#em12

I finally did a controlled, recorded comparison of a vintage EVM-12L (Series II, probably 1985 manufacture) and an Eminence EM12, in a ported TL-806 1x12 cabinet. I’ve discussed these speakers quite a bit in the past. As you can see above, they don’t sound quite the same. What’s maybe not obvious from the frequency response plot is how much better the EM12 sounds when recorded.

Out in the room there’s really not a huge difference, but with a mic on the speaker, the EM12 is much easier to deal with. For this comparison I used an ultra-flat omni condenser mic, the Avenson STO-2, about 3″ back from the grill. That way, there’s no proximity effect, it picks up the whole cone and the port, and it’s flat 20Hz-20kHz.

The EVM has a pretty gnarly peak up around 5.5kHz, which is almost certainly a cone breakup mode. That can add a lot of ‘zing’ to guitar tracks, but it’s so sharp as to almost sound like a ‘whistling’ noise (you can hear it clearly in this YouTube comparison, on the distorted EVM clips). Every EVM I’ve ever used has had this (I’ve owned 6 of them at various points), which forces you to mic off-axis and very close. It clutters the lower treble and in a mix it can mask details in snare drum and cymbals, as well as reduce intelligibility in vocals. That may be why it’s known as a “lead guitar speaker” (*eye roll*). Positioning has always been finicky when recording. The EVM also has a bump around 500Hz that is definitely artificial.

The EM12, on the other hand, sounds a touch darker when you’re standing in front of the cab (which means it’s more ‘beamy’ in the treble, I think), but the recorded tone is much more natural, and works better across a wide variety of positions on the speaker -- on axis, off axis, close, far, whatever. It’s just a very ‘finished’ sound right out of the box, without anything weird or annoying happening. It has a little more upper mids than the EVM, which helps it to cut through, but the treble roll off is smoother. It rolls off earlier than the EVM, but more gradually -- it’s -10dB vs the EVM at 5.5kHz, but +10dB at 7kHz!

Low end in this cabinet is comparable between the two speakers, which is to be expected given how similar their T-S parameters are.

A caveat here is that EVMs of different eras are really all over the place in terms of sound -- that said, the new-manufacture “Classic” model has even more treble peakiness than the vintage ones. The EM12 is also 1dB less sensitive than the EVM12L - the graph above was normalized to 1kHz for comparison purposes.

If you want an EVM-type sound and your main use is for recording, the EM12 is no-brainer. It’s also literally half the price of the EVM.

--M--

A shaky sigh left Maerwyn’s mouth. “I don’t…” Her voice cracked. She took a moment to still her quivering lip. “My actions are not meant to scare you, Emrys. You can’t always be there to save me.”

Maerwyn tugged Emrys down next to her, a desperate need to have him close. She poured every emotion she had ever felt for him into a kiss–every ounce of terror and anxiety and love. Her hand reached up to cup Emrys’ cheek tenderly before mumbling against his lips, “Creators know I want you to be there, always, but not if there is a even a slight possibility of your death.”

--E--

Emrys went with very little prompting, bracing his elbow against the pallet so he didn’t land on her stitches, and kissed back. He cradled her cheek with his free hand, closing his eyes and letting some of his earlier desperation into the kiss, reveling in her being alive to return it. The kiss broke slowly and he kept his eyes closed, touching his forehead to hers with a sigh.

“I know I can’t always go where you go,” he said quietly, then quirked a small, resigned smile. “And Creators know you don’t need me to save you. But I can’t just watch you walk to into danger alone either. I’m not… I’m too selfish to stay behind.”

--M--

Maerwyn laughed and kissed Emrys’ cheek. “Too selfish? you’re not selfish enough, emma lath. I have enemies–more than I can count, apparently–and yet you continue to follow me through anything.”

Her mouth pulled into a tight line. “I'm selfish.” Maerwyn paused and ran her fingertips along the lines of Emrys’ jaw. “And afraid that I’ll cause your death.”

--E--

Emrys pressed his nose to her cheek for a moment then withdrew far enough to look her in the eye, tilting her head towards him just a little. “You are carrying the weight of the world,” he said, stern and quiet. “You’ve been asked to sacrifice everything and you won’t get anything in return. I follow you because I don’t want you to do this alone.” He turned his head towards her questing fingers and pressed his lips to the heel of her palm.

“I can’t promise that I won’t get hurt,” he said against her skin. “I can’t promise that I’ll… that I’ll make it to the end of this. But whatever happens to me, it’s because I chose to stay. That doesn’t make you selfish.”

--M--

Maerwyn cupped Emrys’ cheek between her hands, scanning his face with a loving gaze. “You.” Her lets met his nose with a giggle. “Are not.” This his cheek. “Dying.” Maerwyn’s eyes met his before pulling him down for a heated kiss. She wished to leave in these moments forever.

“Without you there is no me,” Maerwyn whispered breathlessly. “I would…break without you into tiny irreparable pieces.”

--E--

Emrys pulled from the kiss long enough to smile and say, “Yes ma’am,” before pressing his lips to hers again. It was an addicting closeness and he pressed as near to her as he could without putting pressure on her healing abdomen, curling his fingers in her hair.

“Ar lath ma, Maerwyn,” he murmured against her lips. “If I have my way, I will never leave you.” He peppered three quick kisses on her mouth, then leaned back, putting some distance between them.

“I’m keeping you up,” he said, chagrined. “You need to rest.”

--M--

Despite the bitter chill that could still be felt within Skyhold’s monstrous walls, it was a welcome sight. Anything other than swamp would bring a smile to Maerwyn’s face. in fact, she never wanted to visited a swamp again, no matter the circumstances. With Emrys’ hand held tightly in hers, Maerwyn headed toward the War Room.

“We have acquired enough connections to receive an invitation to Empress Celine’s ball at Halamshiral.” Josephine placed the letters upon the table, ink infused with gold decorated the parchment in delicate handwriting.

The advisors acknowledged her presence with a nod. Maerwyn took position at the War Table, scanning the map for useful information. “Then we must make preparations to travel to Val Royeaux.” Her gaze shifted toward the commander. “The Soldiers must be ready. Corypheus will strike, that much is certain.”

The advisors began to discuss the needed arrangements. Maerwyn glanced at Emrys, biting her lip to stifle an excited smile. She would be attention a ball for human nobility in the Orlesian capital with the Empress. There would be many opportunities to educate herself on human culture and interaction, one topic of many Maerwyn had always been fascinated about. Plus, it didn’t hurt that the ball required a beautiful gown.

Maerwyn squeezed Emrys’ hand, leaning to whisper in his ear. “Prepare your finest attire, emma lath. You will be my date.”

--E--

The cold was a welcome change to the dampness of the Fallowmires. For the first time in weeks, Emrys felt dry, even though he could no longer feel the tips of his ears and the skin of his hands was tight with the cold. Maerwyn was doing her best to warm one of them and Emrys smiled at her when she wasn’t looking. He was relieved; she’d been relatively unhindered by the gash on her back, aside from the pain, but this new wound was not nearly as unobtrusive. He’d exhausted his supply of herbs less than half way into the return trip and had slipped from camp almost nightly to gather more with only the head of his staff to light the way.

He was positive Maerwyn would’ve skinned him alive if she’d known.

Fortunately, the return to Skyhold had brought an end to Maerwyn’s malaise about swamps and she all but dragged him along to the meeting with her advisors. There was a definite spring to her step, one he didn’t even try to match. It was mostly for the sake of his legs that he moved so slowly. He was still shaken from their recent near misses, which he had done his best to keep to himself, and was loathe to let her out of his sight if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. If that meant facing the War Room, so be it.

His resolve didn’t last long. The meeting was terrifying. Emrys listened to their talks of dances and empresses and nobility with considerably more trepidation that he had to all their other schemes combined. He felt conspicuous and out of place in a stronghold of labourers and refugees, even the ones he’d helped carry through the mountains. He would never survive a gilded palace full of Orlesian nobles who killed one another over seating arrangements, as Cullen had put it. Beside him, Maerwyn looked positively ecstatic. And then she told him he was going.

Emrys blinked at her, then down at his robe. It was… well, it fit. It was old, more patchwork now than original cloth, and some places were worn so thin he could see through the stitching to his shirt underneath. Whatever colour the cotton had been when it started – and even he couldn’t really remember, he’d had it for so long – it had faded to a pale shade of grey. The best that could be said for it was that it was still mostly in one piece.

“Maerwyn, this is my finest attire,” he whispered back, a little alarmed.

“I think I can help with that,” murmured Leliana’s voice from over his shoulder and Emrys looked back at her, startled. She was already looking him over head to toe and her smile, though small, was the most devious he’d ever seen from her.

He felt, if possible, even less at ease.

--M--

From the spot in which Maerwyn stood to the towering entrance of Halamshiral was an army of nobles. Their judgmental eyes trained upon her ears. Whispers of ‘I didn't know the Inquisitor was an elf!’ rang throughout the bustling courtyard. Maerwyn had never felt so out of place in her life. She scanned the crowd, looking for a particular bald elf to comfort her. While her advisors’ presence was welcomed, it did little to still the trembling in her hands.

A group of nobles with ridiculous headdresses and masks parked slightly, revealing a rather awkward Emrys. His hands constantly pulled at his new robes. Maerwyn smiled at how handsome he looked, making a mental note to thank Leliana later.

“Emrys!” Maerwyn called with a breath of laughter, taking a fist full of her pale pink skirts before walking toward him. Her eyes periodically glanced at the ground. Why humans insisted on wearing shoes with heels was unknown. They pinched at Maerwyn’s ankles, no doubt leaving blisters. She was careful not to trip, as Josephine warned her the littlest embarrassments could jeopardize the court’s approval.

--E--

Emrys felt like a confection. The robes were soft as water – like he imagined silk would feel, but Leliana had said it wasn’t silk – and a dark, rich blue that was almost black in the half-light. It hugged his waist and his shoulders like a second skin and draped all the way to his ankles. Silver embroidery dusted the hems like frost and the lapels were lined with a pale gold fabric that shimmered when he moved. It was very distracting.

In front of the looking glass in Skyhold, he’d admitted it fit him well. Now he was finding it fit a little too well. The shoulders were precise and gave him no room to slouch, make himself smaller. He was on a level with most women’s coiffures and he was sure his ears broadcast his presence from miles away.

Just as he was considering finding a short balcony to climb down, he heard his name. Maerwyn was pushing her way through a cloud of dresses, and Emrys was so overcome at the sight of her in a dress that he didn’t step forward to meet her.

He could feel his ears getting warm. “You look,” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, “You look beautiful. More beautiful. Than usual.” He narrowed his eyes a little as she finally drew close, looking her carefully up and down. “And you’re taller.”

--M--

Maerwyn pressed her forehead against Emrys’ with ease, certain her cheeks would ache later from the forcefulness of her smile. “I am. It feels strange.”  She ran her fingers along the skirt of the gown,  the fabric flowing down her body like water.

“This dress may be more expensive than anything I’ve ever worn,” Maerwyn snorted, adjusting the thin lace around her shoulders. “The lace is certainly something to get used to. Also…” She faced her back toward him, peeking at him over her shoulder with a playfulness in her eyes. “My back is very exposed.”

--E--

Emrys’s eyes tracked down the length of her spine before he could stop himself and felt a warm curl of something in his gut. Red blossomed in his cheeks and he wiped his palms on the insides of his sleeves. He didn’t trust himself to step any closer, but Creators did he want to.

“I could watch it,” he said, a little breathless. “If you want.”

Before she could reply – and before he could scold himself for his audacity – Josephine appeared at Maerwyn’s elbow, looking resigned, if very lovely.

“Inquisitor, Serah Emrys,” she said genially, nodding her head to the both of them. “The festivities are set to begin shortly, we should make our way into the foyer. The rest of our companions are already inside and our first introduction to the court should be as united as possible.” With the air of one leaving for battle, Josephine made for the castle doors.

Emrys straightened to the formal posture Leliana had spent an entire afternoon coaching him to and offered his forearm to Maerwyn. “Shall we?”

--M--

Maerwyn linked her arm through Emrys’, awarding his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I bet you one hundred gold that we’ll be mistaken for servants at least once tonight.”

Empress celine’s power hungry cousin greeted the Inquisition at Halamshiral’s doors, bowing respectfully as Maerwyn approached. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor Lavellan. Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais.”

His aging face was hidden behind a silver mask which shone against the moonlight. Maerwyn resisted the urge to scoff. Putting trust in an Orlesian noble–royalty, no less–would be almost as disastrous as trusting Corypheus. “I have yet to be convinced whom that is, exactly.”

Gaspard crossed his arms, a sternness to his voice. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor. You help me, I’ll help you.” With that, he turned and lead the Inquisition into the great hall of the palace.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Maerwyn mumbled, unsure of whether that was a warning or a promise.

The marble stairs were decorated with a thick rug that ran along the centre, silencing the obnoxious clicking sounds of Maerwyn’s heels. Large pillars ascended toward the ceiling, at the bottom of which stood golden statues of men with wings that lined the staircase.

“This place is…magnificent,” Maerwyn whispered breathlessly. “See that couch over there? I’m almost certain that is worth more than my life.”

--E--

The entrance hall was the most opulent thing Emrys had ever seen, at least until he entered the foyer, which put the entrance hall the shame. He had no doubt the ballroom would be even grander still. He felt woefully under-dressed despite the decadence of his robes and he barely attended to anything else but the trappings of the palace.

The rest of their company didn’t seem nearly as impressed. With the exception of Josephine, the advisors and Cassandra had opted for the simple raiment of the Inquisition. Leliana was impassive and elegant as ever, Cullen was taciturn, and Cassandra was in a perpetually bristled state. There was the beginnings of a snarl curling her lip and she glared at any Orlesian noble within range, even the ones that weren’t looking at her. Emrys remembered her many displays of contempt towards fanfare and was comforted by the thought that he wasn’t the only one who thought the Winter Palace was a little too… palatial.

They barely had time to gather themselves before the ballroom doors swung inwards with a perfect, and no doubt engineered, groan. The Inquisition filed in and it took every ounce of self preservation Emrys had not to stop and gape. The ballroom was exquisite; marble, gold, inlays, silk curtains, everything polished and pristine, no guest or feathered retinue out of place.

The introductions and presentations were a blur of panic. He didn’t hear what title Josephine had given for him, nor did he care. He was aware of every eye in the galley on him as he walked – a carefully counted twenty-two steps behind Cullen – to the dais. Whispers followed him like ripples, but he didn’t dare turn his head to look.

The Empress was all insincere charm and pointed barbs, and her cousin was just barbed. Maerwyn handled herself well, Emrys thought, for being unknowingly stuck between a long-standing dispute for the crown. The were dismissed graciously and Emrys scoured every room they passed on their rounds for something, anything, that looked a little more economical. The only room that came close was a side hallway, which didn’t have gold set in the marble floor.

“Do we have any idea at all what we’re looking for?” he asked Maerwyn in an undertone, lips hardly moving.

--M--

“Information on who to trust? Who am I kidding,” Maerwyn scoffed, throwing the letters she was rummaging through down with a sigh. “We can’t trust any of them.”

Her advisors consulted with Maerwyn on who should sit on the Orlesian throne. Josephine was confident in Empress Celene’s ability to assist the Inquisition, while Cassandra and Cullen argued Gaspard is the military force needed to beat Corpyheus. Leliana argued quite differently, advocating for Briala, the former elven lover to Celene. Maerwyn contemplated that option the most–putting her in charge would certainly have interesting outcomes.

Every secret confused Maerwyn further–if that was even possible. Her earlier assumptions were current in that here was no one here to rust. Briala almost had one the servants working under her murdered in the abandoned wind of the palace, and Gaspard had hired a Ferelden mercenary to assist with a coup. The only piece of information Maerwyn was certain about was that Duchess Florianne was not whom she claimed. That woman had accused her brother, Gaspard, far too quickly for Maerwyn’s liking.

And Maerwyn was correct. Florianne stood on the balcony, a sinister smile spread across her pale face, bragging of her future with Corpyheus. Maerwyn smirked, eying the fade rift high above them. Before Florianne could finish, Maerwyn threw up her hand and yanked open the rift, raining demons down upon everyone.  Florianne feld in a fit of fear, leaving the palace guards to finish Maerwyn off. She used the demons to her advantage, soon killing each and every enemy.

“Florianne is returning to the ballroom. We can not let her reach it first.” Maerwyn curled her fist tighter around the grip of her staff, sprinting toward the main area of the palace. Groups of guards attempted to prevent her from doing so, but had very little success.

Maerwyn, still clothed in her bloody armour, threw open the ballroom doors. “It’s the Duchess,” Maerwyn spat out between gasps of air. “The Duchess is going to murder Celene. We have to stop her.”

“You have a choice, Inquisitor. Celene does not have to keep the Orlesian throne,” Cullen informed her, adjusting his formal attire with a scowl.

Maerwyn exchanged confused glances with Emrys, worry tight in her mouth. “We wait until Florianne strikes.”

It was hard to watch as the Duchess stabbed a dagger deep into Empress Celene’s back–figuratively and literally. Without allowing her to escape, Maerwyn rushed after her into the courtyard, throwing spell after spell until the Duchess collapsed onto the blood-stained stone.

Maerwyn grinned and pushed Emrys lightly on the shoulder, who was equally as exhausted. “Well that is something In ever wish to do again. Ever.”

--E--

No matter where they went, Emrys thought drily, there were demons. Even, apparently, the Winter Palace. The court intrigue was less surprising in comparison, but Emrys was admittedly a little shocked to find Florianne at the heart of it. Of the list of potential conspirators, he’d put her at the bottom.

Florianne eluded the Rift, and them, long enough to succeed in her assassination. The death of Celene created a surprisingly genuine despair in the Palace and the subsequent death of Florianne earned the closest thing to open cheering Emrys had heard all evening. The successor to Celene was decided and the politics settled while Emrys leaned against a pillar some distance away and caught his breath.

Briala, now standing at the dais railing as though she’d be rained for it, bid the ball continue in honour of Celene’s final night among them. The court didn’t seem to need much persuading – more dancing would certainly lead to more gossip – and the music started up again. Couples reunited all across the dance floor and Emrys noted more than one lone Orlesian looking speculatively his way.

He was not opposed to dancing in the slightest, but there was only one person here he wanted to dance with.

He sidled up beside Maerwyn and put his hand on her elbow. “Dance with me,” he said in her ear, voice low and only for her to hear.

--M--

A wave of heat spread quickly across Maerwyn’s cheeks and to the tips of her ears, which–thankfully–were hidden behind the curls of her hair. She grinned impossibly wide and spun to face Ermys. “Of course. Though I should warn you i’m a terrible dancer.”

Emrys led her carefully down the steps and onto the marble dance floor. Maerwyn watched the beautiful women around her, hands awkwardly limp at her side. Maerwyn bit at her lip, downcasting her gaze. “I…I don’t know what to do with my arms. Or my feet, to be quite honest. They seem dangerously arched.”

--E--

Emrys reviewed the dance in his head as they descended the stairs – he hadn’t spent three days practicing with Leliana just to forget it all now – and pulled her toe-to-toe with him. He took one of her hands in his, guiding the other to his shoulder, and set his free hand lightly on her waist.

“Just follow my lead,” he whispered when none of the other couples were close enough to hear, and swept them into the dance.

It was overwhelming at first; even in battle, he’d never had to be so aware of – or this deliberate with – his movements. In the first turn he was too intent on remembering the steps to perform them with any finesse, and in the second he was too busy murmuring instructions to Maerwyn to keep any kind of rhythm. But by the third turn around the ballroom, they’d gotten the hang of it and Emrys finally learned what the fuss was all about.

Maerwyn was radiant. Colour was high in her cheeks, from embarrassment or the exercise he couldn’t tell, and there was a joyful shine in her eyes he hadn’t seen in far too long. She was smiling, open and genuine. Her lips were red from when she’d bitten them in frustration over learning the dance, and Emrys had a very difficult time looking away from them. His heartbeat was suddenly faster than it had any right to be and he swallowed.

--M--

Maerwyn could barely resist the urge to laugh–the embarrassing type of laughter full of snorting and aching sides that you hid from all but few. Her moves were unpracticed and awkward, but lost within Emrys’ gaze it didn’t matter. The whole world seemed to fall away– the snobbish nobles, the court, Orlais, the death of many innocent elves. All of it. As long as her hand remained grasped in his it, everything around Maerwyn became irrelevant.

“You dance very well, emma lath,” Maerwyn admitted, breathless from the excitement. She pulled Emrys close, pressing her lips against his temple. “It’s very attractive.”

--E--

Emrys felt warm all over and it had nothing to do with his robes. He took his time turning his head to answer her, his bottom lip grazing the line of her jaw. “Perhaps we should dance more often, then,” he said, voice inexplicably hoarse and his mouth barely half an inch from the corner of hers.

The music ended and he remembered where they were. He realised how close they were standing, how his hand had drifted from her hip to the small of her back sometime during the dance, how very, very badly he wanted to kiss her. It was a serious temptation and only the thought of what gossip would come back to haunt them if he did made him pull away.

He kept hold of her hand, though, and gave her a small smile. “Want to get away from these crowds?” he asked, nodding his head to the ballroom entrance. “As colourful as they are, I think I’ve reached my limit for Orlesians.”

--M--

Maerwyn’s gaze was glued to Emrys’ lips. Her head began to move closer, and she had to physically force distance between them in order to form a coherent sentence. The words fell from Maerwyn’s mouth in a desperate whisper. “Yes, I would very much like that.”

Her eyes scanned the ballroom, ensuring that her advisors or important Orlesian nobles were watching her actions. Maerwyn grabbed Emrys’ hand, dragging him off into a restricted area of the palace with surprising urgency. Small streams of light floated in from the windows, the excluded areas of the room shrouded in darkness. Large oak bookshelves jutted out from the wall, desks with stacks of unorganized papers sitting in between groups of two bookshelves.

As gently as possible, Maerwyn pushed Emrys up against a bookshelf, closing the distance between them quickly. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to kiss you right now.”

--E--

Emrys grunted slightly when his back met the bookshelves, more out of surprise than discomfort, and he took half a moment to truly appreciate Maerwyn’s resourcefulness. Then with a muttered “Thank the Creators for that,” he pulled her the rest of the way to him and kissed her, hard.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think this was their first kiss. He felt giddy and warm all the way through, so overwhelmed he was almost lightheaded. He wanted to kiss her all the time. He wanted to pull her closer, he wanted to touch every inch of her, he wanted… he wanted…

He made a noise against her lips, a sigh that ended as something rougher. He wanted her. The skin of her back was smooth under his fingertips as he trailed them up her spine and he wondered if the rest of her felt the same. His heart beat frantically in his chest and the heat under his skin was pooling low in his gut and he knew there was an important reason he shouldn’t indulge this right now, but he couldn’t for the life of him bring himself to care.

--M--

Breath was a secondary concern to Maerwyn. Only when the burning in her lungs started did she remember the necessity of oxygen. Her head was spinning, body pressed so tightly against Emrys that there was not even a sliver of space between them. Yet she yearned to be closer.

Emrys’ erratic heartbeat could be felt in his lips and chest, and Maerwyn began to wonder if her own as equally out of control. She pulled away with a gasp, fingers curling around the fabric of his robes. “We’re in Orlais. In a Palace. Where guards patrol and yet…”

Maerwyn kissed him again, soft and teasingly slow. She mumbled barely audible words against his lips, refusing to leave them for another moment. “We shouldn’t do this here but I want to. Do you want this?”