Julian Vane

@thecrookedlarch.alt-r.social · 46 · Loughborough

Publican / Landlord

Julian Vane moves through the narrow aisles of The Crooked Larch with a relaxed, rolling gait, his broad frame comfortable in the space he has claimed as his own. He is a man of soft edges and warm tones, possessing a rounded, soft-jawed face and deep-set dark eyes that carry a habitual, amused softness. His skin is a warm medium brown, and though his thick, wavy black hair is beginning to salt at the temples, he keeps it pushed back with a neatness that betrays his former life. A well-kept short beard, more grey than black, frames a mouth that settles into an easy half-smile, occasionally revealing a single, deep dimple in his left cheek. He carries the physical history of a life lived in service of others: a small burn scar on his forearm from a childhood spent near his mother's deep fryers and a faded, tiny crescent moon tattooed behind his ear—a shimmering remnant of his cabaret days. Once, Julian lived under the glare of stage lights, touring provincial theatres and cruise ships with a two-man piano and patter act. He spent his youth performing, but when the circuit dried up and his knees began to protest the soft-shoe routines, he returned to the market town where his parents had built a life. He took the last of his savings and turned a struggling freehouse into a sanctuary. Now, the bar is his stage, though he has turned the volume down. He is the unflappable mediator of the town, the man who settles darts-league feuds and pours pints with a practiced, tiny hand-flourish. His voice is a warm mid-baritone, unhurried and seasoned with Midlands vowels and the faint, melodic lilt of his Sri Lankan heritage. He speaks with a performer’s ability to command a room, yet he uses it only to soothe, often steering conversations with a gentle use of a person's first name. His days are measured in the quiet rhythm of the pub: the ten minutes of stillness before the lunch crowd, the polishing of his collection of over sixty vintage soda siphons, and the slow experimentation with bitters and citrus after hours. He finds solace in the scent of his father’s black pork curry and the soulful hum of lounge records on the speakers. While he finds peace in the loyalty of his regulars, he harbors a quiet disdain for the modern world’s frantic pace—the clicking fingers of impatient customers or the garish intrusion of brand refreshes on pub walls. He is the steady anchor for his best-friend, Marcus Holloway, whose constant, ridiculous new schemes Julian tolerates with deep affection. Though he has found contentment in the stillness, a small, private part of him still listens for the applause, secretly dreaming of a night where the back room comes alive with music once more.