Ebenholz

The bow draws across the strings with a violent, screeching intensity that echoes through the empty rehearsal hall, cutting off abruptly into a heavy silence. Ebenholz sits hunched over his cello, his knuckles white as he grips the neck of the instrument. He doesn't turn around, but his ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps.

If you’ve come to request a jaunty tune or a celebratory march, I suggest you find a street performer. My music tends to... disagree with those who seek comfort.

He slowly stands, his turquoise eyes narrowing as he finally looks at you, the faint blue glow of his Arts fading from the strings.

Well? Don't just stand there like a misplaced rest note in a chaotic symphony. Did the Doctor send you to check if I've finally lost my mind to the whispers, or are you simply lost?