Tamoszius is a Toreador violinist resident of the Chicago area. He firmly believes something, some outside supernatural force, woke him from torpor to bear witness and give voice to this dark new future of terror and uncertainty facing the Kindred. He has no idea who or what that force might be, and he is inexpertly seeking sources of legitimate occult knowledge.
Under the reign of Lodin, Tamoszius survived in the pressure cooker of Chicago Kindred politics by observing a policy of strict neutrality in the games and schemes of others, while having no noticeable games or schemes of his own. This has served him well in the past but all things change. A part of him is now drawn to the Anarch fire, though he’s aware of the purported “list of ten.”
Biography[]
Mortal Days[]
Tamoszius has always heard the music. Even as a child, growing up underfed and overworked, in grinding poverty, he heard it. Sometimes there was even a voice that sang words to him, which gave him more comfort than his mother’s always-angry croaking or his father’s harsh bitterness.
It was that voice that led him to the dumpster where he found his first instrument, the discarded fiddle with worn tuning pegs, elderly strings, and a bow that had seen far, far better days — but was whole enough for him to play, to coax the vivid notes he heard inside his mind out into the open air where all could hear them and be amazed. Soon Tamoszius’ fame spread. None could deny the glory of his music, but many whispered behind their hands about his ragged tatterdemalion appearance, a tiny wild scarecrow of a young man, the mania that seemed to grip and transport him when he was in the grip of his art, and the twisted, almost pained mask of his face, with blank and unseeing eyes.
Eventually, word of him reached far beyond the coastal towns and villages where he played on corners and fair stages for his bread, through the dark forests and into the mountains where dwelt the creature that would change his life forever. He saw her first at the very edge of the firelight as he played for the dancers at a midsummer festival: a tall woman with long blonde hair dressed in a gown of fabulous richness, whom no one else seemed to notice or speak to and whose eyes never left him.
The woman, whose name was Natasha, spoke passionately to him about her love of his music, of the spirit of creation that seemed to possess him as he played, the extent to which he had grown and improved in his playing over the course of even three short seasons. And he had grown, he had improved — there were murmurs among his neighbors and even his family that he should leave their tiny world, travel to one of the great cities and seek admission to a conservatory where his gift could be nourished. “No,” said Natasha, her dark eyes shining, her hand cold on his own. Such a gift as he possessed demanded the transcendence of pure inspiration pursued to its natural end.
Kindred Nights[]
Despite the grief it caused them both, he eventually parted with his sire. Arriving in New York, he followed the migration of his people westward to Chicago, where he came to rest and has abided ever since. He rapidly became well-known for his artistry in both Elysium and the local mortal music scene. Tamoszius built himself a sturdy but unostentatious house at the edge of Marquette Park, where he frequently wandered by night to play alone or in the company of other busking musicians.
Gradually, however, his muse turned away from him. The music that had sung through his mind and soul for decades thinned and faded, sometimes vanishing entirely for whole weeks at a time. Whenever it returned, he locked himself in his soundproofed basement and attempted to court it with weeklong frenzies of manic creation during which he neglected the needs of his body. “Inviting” eminent local violinists to his home to attend these sessions resulted in hideous bloodshed that shocked his artist’s soul when he returned to himself and realized the beauty he had destroyed.
During the course of one of these expeditions he met a young woman, Kathy Glens, the guitarist in a local rock band, whose virtuosity with her chosen instrument moved him. He offered to her the same gift given to him and she accepted with enthusiasm, coaxing him into turning some of the unused rooms in his house into a home recording studio. Nonetheless, his own music remained silent and he surrendered to torpor during the Lupine assault on the city, his childe locking him in his lightproof basement.
When he woke, it was to a sudden burst of song, a cascading symphony that cried out in agony and terror and jarred him from his rest with the intensity of its call. When Kathy made her weekly check on him, she found him hunched over his desk, scribbling notations on pages of composition paper. Kathy dutifully brought him reams of sheet music, and a handful of willing groupie blood dolls from whom he could drink, and escorted him out into a much-changed world where the Sabbat was crumbling, the Anarchs were resurgent, and the Inquisition, a dark fairy tale of his youth, hunted the Kindred in their lairs. He realized his music reflected all of this, in its own way, and his heart sang with joy. But how had it reached him, deep in the sleep of ages?
Taking the name “Nero,” he has gone forth into the world for the first time in years to seek not only his music but answers, as well. Something summoned him back from the cold and silent dark to be the voice of a new age, and he would know who and what that was.
Appearence[]
Tamoszius grew up poor and frequently malnourished, and it shows, standing barely five feet tall and tragically scrawny, with thinning silver-gray hair and startlingly intense blue-green eyes. His hands are obviously those of a musician, long-fingered and sensitive, with a violinist’s calluses forever preserved by the Embrace.
His childe has managed to coax him out of the carbon-dated wardrobe he wore for decades, and he has instead traded up to a sort of thrift-store-originating shabby chic, instead of just shabby.
Nero lacks a fully fleshed-out Mask, as he’s only recently awoken. Kathy is building a personality for him as an immigrant musician, not far from the real thing.
Sheet[]
Image: Five feet tall and preternaturally thin, with long, corpse-thin fingers. Hooked nose and blazing eyes. Tends to dress rather shabbily.
Roleplaying Hints: Laugh and cackle to yourself a lot. Express sympathy for the characters' problems and then burst out laughing. Picture yourself as a Malkavian more than a Toreador.
Haven: House in North Chicago
Secrets: C
Influence: None
References[]
- VTM: Chicago by Night, p. 112-113
- VTM: Chicago by Night Second Edition, p. 60, 116
- VTM: Chicago by Night Fifth Edition