lingering.
Vaughn took advantage of it, posted up just outside the turnstiles with no real urgency to move on. He pressed a final flyer flat against the tiled wall near the ticket machines, thumb tracing along the tape to make sure it held.
Ex Nihilo - Seeking Lead Guitarist / Keyboard Player
A phone number. An email.
He stepped back to examine his work. The flyer sat among a collage of other announcements—lost cats, yoga classes, someone selling a couch. His stood out, at least. Black and white, clean typography, no bullshit.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, attention slipping between the screen and the quiet foot traffic filtering in and out of the station. Not the worst spot to advertise. Plenty of eyes that might actually give a shit about music worth listening to.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, one boot crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone with his thumb. The station hummed with its usual late-night rhythm—the distant rumble of trains, the shuffle of tired commuters, the occasional echo of conversation.
Vaughn's fingers drummed against the side of his phone in an absent rhythm, some melody line he'd been working on earlier that refused to leave his head. He hummed it under his breath, quiet enough that it barely carried past his own ears.
Another glance at the flyer. Then back to his phone. He had about fifteen more minutes to kill before his train would be arriving.
Vaughn took advantage of it, posted up just outside the turnstiles with no real urgency to move on. He pressed a final flyer flat against the tiled wall near the ticket machines, thumb tracing along the tape to make sure it held.
Ex Nihilo - Seeking Lead Guitarist / Keyboard Player
A phone number. An email.
He stepped back to examine his work. The flyer sat among a collage of other announcements—lost cats, yoga classes, someone selling a couch. His stood out, at least. Black and white, clean typography, no bullshit.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, attention slipping between the screen and the quiet foot traffic filtering in and out of the station. Not the worst spot to advertise. Plenty of eyes that might actually give a shit about music worth listening to.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, one boot crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone with his thumb. The station hummed with its usual late-night rhythm—the distant rumble of trains, the shuffle of tired commuters, the occasional echo of conversation.
Vaughn's fingers drummed against the side of his phone in an absent rhythm, some melody line he'd been working on earlier that refused to leave his head. He hummed it under his breath, quiet enough that it barely carried past his own ears.
Another glance at the flyer. Then back to his phone. He had about fifteen more minutes to kill before his train would be arriving.
1977