|“||Montressor Giovanni, Bard and Thespian, at your service!||”|
Montressor Giovanni is, by most accounts, among the merrier of men in times of strife such as the second coming of the gods, not because he is joyful of their return, but rather he believes that the mortal races will be brought to peace in the end.
Only a few years before, Montressor was found in a ditch near the settlement known as Witchaven, having no memory of who he was or why he was there. He spent several months in Witchaven, learning to play the lute and rebuilding himself as Montressor Giovanni, Bard and Thespian. He set off on his quest to find out who he was before he had been found that fateful morning in Witchaven.Montressor is played by Emyris Bayne, originally made to be a more serious character, but has since evolved into something more alive and free, despite his past, or rather, lack thereof.
Ma’dran is best known for his amnesiac persona, Montressor Giovanni, though there is more to this Dream of Mah than meets the eye. He is former heir to the Skchaelos-Mah Tribe residing in the plains of Freneskae. It had been soon after he had fought in a bloody civil war against his half-brother, Tyrannus, for control over the Tribe when they were whisked away to the plane of Gielinor to fight against the deity known as Zaros.
Many Children of Mah, including Ma’dran and his brothers, joined with Zaros, for a time, until Zamorak’s betrayal and usurpation of power. He and his brother, Kathlaron, were tortured by none other than Tyrannus, their traitorous brother. Ma’dran was forced to fight on Zamorak’s behalf in the coming war or watch as Kathlaron died slowly. Given little choice, he joined with Zamorak’s forces until he was captured by a group of men led by a Zarosian Dream of Mah called Guillelimus. He joined with them and fought alongside them for a time until being sent into exile, believing that his brother was dead.
Ma’dran remained under cover for centuries, slowly wasting away as a human. Soon enough, Ma’dran made his way to Kandarin, finding himself in Witchaven. It was then that he saw a light, of which soothed him, allowing him to enter a state of bliss before losing consciousness, losing all memories from his past.
Ma'dran's mind was forced to lie dormant until the day he was revived from his amnesiac state by Kathlaron during the Sixth Age. However, he still retained the mind of the bard, Montressor Giovanni, who he had been for so long, and longed to forget his past once more. After having a heated debate with Kathlaron on the subject, his brother finally agreed, permanently suppressing his memories as Ma'dran and allowing him to live his life as Montressor Giovanni.He is played by Emyris Bayne and is currently trapped inside of his own mind as Montressor Giovanni, though his memories as a Mahjarrat have been permanently suppressed.
Early Life on Freneskae
|“||Freneskae...beautiful, in its own right. For me, it was a paradise where I was loved, feared, and respected; even by those foolish enough to oppose me...||”|
Birth and Early Childhood
Freneskae; a world marked by constant warfare and hellish terrain as far as the eye can see. This is the birthplace of the Children of Mah. Within this dark world of ashen plains lived the Clan of Skchaelos-Mah, led by a ruthless, barbaric, sadistic being known as Hyllcroth with no sense of honor nor tradition, of whom was soon to father a son into the world. His bride, Ellisike, wept in pain for hours leading to the birth of their first-born son. She believed that she was to die that day, giving birth to the progeny of the monster that her father had arranged for her to be bound to all those years before.
Hyllcroth named the child Ma'dran, after his predecessor, a brave chieftain who had raised Hyllcroth as his own, having taught him all that he knew to this day. Hyllcroth harbored the diluted belief that, under his influence, Ma'dran was destined to change Freneskae in ways that no Dream of Mah could conceive of.
From the time that Ma'dran was able to stand, he was made to train and excel academically as both a strategist and as a combatant, his favored weapon being a rod made from various metals made to incapacitate his foes. Ma'dran, as Hyllcroth and his tutors soon discovered, was gifted in the use of ancient magics and hand-to-hand combat, much to Hyllcroth's pleasure. Ma'dran, however, secretly resented Hyllcroth, feeling that he was not truly respected, but was rather a pawn in his plans for the Skchaelos Clan. Hyllcroth was determined to make sure that Ma'dran, son of Hyllcroth, heir to the name of chieftain of the Skchaelos clan of the plains, would not disappoint.
The Second Son
It was not long until a second son was born to Hyllcroth and into the Skchaelos Clan. This son became known as Kathlaron, the second and final child from the womb of Ellisike. The life of Ellisike was the price of bearing Kathlaron into a world of bloodshed and war, forcing Hyllcroth to seek another bride, one to take Ellisike's place as his mate and to raise his young, perhaps even to birth more heirs to the Skchaelos Clan.
Kathlaron grew to childhood, Ma'dran out-aging him as an adolescent. Kathlaron soon began to show a certain aptitude for ancient magics, far beyond that of Ma'dran's skills. Hyllcroth, though pleased with Kathlaron's process as a young mage, favored Ma'dran as his preferred pawn in gaining glory and power for the clan. Like Ma'dran, Kathlaron soon came to resent Hyllcroth for his sadistic ways, though preferred to act as though he respected and showed loyalty to Hyllcroth, knowing that his brother would make a far better leader than Hyllcroth ever could have been.
A Love Discarded
Ma'dran soon came into courtship with another Dream of Mah from an allied clan named Vaetherya, of whom was the daughter of the chieftain of her clan. Hyllcroth did not approve of their courtship, so Ma'dran began seeing Vaetherya in secret, in spite of Hyllcroth's wishes.
“Kathlaron, go home,” Ma’dran uttered as he made his way to the outskirts of the camp, “Father will question your whereabouts.”
Kathlaron, merely a child, walked close behind his brother. “And he will not question yours, brother?”
“Father believes that I am out hunting, brother. I’m actually going out to see Vaetherya.”
Kathlaron bowed his head. “I see.” Ma’dran turned, seeing that his brother had stopped. “I’ll head back, then. Tell her I said hello.” with that, Kathlaron turned back the way he came.
Ma’dran approached the rendezvous point where he would meet his love. As her figure greeted his eyes, he smiled to himself. “Hello!” he shouted. Vaetherya waved to him, though not enthusiastically. Ma’dran approached, noticing that something had to be wrong. “Vaetherya?”
She bowed her head as she spoke. “Ma’dran…”
Ma’dran tilted his head a bit, placing a hand on his lover’s cheek. “What is wrong?”
She looked into his sanguine red eyes, tears in her own. “My father…he…” She collapsed into Ma’dran’s arms, crying.
He embraced Vaetherya, attempting to soothe her. “What happened? What did your father do?”
She continued to cry. “He arranged for me to be married…” Ma’dran’s eyes widened. He placed his hands on her cheeks as she looked to him again.
“Who? To whom is he marrying you off to?”
She looked away from him. “Ma’dran…It’s…Hyllcroth.”
Ma'dran became numb. He glanced away, clenching his teeth as he walked away from Vaetherya.
He burst into Hyllcroth's quarters, his staff in hand. "Hyllcroth! Hyllcroth, where in Mother Mah's name are you?!"
Hyllcroth revealed himself, stepping up to his son. "Watch your tone, boy..."
"You knew Vaetherya was mine in courtship, and you take her from me anyway! Why?!
Hyllcroth struck Ma'dran, causing him to fall to the ground. Hyllcroth grinned sadistically as he kicked his son flat to the ground. "It is not your place to question my motives, boy. If you do so again, I will have your hands cut from your wrists, and you will no longer be of the Skchaelos-Mah. Do you understand me, boy?"
Ma'dran looked up in anger and hatred. He sighed in submission, looking down to the ground. "Yes...father..."
The Birth of a Tyrant
Screams. Screams and shouts of pain. These sounds were all that came from Vaetherya’s chambers. Ma’dran stood by the door, leaning against the wall. This would mark one of the very few times that Ma’dran ever shed a tear. He could hear Hyllcroth’s sadistic laugh as his new bride screamed; she was ready to give birth to Hyllcroth’s seed. Ma’dran gritted his teeth, clenching his fingers about the slender frame of his battle staff. “…sick bastard…”
He glanced down the hallway, noticing that Kathlaron was making his way over. Kathlaron had heard the screams. “Ma’dran, brother, what is going on?”
Ma’dran closed his eyes, hiding tears. “Vaetherya, she’s…”
Kathlaron nodded. “Our brother is to be born, then?”
Ma’dran took a few heavy breaths. “Whatever that is, tearing Vaetherya apart…that is no brother of mine…”
“Ma’dran…I know that you hate what Hyllcroth has done, I do too, but it is not that child’s fault.”
“When that…that thing is born…I will personally escort Hyllcroth to Mother Mah myself.”
Kathlaron looked to his brother in disbelief. “Ma’dran…you cannot…”
“I can…I can and I will.”
“Look,” Kathlaron said, placing a hand on Ma’dran’s shoulder, “I loathe Hyllcroth. I loathe him almost as much as you do. But killing him will achieve nothing. It will mean that you are to be banished, your hands cut from your wrists, left to die in the ashen wastelands. Do you want that? Are you willing to pay such a price for mere vengeance? Hm?”
Ma’dran shrugged Kathlaron’s hand off from his shoulder. “Just…go away, brother…I need to be alone for now.”
Kathlaron nodded. “Of course. Just…promise me that you will not do anything foolish.”
Ma’dran rolled his eyes. “Yes, sure, whatever. Just…just leave me be.”
The Skchaelean Wars
|“||Civil War. At least, that is how Tyrannus remembers it. In truth, it was a slaughter...||”|
The Birth of Rebellion
Ma’dran and Kathlaron became adults, Tyrannus becoming an adolescent with a cruel, rebellious streak. Kathlaron became a skilled battlemage, though he was known to be very worrisome, though wise. Hyllcroth had recently died, thus passing down the name of chieftain to Ma’dran. Kathlaron, having respected his brother from a young age and being respected by his brother for his foresight, was given the honor of leader of their military forces, answering only to Ma’dran. Kathlaron found his brother’s rule agreeable and stayed ever-loyal to him.
Tyrannus, on the other hand, desired the power and honor for himself. He once tried to turn Ma’dran’s friends and influential forces in the clan against him, but was discovered and imprisoned. Ma’dran ruled to banish his brother and those loyal to him into the wilderness to fend for themselves with no food nor drink to survive on. However, these loyalists soon found bandit clans in the Freneskaen wilderness and joined them, forging a clan to rival and destroy Ma’dran and those loyal to him.
It was not long until a years-long war was waged between the Clans of Tyrannus and the Clans supporting the banner of Skchaelos. Many lives were taken in this war, including that of Vaetherya, of whom still served Ma’dran. Ma’dran and Kathlaron led their army of allies into many victories and into just as many failures. But one night, the forces of the clans allied under the banner of Skchaelos managed to siege Tyrannus in the ruins of an ancient stronghold. The war was almost over; everything would return to normal. At least, so the forces of Skchaelos believed.
The Jackal God's Proposal
It was that evening that the siege had began, everyone under Ma’dran’s banner was celebrating, though Kathlaron had yet to show to the celebration. One of Ma’dran’s allies, Ukthreya entered the dining tent of which had been raised in accordance of their celebration, searching for Ma’dran.
Ma’dran turned. “Ukthreya! Please, get a drink, some food, you’ve earned--”
“--No, my lord,” Ukthreya interrupted, “Kathlaron…he found something in a nearby settlement, come quickly!”
Ma’dran dropped his goblet, taking up his staff. “Let us not waste any time. Lead me to this settlement.”
Ma'dran and Ukthreya made their way to the settlement, seeing a humanoid creature with the head of a jackal. This being introduced himself as Icthlarin, the god of the dead on the plane known as Gielinor. This jackal-headed god made a proposition to the Mahjarrat; he needed their help in combating against another god, one by the name of Zaros. In exchange for this service, Icthlarin promised them what they truly desired; warfare.
Ma'dran, as well as his brothers and General Ukthreya, followed the other Mahjarrat in swearing fealty to the jackal-god for the promise of war. Icthlarin was pleased, having already opened a portal to his realm. The Mahjarrat entered the gate, never to see their home of Freneskae again, but overjoyed in the promise of a new realm to conquer.
Arrival on Gielinor
|“||The Jackal took us here; where the ground smells of muck, where my political estate means nothing...I see this place as my personal hell.||”|
The Zarosian-Kharidian War
Darkness. Ma’dran felt as though he was conscious, yet unconscious at the same time, remembering only the darkness of the void he had entered. The next time he would open his eyes, he would be greeted by his brothers, the loyal and the traitorous. Tyrannus called a truce, seeing as he believed that they would never return to Freneskae and that the three should remain together for the time-being.
Kathlaron feared that their traitor brother could not be trusted, especially after his efforts to kill Ma’dran, but Ma’dran believed otherwise; he was one to believe in second chances, after all. Ma’dran looked around, seeing many of his creed about him. How many Mahjarrat had followed into the portal? This was unknown to the brothers, but to them, it mattered not. The portal had faded, none among them knew how to re-open it. Freneskae was lost, along with all that the brothers had ever known.
But there was much work to accomplish for their new god, Icthlarin, and little time to spare. The Mahjarrat took up arms to fight against Zaros, of whom was invading from the north. The war against Zaros lasted for many years, the Mahjarrat gaining names such as “Stern Judges” and “the faceless ones”. Ma’dran found these names to have a certain melody to them. Ukthreya, unfortunately, was killed in battle, leaving only the three brothers as arrivals from the Skchaelos Clan, but many other Mahjarrat remained.
After the war, Icthlarin took away the wights of one of the Mahjarrat, the one known as Sliske, to return to the underworld. Sliske, as far as Ma’dran knew, left and forged an alliance with Zaros, of whom offered the Mahjarrat power in his growing Empire. Other Mahjarrat, including Ma’dran and his brothers, left Icthlarin in favor of Zaros and his promises of power and war.
Ma’dran soon climbed to the rank of commander in Zaros’s army, both of his brothers came under his rule as sergeants. Ma’dran had great respect for Zaros and his ways, embracing this new religion and way of life, as his brothers did. Ma’dran’s battalion soon came under the command of one of Zaros’s fiercest and most powerful Mahjarrat generals; one by the name of Zamorak.
Zaros’s vast empire prospered and became more powerful by the day, but many of the Mahjarrat were not content, including General Zamorak. Kathlaron feared that Zamorak, judging from his harsh demeanor and choices in the battlefield, may turn on Zaros. Ma’dran had learned to listen to his younger brother in the past, and was not about to stop. Tyrannus, however, was fiercely loyal to his general, and would follow him to the abyss and back if he had to. Kathlaron and Ma’dran soon became wary of their brother again, and wouldn’t put it past him to turn on them again like he had on Freneskae.
Zamorak soon hatched a plot to usurp the Empty Lord, many Mahjarrat and loyalists coming to his call, including the arrogant and power hungry Tyrannus. As Ma’dran, Kathlaron, and many others remained loyal to Zaros, Zamorak would soon place his plans into action.
One evening, Zamorak and his hordes of followers attacked. Those still loyal to Zaros, Ma'dran and Kathlaron included, pooled their forces in the streets near Zaros's chambers, ready for Zamorak's arrival. Ma'dran saw in Zamorak's hands a weapon that he had heard of, but never thought to see with his own eyes; the Elder Staff.
While Zamorak fought, his loyalists detained and kept those loyal to Zaros diverted, Ma'dran diverted by his own brother, the traitorous Tyrannus. Zamorak had impaled Zaros in the back, but Zaros continued to fight. He grabbed the scourge by his throat, choking him. However, Zaros lost balance, causing the Elder Staff to impale both he and the traitor alike. Ma'dran heard the news of the usurpation of Zaros's power by the hands of Zamorak. Zaros retreated from his body, while Zamorak had his first taste of true power.
Zamorak's followers imprisoned Ma'dran and Kathlaron, among others, in an attempt to convert them to his cause. Ma'dran and his brother, though tortured, refused. The two remained imprisoned by Zamorak's followers for quite some time.
The War of the Gods
|“||All that mattered to me was finding my brother, Kathlaron, the last link to my past, the last member of my family who was not dead or had not betrayed me.||”|
In the meantime, other gods fought over Gielinor, but came to a truce for a time in order to banish Zamorak from Gielinor. However, he soon returned to Gielinor, now a true god. He called upon his warriors, declaring war on all who opposed his rule. The Zamorakians continued to torture the brothers, coming to the realization that the only way to get to Ma'dran was through his family; through his brother, Kathlaron. Tyrannus, having been Ma'dran's primary torturer, informed Ma'dran that if he did not yield to Zamorak's call, they would kill Kathlaron.
Taken Hostage by Allies
Left with little choice, Ma'dran reluctantly agreed to the terms that the Zamorakians had set for him to follow. He spent centuries in the service of those that had opposed he and his god, the Empty Lord, knowing that Zaros would return to smite his enemies and those who had conspired against him once the time came.
After several long centuries of working alongside those that he had vowed to destroy in the name of the Empty Lord, Ma'dran was captured by a group of renegade Zarosians posing as followers of the self-proclaimed god of order,Saradomin. Leading this clan of rouges and renegades was an older Mahjarrat named Guillelminus in the guise of a human mage and scholar known simply as "Giovanni".
Ma'dran explained to these renegades that the Mahjarrat loyalists of Zamorak had forced him into their servitude, having threatened his brother's life had he acted otherwise. Guillelminus, though wary of Ma'dran at first, finally decided to offer Ma'dran a place in his clan, of which Ma'dran promptly accepted. Guillelminus eventually came to trust Ma'dran, thinking of him more as a son than as a footsoldier. They spent the next several years hunting down Zamorakian caravans and militia in desperate attempts to find the whereabouts of Kathlaron and his captors.
Exiled from War
Ma'dran and Guillelminus had eventually discovered one caravan of the Zamorakians that seemed to carry something beyond important to them. Ma'dran had sensed that the cargo being caried by this caravan had an aura of powerful proportions; a Mahjarrat. Ma'dran strongly believed that this aura belonged to his brother, Kathlaron, but Guillelminus was sceptical, stating that it could be any Mahjarrat for all that they knew. But Ma'dran knew his brother's aura, he recognized it. In an impulsive act, Ma'dran left the clan of renegades that had become his family in the midst of the night, as they slept, to investigate.
Though Ma'dran had been overcome with excitement and joy in the thought of liberating his brother, he soon came to realize that he had become the fool. As he drew near to the caravan, he was ambushed and surrounded by warriors and mages of Zamorak. He bit his tongue, realizing his fault much too late. It was then that he saw his brother; not Kathlaron, as he had believed, but rather Tyrannus, of whom towered above in his full form. Ma'dran turned his head to the cliffs behind where he stood, having heard the sound of bagpipes in the distance, gradually coming closer. Ma'dran smiled; a number Guillelminus's men carried such into battle in order to help the men to march upon their foes. It was not long before the clan of renegades drew toward Tyrannus's men, nearly fifty-strong and more than eager to liberate Ma'dran from the Zamorakians.
Though Guillelminus's men fought valiantly, they were no match for Tyrannus's forces, falling one by one to Zamorakian blades and spells. Ma'dran fell unconscious, recieving a blow from one of Tyrannus's spells during the conflict. He awoke to see Guillelminus's head, in full form, adorning the tip of a wooden spike, stuck into the dusty soil. Tyrannus grinned as Ma'dran awoke to find his mentor now dead and dishonored. Ma'dran was forced to watch as the survivors of the clan were torn apart by spells cast upon them by Tyrannus's battlemages. Tyrannus impaled him with his bladed staff, leaving him to die. Ma'dran, however, was able to escape the ashen wastes that had hosted the deaths of his friends, forced into exile, setting off to find the ritual marker so that he my hibernate until the time of rejuvenation came again, swearing that he would have Tyrannus's head on a spike when he regained his strength.
Among the Fremennik
|“||The Fremennik...Interesting people...powerful warriors, sacred beliefs and customs...you get used to the stench of yak eventually.||”|
After the War of Gods, as he would remember it, Ma’dran embarked upon a lonely path, neither followed nor led by anyone. The gods that had fought in the war had been banished, but Ma’dran still felt hunted, if not by the gods themselves, then by their followers.
It was not long before Ma’dran came across humans of whom, unlike many of their creed, he respected for their valor and skill in combat; the Fremennik. Ma’dran donned a new visage in order to live among these men strangely reminiscent of his own people, both amused by them and showing them a degree of respect that he had not given any human in decades. Ma’dran became the hunter known as Grimvar Vargrsblood, selling beast hides and fur armours to his new kinsmen for use in battle.
Forsaking the Demon's Craft
"Grimvar," Bjorklin said, "may I ask you a question?"
At this moment, Grimvar had been chopping wood for the firepit located within the longhall. "Aye, of course, kinsman; what do you wish to know?"
Bjorklin sighed, leaning against the fence. "When you first came to us, you said that you were from the island of Miscellania?"
Bjorklin shifted a bit. "Can you tell me a bit about it? You did live there, after all, no?"
Grimvar paused, looking to his kinsman. "Bjorklin...have I not told you that it pains me to think of my past there?"
"...for you left on bad terms," Bjorklin rolled his eyes, "I know."
"Then why ask?"
Bjorklin shrugged. "No reason, really...I have a cousin over in Miscellania, says he's never heard the name Grimvar Vargrsblood before in his life."
Grimvar froze, his fingers flexing and curling around the hilt of the axe that he held. "No doubt because my name was not Grimvar Vargrsblood when I lived there."
"Ah, yes. It was Ma'dran, was it not?"
Grimvar's fingers tightened around the wooden hilt of the axe. "So...you know my name, then...and you know what I am, no doubt..."
"Aye, I found one of your journals. So, you're one of the moonclan, then..?"
Grimvar, though shocked, nodded, both relieved by the falseness of Bjorklin's assumptions and in a state of worry due to the fact that those of the moonclan were hated among the Fremennik. "Aye...I came here to start again...with the ways of old set forth by the Fremennik, where it all began...I wished to forsake the devil's craft."
Bjorklin nodded. "You have been a good friend to me, Grimvar Vargrsblood, so here is what I will do; I will not reveal you to the clan, for that is your action to take should you choose to take it. However, should you use the demon's craft at all, no matter what for, I will reveal you to the elders without room for hesitation. Understood?"
Grimvar nodded. "Understood."
"Good," Bjorklin grunted, setting of to his home, leaving Grimvar alone.
A Kinsman No More
Ma’dran thrived in his new home with the Fremennik people, gladly learning anything that they could teach him about methods of combat, imparting what he knew upon them in exchange. He learned better how to hunt, how to use a blade, how to fish, anything and everything that the Fremennik did in common life. Years after Ma’dran had joined the Fremennik, rumors spread of a clan of raiders with intent against them passing through the area.
The resident Fremennik, including ‘Grimvar Vargrsblood’, took up arms against these raiders, traveling through the plains to find them. Eventually, the warriors located them and struck in the midst of the night. Ma’dran used a combination of Fremennik combat and magic taught to him by Kathlaron to defeat those that stood against him.
After defeating the raiders, Ma’dran’s new kinsmen bore their spears and blades, declaring him as a traitor to their people for the use of forbidden magics, casting him from their clan. Ma’dran found that he had nowhere to go but to the road again.
The Fall of Tyrannus
|“||Tyrannus, dead...my heart has never felt such reprieve. But how? How did one of our number with such power fall prey to a mortal?||”|
It was late into the Fourth Age when Ma’dran sensed a disturbance, similar to something of great power simply fading away. Ma’dran came to realize that what he had sensed was the demise of a younger, more powerful Mahjarrat than himself; he sensed the fall of Tyrannus.
This surprised him, seeing as he had sensed him a mere seventy-six years before, when he had last rejuvenated. Ma’dran was not present at this rejuvenation, though he sensed that Tyrannys was more powerful than ever at this time.
Ma’dran was surprised, though not displeased that Tyrannus had been killed. After all, it was he who had tortured and beaten he and Kathlaron during the dawn of the War of Gods. Ma’dran, however, could not help but question what had killed Tyrannus. Even on Freneskae, Tyrannus was not reliant upon the others of his race, and on Gielinor, he tended to avoid them still. Tyrannus was cautious, only meddling in the affairs of humans thus far. Surely a human could not kill a recently rejuvenated Mahjarrat. Nonetheless, Ma’dran resolved to learn from this; if a young and powerful Mahjarrat such as Tyrannus could be killed on this fertile world, excessive precautions would likely be wise.
|“||I thought, perhaps I may reclaim my days of glory and nobility, even if I am only noble in the eyes of these cud-chewing humans...||”|
An Attempt at Politics
Hundreds of years had past since the fall of Tyrannus. After having enacted extreme caution over the past several centuries, Ma’dran believed it time to begin rebuilding himself. He traveled to the city of Ardougne, a land once plagued with the sovereignty of one of Zamorak’s loyal agents; the Mahjarrat known as Hazeel. Ardougne had since rose from the ashes of Hazeel’s influence, and grew in its stability.
Ma’dran, having once been considered as nobility to the people of the Skchaelos Clan of Freneskae, began to accumulate in wealth as he campaigned for an ambassadorial position, in hopes that political influence over these humans would allow him to attain some shreds of his former glory once more.
This was, however, before Ma’dran came to recognize just how little he knew of the human mind and its temperments. As he continued down this path, Ma’dran slowly began to lose his influence and wealth. He made attempts to generate more wealth, gambling with anyone who could afford to do so.
Luck Run Dry
Five men sat around the oaken table, Ma’dran among them in his human guise known as Laertes Kalvynex. The other four men of whom sat at the table bore furrowed and anticipated brows, eyeing one another carefully. “Alright,” said one of the men bearing a twenty-sided die, “the bid is as follows; if the die lands on one, three, seven or twenty, Gale wins the round. If the die tolls two, four, five or six, Mathias wins. Should the die land on eight, nine, eighteen or nineteen, Farkas wins. Should the die toll fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen, Laertes wins. If it lands on a number between ten and thirteen, the house wins. Understood?” The four men nodded. “Alright, and…”
The fifth man rolled the die. It landed upon the number three. The man known as Gale smiled. “Alright, your wages to me lads, be snappy about it!” Three of the men rolled their eyes, sending over their coin purses; with the exception of Ma’dran. “And you, Laertes?”
Ma’dran emptied his pockets, shaking his head. “I have nothing…”
The man bearing the die sighed. “Laertes, this is the third time that you refuse to pay. Pay Gale what he is due or we will call the guards for theft.”
Ma’dran gasps. “But I have not a penny to spare!”
The man bearing the dice stood, moving to the door. “Guard! Come quickly! Property has been stolen!” He turns back to Ma’dran. “It seems that your luck has run dry, Laertes. I would begin running if I were you.” Ma’dran stood, taking off for the door before the guard came, blocking his way. The guard rammed the butt of his spear to Ma’dran’s head, rendering him unconscious.
Ma’dran awoke in the stocks the following evening as the citizens of Ardougne pelted him with various fruits vegetables. He winced, turning his head as an only defense. After a few hours, a pair of guards arrived, unlocking the binds and dragging Ma’dran to the entrance of the city itself. At this point, it had begun to rain profusely. The guards threw Ma’dran to the ground, caking his clothes and hair with mud as he landed face-first. “Come back when you are ready to abide by our laws, thief!”
Wandering Forever More
|“||Is this my fate? Am I destined to travel the world over, weaker than others of my creed, and yet haunted by memories of kinder times in Freneskae?||”|
For the better part of the age, Ma’dran remained in the region of Kandarin, accepting work where he could find it. Ma’dran came to be ashamed of what he had become, begging in the streets for money, working on fishing boats to pay for housing. What disgusted Ma’dran most of all was the fact that he was once considered to be of Mahjarrat nobility, now reduced to a commoner of a so-called “lesser race”.
Strangely, Ma’dran had always felt connected to the region of Kandarin, feeling that it was something sacred to his race. Though he was poor, reduced to a state of poverty beyond most, he refused to move on in search of fortune elsewhere, feeling that, because Kandarin was “sacred”, it was in his destiny to remain, and that whatever the Empty Lord had in store for him, he would find it there rather than to the east in the regions that would become known as Misthalin and Asgarnia. Ma’dran would stay in Kandarin for several decades, well over a century after losing what he had gained in Ardougne, refusing to travel east in search for opportunity.
Weakened and Dying
|“||My body fails me...I can continue no longer...I have become almost as weak as the thin skinned, cud-chewing humans that I live alongside of. It is only a matter of time before I fade, becoming nothing more than the pathetic remains of the once powerful being that I was in Freneskae...||”|
Night had fallen upon Gielinor as Ma’dran continued to travel in human form, draped in hooded robes with only his staff to support him. He coughed violently, seeing only the yellowish glowing lights from Witchaven as a heavy rain befell him.
He collapsed as he tripped on a root, falling into a ditch, his ankle twisted. He looked over, watching the yellow glowing lights flicker. “Pathetic,” a voice within his mind addressed him, “you once had everything, power, influence, now all washed away. You are a sour excuse for a Mahjarrat. Now, you are more like them; the humans, those of whom you had once looked down upon, but now, even you have come to envy them. Pathetic...”
Ma’dran lied back in the ditch, curled into a ball, his robes soaking wet. Ma’dran was weak, and knew that he needed to rejuvenate soon. But he missed the last rejuvenation, and he knew that he could not last for much longer. He continued to watch the lights, listening as the rain hit the ground about him. He was truly, utterly alone.
It was then that the Mahjarrat saw the light. This light was not like that of a flame like in the village nearby, but rather different, a pale, brighter light. Ma’dran did not move for reasons even unknown to him. The light drew nearer. A tear ran down Ma’dran’s cheek. It was beautiful. He reached out to it, allowing the staff to roll from his hand and into the mud.
As the light came closer and closer, it became brighter, and it felt strangely soothing to Ma’dran. He felt his worries, his fears, just wash away. He closed his eyes, feeling only the warmth and carelessness of the light come to him. He felt as though he was slowly, blissfully fading away. He embraced this feeling, seeing only light and feeling only warmth as he fell victim to sleep.
In his slumber, Ma’dran dreamt of all that had happened in his life, his coronation as chieftain, the war against his brother, coming to Gielinor, all in tremendous detail. He relived these moments again and again for what seemed like forever, small details fading from memory until his dreams were only of darkness.
“Hey! Wake up!” The man stirred in the ditch, covered in his damp robes with a fishing pole laying nearby. The man’s eyes flickered open, squinting in the light of day. “You alright, friend?” The man began to sit up, feeling sudden pain in his ankle. “Looks like you had quite a fall, eh, lad?” The man in the ditch looked up to the other, of whom appeared to be a fisherman.
“Aye…I believe so…” said the man in the ditch.
“You sound like yer from around here by your accent. Got yerself a name, friend?”
The man in the ditch scratched his head. “I…don’t quite know myself…”
The fisherman helped the nameless man out of the ditch, leaning him against his shoulder for support. “Must’ve been quite a fall, eh?” The nameless man nodded, recalling a single syllable.
The fisherman glanced at him. “Once knew a man named Montressor, died a few years back…”
The nameless man nodded. “Montressor…” The man from the ditch heard a name run through his mind. “…Gio...Giovanni…?”
The fisherman looked to him again. “Montressor Giovanni?” This man, Montressor, nodded. “Well, Mister Giovanni, you seem to have twisted your ankle, probably hit your head. I’ll take ya home, see if I can patch ya up." Montressor sneezed a bit. “Probably got yourself a cold, too. Better get ya inside.”
The man that had found Montressor, a fisherman named Jakob Bailey, brought him back to his home in Witchaven, where he and his wife, Katheryn, gradually nursed Montressor back to health. Unfortunately, the Baileys soon discovered that Montressor had a serious case of retrograde amnesia; he had no memory of his life before the morning that he was found.
Katheryn played the lute to Montressor as he healed, allowing a deep interest in the instrument to grow within him. Once he was in better health, Katheryn took delight in teaching Montressor to play, showing him all that she knew. Montressor found that he was a quick learner, cherishing the time that he spent practicing with Katheryn. Montressor, having grown into quite the character by this time, found that his love for the instrument had developed into an ambition to play it for others.
Jakob resolved that, if Montressor was to remain in Witchaven, he would need to learn how to fish. Jakob took Montressor with him to a nearby fishing platform, finding that Montressor, using the fishing pole that lied next to him the morning that he was found, was a natural-born fisherman. Montressor would later spend hours alone at the docks, fishing to his heart's delight. Jakob and Montressor commonly went to the market to sell the fish that Montressor had caught, granting them a good source of income to pay for necessities and taxes.
Nearly a year had passed since Montressor had found himself in Witchaven. He stood at the dock, his arms crossed as he looked out to the open waters. He heard a set of footsteps clattering up the dock. He turned, seeing Jakob approaching behind him. “Kat told me yer leavin' today...”
Montressor chuckled, looking down to the planks, then wincing back up to him. “That I am...”
Jakob nodded, smiling a bit. “Sick of Witchaven, eh?”
“No, no, of course not...I love it here...it's just that...I don't know who I am, and...it's something I should know, so I'm going to look around, see what I can dig up, y'know?”
Jakob nodded. “Well...we hope it works out for ya...”
Jakob tilted his head back to the town. “How about we head back, eh? Me an' Kat have some things for ya before we send you on yer way.”
Montressor tilted his head from side to side, following Jakob. “Thanks...You and Kat did a lot for me since you found me.”
Jakob nodded. “Well, you're our friend...family, even.”
Montressor smiled. “Well, thank you...for all both of you have done for me.”
Jakob opened the door to their home. “You're gonna make me cry here in a minute, Monty.”
Montressor chuckled, following him inside. “Sorry, then.”
Jakob handed him a pack. “In there, you've got your basics, map, rope, tinderbox, stuff like that.”
Montressor took the pack, slinging it across his shoulder. “Alright, thanks...”
“Not done. Here.” He handed Montressor a fishing pole. “Found this next to ya when I found ya in that ditch a while back.”
“Ah!” Montressor took the fishing pole. “Been lookin' for this...”
“Oh, and, erm...I made ya this...It was Kat's idea.” He handed Montressor the lute that was lying on the table. “She knew you loved the lute, so she had me make you one.”
Montressor smiled, leaning his fishing pole against the table as he took the lute in his hands, smiling. “It's fantastic...”
“Good...spent weeks, months getting' it right, ya know...”
“I can't even begin to say...”
“Well, least I could do, y'know.” He patted Montressor on the shoulder. “But hey! Ya better get going, hm?”
Montressor nodded, smiling to Jakob, extending a hand. “It was good to know ya, Jakob.”
Jakob took his hand, shaking it. “You too, Monty.”
Montressor picked up his fishing pole. “Any suggestions as to where I should be headin' first?”
Jakob shrugged. “I'd start goin' into the city, y'know, Ardougne, just ta start off.”
Montressor nodded. “Will do.” He stepped out the door, heading down the short path to the city.
The Cirque du Lumière
Joining the Family
It had been nearly seven months since Montressor’s departure from Witchaven to discover his true identity, filled with false leads and clues. The search had been, for the most part, in vain, without a reference to start from or any eyewitnesses of whom recognized his face. Montressor’s travels soon led him to return to Ardougne, weary and unsatisfied with his results, or rather, lack thereof.
Montressor had taken to playing for the patrons of the Flying Horse Inn, a tavern towards the edge of western Ardougne. It was on one particular night that his life would make its way into its next chapter.
As the Montressor finished, the entire pub burst into a fit of clapping. He bowed before making his way to the bar, taking a seat. It was then that a voice spoke up. “That was an excellent performance.”
The bard turned, noticing the Gnome sitting beside him. He nodded, smiling as he spoke. “Thank you. I do my best to please.” He chuckled a bit, looking to the barkeep. “A pint of mead, please?”
The Gnome looked to the barkeep as well. “On me.”
The bard glanced over, smiling to the Gnome. “Well, thank you, friend!” He extended a hand to him. “Montressor Giovanni, Bard and Thespian, at your service.”
The Gnome nodded, shaking his hand. “Fabinicci, Ringmaster and Showman, at yours.”
Montressor raised an eyebrow, delighted. “Ah, another performer, eh?”
Fabinicci tilted his head from side to side. “I play the mandolin on occasion, I can’t say that I’m a full time performer, such as yourself. I, err, I run the Cirque du Lumière, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
Montressor shook his head. “Can’t say I have…if I did, I can’t remember.”
“Hm, well, we’re performers, like yourself. We specialize in all sorts of different modes of entertainment, dancing, acting, music, fortune telling, you name it."
Montressor nodded. “Ahh, I see…”
“So,” the Gnome leaned in, “interested in joining us, Montressor?”
“Well, I would, but I’m a bit…lost…”
Fabinicci raised an eyebrow. “Lost?”
Montressor nodded. “Aye…a little while back, I found myself in a ditch, near Witchaven. Didn’t know who I was, some kinda amnesia…I’m on a bit of a quest…lookin’ for who I was…”
“Well…we travel a good bit about the mainland…I’m sure that if we can find who you are, we will. We do have some fine mentalists in our company, if you join us.”
After a moment, Montressor nodded. “Alright, I’ll join ya!”
“Well,” Fabinicci takes Montressor’s hand once more, giving it a hearty shake, “welcome, Montressor Giovanni, Bard and Thespian, to the Cirque du Lumière!”
Montressor smiled. “Thank you, sir!”
“Now, let’s finish our drinks here and I’ll take you to meet the others, eh?”
Meeting the Family
Fabinicci led Montressor to the outskirts of town, smiling to himself. It reminded him of when he had joined the Cirque himself all those years ago, after leaving the stronghold. As they approached, Fabinicci called out for the others. “Everyone! There’s someone here I’d like you to meet!”
The others came out, murmuring, looking over the bard. Fabinicci noticed that Fleur was looking the bard over with curiosity, smiling as she glanced to Leeds, then back. Fabinicci motioned his hand up to the bard. “Everyone, this is Montressor, Bard and Thespian.”
Montressor gave a theatric bow. “A pleasure to meet you all.”
“Pleasure.” Fabinicci and Montressor looked over, seeing that it was a young woman dressed in red who had spoken. She stepped forward, crossing her arms as she stood in front of him. She extended a delicate hand. “I’m Fleur.”
Montressor extended his hand. “Montressor.”
“Yes, well,” Fabinicci broke in, “I’m sure Montressor is rather tired. Fleur, would you help Montressor set up a cot for the evening?” He turned to Montressor. “Until you have more permanent sleeping arrangements, of course.”
Fleur nodded. “It would be my pleasure, papa.” She tilted her head behind her to the storage tents. "Right this way...”
The Flower of the Cirque
The relationship between Montressor and Fleur began as a mere friendship. The two got along well, being that they both considered themselves as performers and patrons of the fine arts. Montressor and Fleur had long conversations regarding the technique and skill behind acting, reading over lines for plays written long ago, even continuing on to perform a few of them for the Cirque, whether their audience was comprised of townsfolk or their own performers. It was not long before their relationship bloomed into something more.
The two began to court, becoming their own two-person act within the Cirque’s many performances. Whereas most of the members of the Cirque, such as Fabinicci, were delighted to have such an act performed, one of the members cared little for the love that Montressor and Fleur expressed to one another; Frederick Von Leeds, the blind mentalist. Though he was middle-aged and nearing his sixties, Leeds had fallen into what he perceived as love with Fleur, despising Montressor for his successful efforts to woo her where he had failed. Leeds kept his resentment for the bard secret, wishing to reserve his strength until the time was right.
Montressor stood inside of Fleur's tent pacing back and forth as he delivered his lines. "I can hardly believe what you say, for what you say sounds too--"
“Stop for a moment, Montressor?” Fleur stood from her former position, having originally been leaning against the oaken table behind her.
Montressor looked up from his script. “Yes, love?”
Fleur’s ruby lips curled into a smile. “You just need to practice, act as though you are speaking rather than reciting. Believe me, it helps put yourself into the shoes of your character.”
Montressor smiled. “Alright.”
Fleur giggled a bit. “You’re blushing, you know.”
Montressor tilted his chin a bit, his lips closer to hers. “Am I, now?” Montressor pressed his lips to Fleur’s. Fleur wrapped her arms behind Montressor’s neck as she sat herself back upon the table. Montressor chuckled a bit, almost inaudibly, pulling away slightly.
Fleur opened her beautiful, crimson eyes, smiling. “What?”
Montressor shook his head a bit, looking into Fleur’s eyes. “Someday, we should marry.”
Fleur bowed her head, smiling, before looking back into Montressor’s hazel-brown eyes. “Fleur du’Noir-Giovanni? Doesn’t really have a nice ring to it, now does it?”
Montressor chuckled. “Well, soon, whenever we make enough money with the Cirque, we could maybe run away together, have a home, grow old while our children feed us…”
Fleur bit her lip. “Grow old while our children feed us…sounds irresistible, but…”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “But..?”
Fleur sighed, beginning to stand, and following her, Montressor would back away a bit. “Fabinicci…he needs us here.”
Montressor shrugged, crossing his arms. “He can find new actors and entertainers to replace us, don’t worry; Fabinicci will get along famously without us.”
Fleur smiled. “Well, Fabinicci, he…he raised me since I was a girl…I can’t just let him go.”
Montressor stepped in closer, placing his callused, though soft, gentle palms to Fleur’s cheeks. “Maybe we won’t; he can marry us together and, who knows... if we have children, would make a wonderful grandfather, teaching our children about things like…like…Gnomish cuisine!”
Fleur could not help but laugh. “We’ll have to think about it, ‘kay?”
Montressor nodded, lowering his hands to his sides, slowly beginning to step away. “Alright.”
“Hey,” Fleur said, sitting on the table, “we were in the middle of something, remember?”
Montressor smiled, biting his lip. “Yeah…we were, weren't we.” Fleur beckoned Montressor closer as she giggled, lying down on the table as he leaned over her, continuing where they had left off.
When dawn had come, Montressor left the tent that he and Fleur had shared together so that he may welcome the clean, crisp air of Misthalin into his lungs. He was caught by surprise when a voice with a slightly Morytanian inflection addressed him; “Is it beautiful?”
Montressor turned, seeing Leeds stood a few paces behind him, leaning on his cane. “Aye,” Montressor replied, glancing up to the sky, “it is.”
Leeds seemed to glance at Montressor, despite his blindness. “Did you enjoy yourself last evening? Sleeping with the flower of the Cirque du Lumière?”
Montressor turned to Leeds again, shocked and appalled. “Look, Freddie,--”
Montressor looked to the ground, smiling a bit before looking back to Leeds. “Well, Frederick, I know that we are not quite on good terms. As unfortunate as this is, and as much as I wish to one day befriend you, what happens between Fleur and I is our business and our business alone. Please, for her sake, at least, leave it be.”
Leeds smiled before gradually making his way to Montressor. “They say that you have some sort of memory loss, ‘Montressor’?”
Montressor nods. “Retrograde amnesia, aye…what everyone keeps saying to me, at least.”
Leeds showed to Montressor a dark, sinister smirk. “Should I allow myself into your mind, I could easily find who and what you are…”
Montressor, though his attention was caught, shook his head. “I’ll have to decline your offer…”
Leeds dropped his cane to the ground, placing the palms of his hands to Montressor’s temples. “I was not offering you a justice, Montressor.”
Leeds gritted his teeth as he held his hands to Montressor’s head. Montressor felt a strong headache manifest in his mind. Leeds cried out as he was thrown by an unknown force paces away from where he once stood. Montressor ran to him, kneeling beside him. “Leeds! You alright?”
Leeds shook and twitched, seeming to shiver. “Who…are you…?”
It was then that Leeds began to twitch and shake more violently. Fleur had since came out of their tent, seeing this. “Montressor…?”
Montressor turned, still kneeling over Leeds, though looking to Fleur in fear. “Go! Get Fabinnici! Leeds is having a fit or something!”
Fleur stood paralyzed for a moment before running to fetch Fabinicci. Montressor stayed with Leeds, unsure of what to do. Leeds paused after a few moments, lying limp on the ground. Montressor placed a hand on Leeds’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. Without much time for warning, Leeds’s hand struck over, grasping Montressor by the wrist, proceeding to pull him closer. “Whoever you are…” Leeds whispered in Montressor’s ear, “whoever you truly are…leave the Cirque du Lumière…leave us in peace…before your presence here is our downfall…”
Fabinicci soon came running from his tent, followed by Fleur. “What in great Guthix’s name happened?!”
Montressor pulled away from Leeds’s grasp, slowly beginning to stand. “Leeds suffered some sort of fit when he looked into my mind. I don’t know…”
Fabinicci nodded. “Well, let’s get him to my tent, we can treat him there.”
An Overstayed Welcome
Montressor sat in his tent, drinking from a bottle of honey liquor as he thought about what had happened. Leeds was, at this point, bound to his bed. Whatever Leeds had seen within Montressor’s mind had taken its toll on him. He thought about the words that Leeds had told him before he was taken away to be treated in Fabinicci’s tent. “leave us in peace…before your presence here is our downfall.” Montressor sighed, pouring another glass of liquor before downing it completely. He began to wonder if it were simply best that he left, before he harmed anyone else.
Montressor began to pack items into his pack, recognizing his wisest option was to leave. He knew that Fleur would be heartbroken by his departure, and if he were to see her, she would likely hinder him from leaving, the same going for Fabinicci. Montressor decided that it was probably best that he left at midnight, under the cover of darkness, so that he may continue to search for his true identity, no longer tethered to those of the Cirque.
At midnight, that evening. Montressor awoke from his sleep, looking to Fleur. He pressed his lips to her forehead before slowly and carefully moving to stand. He took his pack, leaving from the tent, not knowing whether or not he would ever see Fleur again. As he walked past the tents, once again he heard that slightly Morytanian voice again. “About time that you left.”
Montressor sighed. “Evening, Leeds.”
Leeds chuckled. “It is. Finally heeding my advice, then?”
Montressor turned, though barely. “I need to know who I was, if I’m dangerous or not.”
“You are dangerous, Montressor, you just have not seen it.”
Montressor looked Leeds into his cold, blind eyes. “Y’know, Leeds, Fabinicci was right; you are a hard-arse.”
Leeds chuckled, lighting his pipe. “That does sound like our little Gnome.”
Montressor bit his tongue. “Leeds…I need to ask you something…”
Leeds puffed a few rings of smoke into the midnight air. “Do you indeed? Well, ask away, there is no knowing when we will meet again, Montressor Giovanni.”
Montressor sighed again. “I want to know what you saw…when you did your mentalist thing in my head.”
Leeds became dead serious. “Dark things…your future holds dim tidings…”
Montressor rolled his eyes, turning away. “Save your bit for the people who’re paying you and give me a straight answer.”
Leeds smiled again. “Your past and future hold a man dark and devoid of care, a man who will stop at nothing to end the lives of those opposing him.”
Montressor nodded. “Will I meet this man?”
Leeds chuckled, turning and reentering his tent. “One cannot simply meet themselves, Montressor Giovanni.”
Montressor rolled his eyes, turning to leave. “Why do I even bother with that blind buzzard…” With that, Montressor left the Cirque du Lumière behind to continue his quest to find his past.
Living for Today
It had been months since Montressor had left the Cirque to search for his true identity, having gone to meet with mages and mentalists around Gielinor for answers, but to no avail. Montressor commonly spend a great deal of time in Varrock, reading through records in the city’s library for similar circumstances to his own, finding very little useful information.
Montressor sat alone in the Blue Moon Inn, sipping from a light tankard of mead. The bell at the door sounded, meaning that yet another patron had entered the bar. Montressor did not care enough to turn his head, being that he was busy reading over a tome that he had found in the library. The newcomer sat beside Montressor, tapping his knuckles against his arm. “Buy me a glass of white wine, will ya?”
Montressor turned, surprised to see an all too familiar Gnome beside him. “Fabinicci…”
“Hurry up, will ya? I’m parched.”
Montressor ordered a bottle of white wine for Fabinicci. “How did you find me?”
Fabinicci shrugged, taking the bottle from the bartender’s hands and pouring himself a glass. “Just saw you inside and figured, ‘hey, why not pay old Montressor a visit?’. The Cirque was passing through the area, we’re stopping for a day or so before heading on out again.”
Montressor nodded. “So…how is everyone?”
“Well,” Fabinicci took a large sip from his glass, “we lost a few members, got a few…Leeds is as much of a hard-arse as ever…”
“And what about Fleur?”
“Well, Fleur? We met a caravan outside of Draynor. She left the Cirque and signed up with them some weeks ago, sleeping with some pickpocket gypsy tarot card reader named Adrien.”
Montressor bit his tongue. “Thanks…needed that bit of detail…”
Fabinicci chuckled a bit. “Well, shouldn’t of left if you didn’t want to hear about the woman that you used to court sleeping with some gypsy. Can’t imagine that their relationship will last too long, though; Adrien seems like a man of more…carnal pleasures…it‘s only a matter of time until she comes back.”
Montressor winced. “Are you saying this to torture me?”
Fabinicci took another sip from his glass, eyeing Montressor. “A little, but not mainly. I’m saying this to try and figure out why you left.”
Montressor shrugged. “Leeds said something to me before I left…”
“Leeds? Giovanni, my boy, don’t you know better not to listen to that blind old bastard?”
Montressor shook his head. “No, he was right in saying…what he did. Besides, I’m doing this for me, okay? I’m doing this to learn more about who I was.”
Fabinicci rolled his eyes. “Listen to me a moment, will ya? Look, at the end of the day, what you ‘used to be’ means less than piss, ‘kay? Now, do you love what you do?”
“What I do?”
"Yeah, y'know, being a bard."
“Aye, you know I do.”
“Then this campaign that you’re on is a useless waste of time. Now, if you enjoy how you live now, why long for a life that you have no memory of?”
Montressor gave a sigh, taking a sip from his tankard. “Because it's who I am.”
“Montressor, you aren’t listening. You aren’t made a man based on how you lived before, you are made a man from how you experience life now. You’re Montressor gods-damn Giovanni, bard and thespian. Do you enjoy being that?”
Montressor nodded. “Aye.”
“Then stop. You’re probably the happiest man that I have ever met. You are content in life, or at least the Montressor Giovanni that I used to know was. You’re probably happier now than you were then. So why look to have a life that likely pales in comparison to the life that you have built?”
Montressor looked to Fabinicci. “You’re right. I’m Montressor Giovanni, and I am happy! Happy to breathe this air, happy to perform my craft, happy to be a common man living a life that nobles envy. I don’t know what my life was like before, but I do know this; I love being Montressor Giovanni, I love the life that I have built. How many can say such words without lying?”
Fabinicci smiled. “Now that’s the Montressor Giovanni that I remember.”
Montressor smiled back. “Thank you, my friend.”
Fabinicci raised his glass. “To Montressor Giovanni, the happiest man that I know.”
Montressor rose his tankard. “And to Fabinicci, the Gnome who showed me what’s truly important!”
Montressor and Fabinicci drank deeply from their respective beverages. Once finished, Montressor stood, paying for his beverage as he made his way to the door. Fabinicci turned. “Where are you off to now?”
Montressor turned back to the Gnome, a smile etched on his face. “I’m setting off to find adventures worthy to sing about, of course! It's what we do!”
Fabinicci raised his glass to Montressor. “Best of luck, Montressor Giovanni! Best of luck!”
The Adventures of Montressor Giovanni
The Adoption of Aimee
Montressor was in the woods outside of Falador, late one morning, leaning against a Cliffside as he tuned and played his lute. Suddenly, something pounced upon him, causing him to lose balance and fall, dropping his lute. He shielded his face and eyes with his forearms as the creature that had befell him growled. He opened his eyes, looking up to see that it was a young girl, of whom could not have been more than fifteen years of age.
She crawled backward, sitting a pace or two in front of Montressor as he, too, sat up. Montressor found this lass curious, for she had peculiar ears pinned to her hair, as well as a false tail pinned to her backside. He cautiously reached out and took the lute that he had dropped when she had pounced upon him, resting it against his knee. He slowly began to speak.
“Hello…” Montressor said, still cautious of her.
It was then that she uttered a word; “H-hi.”
The sides of Montressor’s lips curled a bit. “You surprised me when you jumped on me from above.” He pointed to the peak of the Cliffside as he spoke. She tilted her head, understanding, but not accustomed to much human contact. Montressor pointed to himself. “I am Montressor.”
The lass slowly pointed to herself. “I…Aimee.”
Montressor smiled. “Well met, Aimee. Tell me, why did you jump me from up there?”
Aimee raised her arms in a pouncing motion. “Fun.”
Montressor chuckled a bit. “For fun? Commonly, people just say hello, but…Y’know, that’s not for everyone.”
After a short silence, Aimee moved to stand. “Play?”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “Play?”
“Play!” Aimee stood fully, running about in a circle, her false tail flapping about uselessly.
Montressor chuckled, standing. “Sure. And…what would we be doing…?” Aimee simply turned, running about. Montressor shook his head as he turned. “Alright, then…” Aimee laughed, running about the area, occasionally looking back to Montressor. He took his lute, playing a soft melody as he followed her with his eyes, smiling. Montressor would close his eyes, continuing to play for her. Montressor could not help but wonder what had become of the lass’s family, if they knew that she was out in the wilds near Falador.
Aimee eventually tired herself out, lying on the ground. “Tired…” she yawned.
Montressor drew nearer, finishing his melody. “Do you have a home, little lass?” She looked over to Montressor, shaking her head. “No family?” he asked. She continued to shake her head, sitting up. Montressor made his way over, sitting next to her on the ground. Aimee cocked her head, her false ears falling a bit out of place. “So, you’re here all alone, then?” Aimee nodded. “Where do you come from, lass?” Aimee pointed towards the south. “Falador?” Aimee nodded her head. “Then what are you doing out here?”
Aimee shrugged, fixing her false ear. “Play.”
“Are you staying with anyone in Falador, lass?” Aimee shook her head. “You take care of yourself, then?”
She nodded in response.
“Strange…It seems that you aren’t really accustomed to human interaction. Why the get-up?” She would blink, clearly not understanding what he meant. Montressor nodded toward her false ears and tail.
“Hm,” Montressor responded, “Interesting…I, myself, can’t remember where I came from.” Aimee crossed her arms, cocking her head. “Amnesia, they called it. Can’t remember a thing before three years ago.”
Aimee tilted her head. “Am…ne-saa?”
“Aye, memory loss…I suppose it has been more like four years now.”
“Aye,” Montressor sighed, “four.”
Montressor tilted his head. “Hm?”
“Papa.” She reached over to hold onto his leg.
Montressor smiled, allowing this. “I see.” she hugged onto his leg. “Well, I don’t exactly have a roof over my head, but you’re more than welcome to stay with me, little lass.” He would smile to the girl with false ears and a tail. Montressor began to stand, Aimee still clinging to his leg. Montressor chuckled. “You could come with me, little lass.”
“Papa!” Aimee stood, clinging to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Montressor smiled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Papa!”
Montressor chuckled a bit. “Alright, alright. I’m here.” Aimee smiled brightly, laughing. “I’m a bard by trade, so if you wish to stay with me, we will travel a good bit, lass.”
Montressor smiled. “Aye, anywhere in Gielinor.”
He chuckled again. “Aye. The question is, where to go first?”
“Where, where!” Aimee laughed again, hugging him tighter. Montressor hugged her back, smiling at the thought of having a new daughter.
The White Sorceress
Montressor would make his way down the path, a spring in his step as he walked. He turned to see a red-haired woman standing nearby. He nodded his head, smiling. “Afternoon, lass.”
“Ma’am is more important.” She said as she cast her gaze to him, smiling.
Montressor would chuckle, looking to the ground. “Well, afternoon, Ma’am.”
“What is such a handsome young man like you doing out here?”
Montressor smiled. “Traveling, I’m a bard by trade.”
“Ah, a trade bard. Well, surely you can spare some time here with me, unless you have to go?”
Montressor shrugged, smiling. “I’d be delighted to share my company.”
“How nice. One moment?” She closed her eyes and began to make swift motions with her hands. After a few moments, a few woodstacks came into being, morphing into chairs. “Come, come. Please, sit.”
“Alright.” Montressor did so. The woman sat down next to him, twiddling her fingers for a moment. Montressor extends a hand to her. “I’m Montressor, by the way.”
“Alissa Menthol.” She smiles, moving to shake his hand.
“An honor, Miss Menthol.”
She looked to him, seemingly gazing into his aura. She appeared a bit concerned. “So, where do you come from, Montressor?”
“Witchaven, just near Ardougne. And yourself?”
“Ah. I come from a few other dimensions.”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “A few other dimensions?”
“Well, the spirit plane.” She would gaze to him further.
“The spirit plane?” She simply nodded. "Interesting...and you're a mage?"
“Sorceress, a witch of the light.”
“Ah, well, I’m just a simple bard.” He chuckles a bit.
“I see.” She looked to him peculiarly.
He looked back. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no…” She shook her head. “Have you been experimenting with magic as of late?”
“Magic? Why, I stay away from that stuff as best as I can. No offence, Miss Menthol.”
“Of course, of course. Why don‘t we head back to my home?”
“Of course. Which way?”
"This way, this way."
Montressor stood, following her. “Out of curiosity, why did you ask?”
“Oh, no reason, no reason.”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “Alright.”
“Actually, I’ll tell you the truth.” She turned, facing him. “Your aura…is masked with a protection from the Ancient Spellbook.”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “My aura?” He looked down, thinking about his hidden past.
“The important thing is that it hasn’t affected your personality or stature, which is good because you are an incredibly bright young man.” She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He smiled to her warmly. “Thanks. And you‘re an incredibly bright lass.”
“Thank you, we could be good friends.” She let go of his arm. “Be careful, and watch your surroundings as we pass through.”
Montressor continued to follow her. “So, this magic, it isn’t hurting me, is it?”
“We’re going to my home. Once we’re there, we’ll see.”
Once they had reached their destination, Alissa turned. “Alright, here is where I will attempt to find out more about these dark magics. My home is a bit further down the way.”
“Alright, well, do what you must.”
“Sit down, please." Montressor would do so, taking a seat on the ground. Alissa would begin to chant a phrase indiscernible by Montressor as she continued. She would press her right hand against his forehead, attempting to access his mind. She would take a few moments, before pulling out, rendering him unconscious. He awoke as Alissa slapped him awake. “Are you alright?”
“Nothing, nothing, everything’s just fine. The darkness will not affect you as long as you remain away from ancient magics.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Alright? Still don’t understand it, though…” He would slowly begin to stand.
“Well, if you want, you could stay with me for a while?”
“Stay with you?”
Montressor smiled. “Why?”
“I just don’t trust anyone else with you. Your mind is…fragile…”
“More than you know.”
"Well, lass, I'm fine. Promise. I've spent the past four years being fine."
“At least consider it?”
He smiled, moving to stroke her cheek. “Perhaps I will.”
“Your consideration is appreciated.”
“Would you prefer it, if I were to stay?”
“I mean, I don’t want you in a prison…I just think it would be nice for you to have a home and a skilled sorceress to see when you come home to rest.”
“Professionally or personally?”
She chuckled a bit. “Well, if it’s a living place, it’s obviously going to be personal.”
He smiled, moving his hand to her forearm. “Are you saying that you want me?”
“What does that mean?” She laughs a bit, and Montressor with her.
“Well, you're basically asking me to move in with you.”
“Yes, I am.”
“A man is bound to think that you’re flirting with him.”
“Is that so? How…amusing.” Montressor moved to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She smiled, complying as she embraced him. “I think that you know the answer to my question, now?”
Montressor smiled, continuing. “I’ll still need some time to think about it.”
She nodded, smiling. “That’s fine…” Montressor pulled her closer as he continued. He felt something deep within, telling him that this was wrong, that she was not of his creed nor kind, that deep down, he believed that she maintained ulterior motives in wishing to keep him. Perhaps she wished to study him, more specifically the alleged ancient magics surrounding his aura? Was this ‘White Sorceress’ truly interested in his well-being? Nonetheless, Montressor felt that she was hiding something, if not about herself, then something that she had discovered about him as she delved into his mind.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes before pulling away. “I…I’m sorry…I should be off.”
“Why? We were…”
Montressor sighed, shaking his head as he straightened his clothes. “Nevermind…I should be going anyways.” With that, Montressor left, without another word, feeling guilty for letting another woman, a sorceress no doubt, into his heart while he still had Aimee in his care.
The Letter From Witchaven
Though Montressor had not visited the Baileys in Witchaven for years, be made his best effort to keep in touch with them, being that they were the oldest friends that he could remember. Nearly a month and a half following the adoption of Aimee, Montressor was surprised to receive a letter from Katheryn stating that things were more dire than when he had left them.
As he read through the letter, Montressor was shocked to find that it was true that Witchaven was involved in a skirmish not long ago, though many of the villagers, including Jakob and herself, were relocated during the attack and were alive and well, though the village had been almost completely wrecked and was in the process of being rebuilt. Montressor had heard this news earlier from a woman involved in politics known as Nikta Bay while he rested in the Rising Sun Inn during one of regular his visits to Falador.
Though this news both concerned and relieved Montressor, something else within the letter caught his attention; Jakob had apparently been attacked by a hooded assailant. Jakob had lost consciousness during the skirmish, but remembered that this assailant had a certain eastern etiquette about how he moved and acted. Jakob told Katheryn that he only remembered that his assailant was looking for someone, more specifically someone that had passed through Witchaven around the time that Montressor had been found.
Montressor considered the possibility that this hooded easterner had been searching for him, though doubted the merit behind this. Montressor believed that it was more likely than not that this hooded easterner was a mere thug, of whom had likely mistaken Jakob to be a hostile, or at least someone hindering his efforts in finding information. Montressor decided that it was probably best not to worry about this assailant; after all, who would go to such extremes just to locate a simple bard from Witchaven?
The Shadowed Nephew
Montressor sat at the end of the bar counter in the Blue Moon Inn, plucking and tuning his lute when he heard a man entering the bar. Montressor noticed that this man was hooded and masked, and had taken a seat beside him at the bar. The man looked to him before speaking. “Montressor Giovanni?”
Montressor nodded. “Aye…so you’ve heard of me, then?”
“I have been searching for you. I was hoping to discuss important matters with you.”
Montressor smiled. “Absolutely! You want me to play for someone you know, then?”
“You want me to play for you now?”
“No…I was hoping to discuss your past.”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “My past clients?”
The masked man eyed the amulet about Montressor’s neck before looking back to him. “Does the name Ma’dran mean anything to you?”
Montressor bit his lip. “Not sure…should it?”
The masked man’s eyes narrowed with concern. “What of Skchaelos, or Kathlaron?”
Montressor shook his head. “Can’t say I know them.”
The man eyed the amulet again. “Where did you get that?”
“This? Found it about my neck when they found me in Witchaven four years ago.”
The man paused. “Is that so?”
“Aye…now,tell me, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Montressor…I am called Arashi Ravencroft. Though I am not quite sure yet, my father might be your brother. I have spent…a long time in helping him to find you.”
Montressor eyed this man, Arashi. “I have a brother?”
“I am not sure if he is your brother or not. I will contact him, however, and let him know where to locate you. He will know better than I would.”
Montressor shrugged. “I suppose you could do that. I seriously doubt that your father is my brother, but it’s worth a shot, eh?”
Arashi nodded. “Of course. I had better get going. Feel free to contact me, let me know where he could meet with you.”
Montressor nodded. “Alright, thanks.” With that, Arashi bowed before leaving the inn. Montressor turned back in his seat, both skeptical and hopeful that this could be a link to his past.
Meeting with Cassius
Montressor sat in the Rising Sun Inn, sipping from a tankard of mead. It was then that he heard footsteps enter the bar. Of course, he did not bother to turn, as patrons had been in and out of the bar all day. As he lost himself in his own thoughts, a man clad in white sat down next to Montressor. “Montressor Giovanni?”
He turned, nearly jumping out of his seat. “Oh!” He eyed the man for a moment before chuckling a bit, turning back to his mead. “Oh… sorry, caught me a bit off guard.”
The man nodded, seeming to be a bit rushed. “Sorry about that. But I heard from my son that you could be my brother.”
Montressor crossed his eyebrows, a bit confused. “Your son…?”
“Arashi Ravencroft. Shouldn’t be easy to forget him.”
Montressor thought for a moment, then remembered the man from the bar only weeks before. “Oh! The cloaked lad!”
“Yes, he mentioned you had amnesia. True?”
Montressor nodded. “Far as I can tell.”
“So the name of Kathlaron means nothing to you…” He eyed Montressor’s amulet, “…or Skchaelos?
“Can’t say they do. And you are…?”
“Cassius Ravencroft, as I said before, though you would know me as Kathlaron. I can’t quite sense if you are truly my brother, yet, though. Would You mind if I tried something? Just to be sure.”
Montressor shrugged “Absolutely.”
Cassius turned to him. “I’m going to enter your mind, see if I can find some semblance of my brother’s memories.” Cassius placed a hand over Montressor’s forehead, closing his eyes. Montressor knew that Cassius was scanning through his memories, private and public. It was suddenly that he heard in his mind a woman’s faint screams. Cassius pulled back, as did he. “Interesting. That was a mental block. A very powerful one at that, to resist someone of my skill. I did confirm it; you are my brother.”
“Great! I…erm…I think!”
Cassius smiled lightly. “Good.”
“But erm…no offence, but…” He glanced to Cassius’s silver hair. “…are you sure you‘re not my father or uncle or something?”
“…I am quite sure.”
“Really, because…I mean, look at you…you’re…erm…gray...?”
“We have a lot to talk about…clearly…”
Montressor turned back to the bar, murmuring to himself, “Must’ve been born years before me…”
Cassius took a gemstone from his robes. “Here, take this if you wish to contact me. We still must catch up, brother, but--"
“You know I won’t use that thing, right? I’ll probably lose it…”
“Not intentionally, of course!”
“Look, I don’t want to track you down again, come find me when I’m less busy.”
“When will I know when that is?”
Cassius sighed. “Look, how about this, just come with me to my residence for now so we can sort this out there?”
“Alright. Where is it?”
“Far from the troubles of Gielinor.”
“Alright…is it at sea? Is it a boat?
“More like a pocket dimension?”
Montressor winced, biting at his lip a bit. “With magic and…things?”
“Indeed it does” Cassius made an attempt to cast a teleportation spell on Montressor.
“Whoa, whoa! Teleportation…doesn’t agree with me.”
“Well how else will I get you there?” Cassius seemed rather irritated.
“Well…erm…” In the end, Montressor rolled his eyes. “Fine…do what you need to do.”
“Alright, hold still.” With that, Cassius cast the spell upon the amnesiac bard, sending him to his realm.
Waking from the Dream
Montressor climbed up the stairs, finding himself in Cassius's personal laboratory. He squinted, looking about the dark room to see books, herbs, and other magical items scattered about. He looked to Cassius, who stood at the lab table. “Kinda dismal up here, don'tcha think?” He chuckled a bit to himself. “Could use a few throw pillows...”
Cassius glanced about the laboratory before giving Montressor a look of irritation. “It's a laboratory, brother, if I put decorations in it I'd have to end up replacing them at some point or another. But, to the point as to why I've called you here...I have figured out what is causing your amnesia.” Cassius gave a smile. “And I can cure it.”
Montressor raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” It was then that he smiled. “Ah! Good, good!”
Cassius nodded “Yes, I'd like to try the procedure on you now, if that's alright.”
Montressor shrugged. “Alright...will it be painful?”
“I'm not sure. It could be.”
Montressor bit his lip “Oh...I...err...don't respond well to pain...”
Cassius gave a sigh. “I'm sorry if I do cause you pain, but it is the only way to regain your memory.” He set his staff down on the lab table, making his way over to Montressor.
Montressor nodded, clenching his hands into fists as he stood firm. “Alright...do what you need to do...” Montressor swallowed. “I'm not afraid...”
Cassius moved his hands to the sides Montressor's head. As he did, shadow began to cloak him as a painful telepathic surge went through Montressor's mind. Within moments, Cassius had taken a new form, that of a masked giant, clad in green. Montressor looked up, gasping at Cassius's transformation. He felt terror as he felt this giant pry and pick through his mind. He felt a discernible feeling of terror as the giant pried through his mind.
The giant's red eyes closed for a moment as he delved deeper into Montressor's mind. As he did this, Montressor felt as memories would begin piecing themselves together. His eyes rolled back in his head, hearing the voice of a woman in his mind. “Ma'dran...Ma'dran...” He found that he had actually begun to whisper what the woman had said as memories flooded every corner of his mind, his eyes fluttering as he gasped out to breathe.
Montressor felt the giant release his mind from his grip, though memories continued to flood through it. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to remain standing. “Ma'dran...” He opened his eyes. He saw the ashen wastes, he saw himself fighting alongside skeletal giants; he saw everything. He glanced up to the masked green giant standing before him. He then knew it to be true; this giant, who he had remembered as Kathlaron, was his brother. He was overwhelmed as memories continued to reform themselves in his mind. “I...I remember now...”
The giant, Kathlaron, placed a hand on Montressor's shoulder. “Welcome back, Ma'dran...it is good to see you again.”
Montressor looked down to the ground. “And you...Kathlaron...”
“It has been a long time...”
“You should get some rest. That was no doubt a jarring experience, brother.”
Montressor glanced up to Kathlaron again, seeming to be at a loss. “This can't be right...”
Kathlaron's glowing eyes narrowed in concern. “I...do not understand...”
“I'm your brother...I'm...what am I?”
“All the answers to your questions will come with time. Just know that you are Ma'dran, my brother, and the chieftain of the Skchaelos-Mah.”
“...I...” He bit his lip, shaking his head. “I don't...”
Kathlaron gave a reassuring look. “In time.”
“...I...” Montressor brought his hand up, biting at the knuckle of his index finger. After a moment, once his memories all seemed to be in place, he nodded. “I'm Ma'dran...”
Kathlaron nodded back. “Yes.”
“The woman I hear...who is she?” He thought of the voice in his head, calling his name. “She sounds...like she's in pain...”
“She is Vaetherya.”
“Vaetherya?” Montressor then began to remember her, how he felt for her long ago. “Vaetherya...She's...she's dead, isn't she?”
Kathlaron gave a somber nod.-“I'll leave you to recuperate. I have some matters to attend to.”
Montressor nodded back. “Thank you.” He showed a bit of hesitation as he continued. “...Brother...”
“It is good to have you back, brother.” Kathlaron exited the lab, his green cloak flowing gently behind him.
Montressor seemed just as somber, though his thoughts were to his life...the past five years he spent not quite knowing who he was. He had every reason to be happy. He remembered everything, who he was, what he was. This knowledge, however, did not bring solace; it brought him pain.
Greater Shoes to Fill
Montressor's life had changed drastically in the short time in which he had known who he was. The destiny of a dying clan of immortal beings rested on his shoulders. As much as a strain as this was, It was even more of a strain knowing that he was one of them, that he had been alive for over fifteen-thousand years, that he was more than just a bard. As much as some would enjoy being in his position, a leader of a clan of lich-like warriors, Montressor came to loathe himself, that he was more than what he wanted to be; a bard, an entertainer.
Even more stressful, Kathlaron, his apparent brother, depended on him, looked up to him, so to speak, to make the right decision in bringing their clan back together, providing him with a small amount of energy he had stored from the last Ritual of Rejuvenation he had attended, restoring a bit of his original strength. Needless to say, he felt flustered, tethered, destined to do something he could not. Montressor knew that he was no warrior, that he could not possibly fill the shoes of Ma'dran; the shoes that he once filled in another life.
It was a time of angst and responsibility for Montressor. In his depression, he began to cut himself so that he may cope with the emotional pain and frustration that entailed from his new responsibilities as the leader of the Skchaelos-Mah. He found relief in small doses as he did so, though he eventually came to do it habitually. Fortunately enough, now knowing who he was and what he was capable of, he healed more quickly, though some scars remained longer than others.
Make Me Forget
Montressor sat alone in his room, holding his lute in his hands. He sighed, giving a smile as he began to play. He found it relieving, soothing even to play the lute again after weeks, months of knowing who he truly was. He heard a knocking on his door. Montressor stopped playing. He glanced up before standing, placing his lute where he had been sitting on the bed. He cleared his throat. “Come on in...”
The door opened, revealing Arashi behind it. He entered, leaning against the frame of the door. “I never knew that you played the lute that well, uncle.”
“Please,” Montressor smiled to his nephew, “Montressor...I've had years of experience...” He bit his lip, crossing his arms. “I...I loved playing. I just miss being a bard sometimes, y'know?”
Arashi nodded. “I understand. My father misses his time as a human sometimes. He may not say it, but I can tell he does.”
Montressor rubbed at his scarred wrists, leaning against the cobblestone wall. “Well, humanity was all I knew...sometimes, I wish I could forget what he made me remember...all those...horrible things I did...”
Arashi paused for a moment, glancing at Montressor. “You are very important to him. He has spent a long time searching for you.”
“I know, but...I'm not...who I was...” He shrugged. “...I'm just a bard, now...”
Arashi lowered his head, either in sympathy or pity. “Maybe you can talk about it with my father. He wants to see you anyway, I came to let you know.”
Montressor nodded. “Alright, well,” He put on a smile. “Send him in.”
“I'll let him know you're willing to see him.” Arashi nodded to his uncle before walking out of the room.
As he waited, Montressor glanced to the lute laid down on his bed. He smiled, thinking of Jakob and Katheryn, how they helped him get back on his feet.
Kathlaron appeared in the room. “Brother, we have much to discuss. How do you feel?”
Montressor shrugs, glancing up to Kathlaron. “Not...great...”
He tilted his head to the side. “What is troubling you?”
Montressor gave a sigh. “I just...miss it...being human...a bard...” He rubbed a bit more at his scarred wrists.
Kathlaron's eyes narrowed. “And why would that be?”
“I...I was a man...I had feelings...and now...I'm numb. I remember all those things I did, and I...” Montressor turned his head away from Kathlaron.
“Ma'dran, you still have feelings. Don't you remember them?”
“...Make me forget...”
Kathlaron glared at Montressor from behind his mask. “...What?” Kathlaron paused for a moment. “Do you have any...any...Idea, how long I have searched for you?”
“You searched for Ma'dran, Kathlaron...”
“And you are saying that you are not him? Now, when you are needed the most?! Our tribe is gone. We are the last of it. You are the best hope for our survival now...And you just want to give up?”
“No...it isn't my responsibility...It was Ma'dran's...And he's been dead for five years...ever since I woke up in Witchaven.” He stood firm, looking up to Kathlaron defiantly. “I...am Montressor Giovanni...Bard and Thespian.” Kathlaron took a few steps forward. Montressor picked up his lute, holding it between them. “Stay away from me...”
Montressor raised his lute, ready to hit Kathlaron if need be. “Step back...Now...”
“I have looked up to you ever since I was a child. You were my greatest inspiration. Don't you dare sully the great man you were. Please...let go of this guise and be who you truly are.”
Montressor ground his teeth. “I'm not your brother! I am Montressor Giovanni! This is who I am!” He swung the lute at Kathlaron's head.
Kathlaron simply held up his arm, letting the lute smash against his forearm. “Fine. You leave me with no choice.”
Montressor ground his teeth, looking to the shattered lute in his hand. He threw it down to the ground as he lunged at Kathlaron. Kathlaron was taken to the ground. Once he was, though, he headbutted Montressor, causing him to stumble backward, hitting his head against the wall. A few murmurs escaped from Montressor's lips. “Ughh...”
“Why?! Why do you abandon your cause?!
Montressor held the back of his head in pain as he sat up against the wall. “It...it isn't my cause...Kathlaron...”
“Do you not understand what lies at stake?” After a moment, Kathlaron shook his head. “Enough of this...” He grabbed hold of Montressor's head. “I will have my brother back.”
Montressor throttled his head a bit, feeling as his memories became suppressed and faded. Witchaven, the Cirque, Fleur, all began to fade as he spasmed and siezed. “Please...”
Kathlaron paused. Montressor felt his memories cease to fade for the time being. “I...I want to live...a life...” He paused, looking up to Kathlaron weakly. “...I'm sorry...Kathlaron...Ma'dran is...” Montressor sighed. “...He's gone...I'm so...”
Kathlaron looked away for a moment. He let go of Montressor's head, allowing his memories to return. Montressor felt as this happened, looking up to Kathlaron, blood in his mouth and running down from his nose. Kathlaron knelt down to Montressor. “So did I...”
Kathlaron's head lowered. “I'll give you a day to reconsider. If you don't, then fine, I'll send you back to the way you were.”
“This is...what I want...Kathlaron...I'm as sure now...as I'll ever be...”
Kathlaron sighed. He hesitated before putting his hand back. “Fine.”
Montressor removed the amulet from about his neck, holding it up to Kathlaron. “Take this...you can lead your people now...” He nodded to the staff leaned against the wall. “And that...Ma'dran would've wanted you to have it...”
Kathlaron carefully took the amulet into his hands. “...I'm sorry it had to end this way, brother.” He placed the amulet in his robes and placed his hand over Montressor's head.
“So am I...” Montressor hesitated for a moment. “...Brother.”
“Goodbye, Ma'dran. May you find peace in whatever life you might find.” Kathlaron began to take memories of Ma'dran's past, though he transferred them into his own mind rather than suppressing them.
A smile escaped Montressor's bloodied lips. “Goodbye...Kathlaron...” His eyes began to close as he slipped out of consciousness, feeling as the memories faded from his mind.
Back to the Beginning
Montressor lay unconscious, bottles and nets surrounding him. His eyes fluttered a bit as he heard footsteps approaching. Though his vision was blurred, he could still see the outline of a figure. The figure sighed. “Blessed Guthix's bones, not again...”
Montressor squinted up at the figure. “Mmm...?”
The figure knelt down next to the ditch, looking down to Montressor. “Alright. Your name is Montressor Giovanni. You are in Witchaven...My name is--”
“Jakob.” Montressor squinted up, the figure becoming clearer. He smiled, giving a light chuckle, rubbing his eyes with his index finger and thumb. “I'm not daft, Jakob, I remember you fine...”
Jakob smiled. “Right...what's the last thing you remember?"
Montressor squinted up to Jakob. "I don't quite recall...I do remember being teleported by some mage to his home...suppose that's the last thing I remember..."
"Right...now, happened there?” He nodded down to Montressor's side.
Montressor glanced over, seeing his broken lute at his side. He felt a raspy, dry feeling quell in the back of his throat. “...Oh...”
Jakob bit his lip. “Sorry, lad...maybe we can find ya a new one, eh?”
Montressor nodded. “Aye...maybe...”
Jakob tilted his head back, extending a hand down to Montressor. “C'mon. Let's getcha out of this ditch, aye?”
Montressor took Jakob's hand. “Aye.”
Jakob tipped his chin to Montressor. “Where'd your things go off to?”
Montressor felt his chest, then his back. He glanced down to the ditch, then back up to Jakob. “My amulet...my fishing pole...and where's my pack?!”
Jakob twitched his eyebrows, tilting his head a bit. “Might've been stolen...?”
“Who'd steal from me? I'm a bard!”
Jakob shrugged. “Monty...people steal from people all the time...now, come on, Katheryn will be happy to see you.”
Montressor nodded, chuckling a bit as he followed Jakob. “Suppose I could always get new things, eh?”
Jakob nodded, placing a hand on Montressor's shoulder. “That's the spirit, eh? Now, c'mon. Get ya something to eat, then, yeah?”
Returning to Asgarnia
Montressor resolved to remain in Witchaven for a matter of a few weeks, catching up with the Baileys and recuperating from the head wound he believed to have sustained from his fall. In the meantime, Montressor searched for items to replace the ones that he had initially lost. In Witchaven, supplies such as fishing poles and maps could not be too difficult to find.
Unfortunately, Montressor could scarcely replace his lute or his missing amulet. Instead, he resolved to take the opportunity of transferring his skill with the lute to a new instrument; another newer, very lute-like string instrument known as the mandolin. Jakob had made one for Montressor after having spoke with a fellow crafter on the subject of making one, hoping that Montressor may find some use in it. Naturally, Montressor was curious, even anxious to learn to play the mandolin from his experience with the lute.
After a few weeks, it was time to move on. Montressor had healed from his fall and had replaced the effects he had lost when he awoke again in the ditch. Of course, it felt strange for Montressor, leaving Witchaven for the second time in the past five years, though traveling, by way of ship to Asgarnia, no less, felt natural to him. He said his goodbyes to the Baileys before setting off, a new man with new effects.
After a few days, Montressor had arrived in Port Sarim. From there, he traveled down the road, returning to the white city of Falador, where he had last remembered being before his memory became blurred and hazy at best. Despite being unsure of what happened between the mage claiming to be his brother and himself, he did not much care to dwell on the matter, believing that the mage had conned him, stealing all of his former effects from him before dumping him back into the ditch where he was initially found in Witchaven. After this series of events as Montressor had known them, he would certainly find it difficult to trust another practitioner of magic again in the near future.
Montressor Giovanni is considered by most to be kind, helpful, empathetic, and able to reason with what would be considered as right and wrong. Montressor is considered to be a pacifist, abiding by the law as well as his own moral compass, and does not do too well when it comes to confrontation.
Montressor is fluent, calm, jovial and fun-loving and is, as a result, more confident and charismatic when interacting with others. He is very accepting of those different from him, only judging others by the way they treat one another. Montressor can be a bit naïve at times, trusting that there is no foul play in how others act, believing inclinations of a malicious nature against him to be mere superstition and human paranoia.
Montressor has dark hazel eyes, seemingly more brown with mere flecks of green that seem as cheerful and kind as they are experienced and old. Physically, Montressor seems to be in his late twenties to early thirties, seeming to constantly have a glint in his eye accompanied by a warm, welcoming smile etched upon his lips. He has unkempt, mahogany-brown hair, paralleled by a short, equally unkempt beard. There are some that would describe him as “handsome” for a man of his profession, not only due to his welcoming face, but also due to his personality. His tanned skin tone would suggest that he may be of distant Kharidian-Misthalite heritage, making it seem as though he is rather well-traveled.
Bodily & Physique
Montressor stands at a full height of six feet, give or take an inch or two, and always stands straight and tall, appearing to have good posture for one of his ‘economic status’. One may describe him as muscular in build and in frame, appearing to have strength rivaling that of a Fremennik, though he does not appear to ever take advantage of this.
His fingers are slender, though calloused, showing that he practices often with his lute, his nails well-kept and trimmed, appearing to have a writer’s callous on his right ring-finger. Despite having calloused fingers from his work, his hands, though appearing strong and masculine, are slender and gentle, needing to be as such in the maintenance of his lute
Montressor is commonly seen wearing a vanilla-colored, silken shirt, as well as a set of darker, seemingly Kharidian trousers and boots made from a seemingly rougher, more sturdy material intended for traveling in deserts and harsh landscapes, such as he often must. Around his neck hangs a peculiar amulet bearing the appearance of a battleaxe. Montressor wears a travelers pack, carrying his supplies needed for travel, including his lute. To his side, hung from his belt, hangs his coinpurse, made from a darker brown, seemingly Kharidian material.
Skills & Attributes
Montressor has found that speaking and interacting with others is a skill that feels more than natural to him. As he converses and interacts, he feels that it is in his nature to find allies and friends in others, able to call upon them when in times of serious need, though these occasions do not manifest very often for one of his profession.
Through his line of work, Montressor has learned several languages with ease, including Fremennik, Dwarven, and broken Kharidian in addition to the common tongue.
Ever since Katheryn Bailey first played the lute to Montressor as he was healing in Witchaven, he has always had a passion for music, especially music that is a product of the lute or the bagpipes. Montressor is proud to say that he is quite adept in the use of the lute, and has since experimented with playing the mandolin, though he feels that he has much to learn before advancing from the practice chanter to the actual bagpipes.
Strength and Combat
Montressor exercises every now and then, though he appears as though he would not be required to do so. His strength was carried from the experiences that he had in his current form before losing his memories, and rivals that of a Fremennik warrior, though Montressor is gentle in nature and has little use of this strength. He could hold his own if absolutely required to fight, but has retained little to no experience in actual combat, hand-to-hand or otherwise.
Swimming, Fishing, and Sailing
Being that Montressor spent a year in Witchaven, which he considers his home, he loves the open water. Many consider him to be a strong swimmer, a half-decent fisherman, and a good sailor due to the fact that sea-sickness does not come naturally to him.
- Technically, Montressor does not carry any actual weapons with him, though if completely necessary, he will use any equipment that he does carry in self-defense.
- Mandolin: Affectionately named "Lil' Susie", in honor of Montressor's recently destroyed lute, this mandolin is his most cherished possession, given to him by the Baileys when he left Witchaven for the second time. It is finely crafted, able to create beautiful and graceful music if played correctly. Montressor takes constant care of it, making sure that it is always well-tuned before playing.
- Fishing Pole: By all standards, an ordinary fishing pole, though it is strong and flexible enough to catch fish over twenty pounds in weight. Montressor was forced to purchase it after he lost his original fishing pole in a series of events leading him back to Witchaven.
- Tinderbox: Given to Montressor by the Baileys when he left Witchaven. It contains flint, steel, and tinder so that he may light fires when in need of them.
- Map: Another essential given to Montressor by Jakob and Katheryn Bailey when he set off from Witchaven. It details most of the accessible mainland, from Kandarin to Al Kharid. It has been very useful to Montressor in his travels across Gielinor.
- Small Notebook: Bought by Montressor during a bit of time that he spent in Varrock. Montressor uses it to write notes on songs that he wishes to write and perform. It has a thin, dyed pale blue leather-like strap binding it closed, as well as a thick leather cover. The notebook itself contains nearly two hundred pages, several of those pages containing ideas for music to be played, as well as some of Montressor's adventures and descriptions of people of whom he has met throughout his travels and finds of note.
- Coinpurse: Hanging from Montressor's belt is a small purse of gold made from a bit of cloth and leather. Much of his income consists of what he has earned throughout his travels as a bard and fisherman. Montressor's coinpurse contains the following:
- Gold: (x236)
- Length of Rope: Provided by the Baileys when Montressor left from Witchaven. When uncoiled, this length of rope is close to twenty-five feet in length.
Hyllcroth----- Father ----- Deceased Ellisike----- Mother ----- Deceased
- Kathlaron ----- Brother ----- Alive
Tyrannus----- Half-Brother ----- Deceased
Vaetherya----- Step-Mother, Formerly in Courtship ----- Deceased
- Fleur du'Noir ----- Formerly in Courtship ----- Whereabouts Unknown
- Aimee ----- Adopted Daughter ----- Alive
- Arashi Ravencroft ----- Nephew ----- Alive
Emyris Bayne----- Nephew ----- Deceased
- Freyja Gaz-Bayne ----- Grand-Niece ----- Alive
- ??? ----- Grand-Nephew ----- ???
- Kathlaron - An individual of no small importance to Montressor's past.
- Montressor Giovanni/"Lil' Susie" - Montressor's Mandolin.
- Montressor is right-handed by default, though he wishes to learn to become ambidextrous.
- Montressor has taken to chewing mint leaves to improve his breath.
- He offers his services as a bard and actor for hire to those who require his skills for private employment.
- Montressor's accent may be described as one of Asgarnian-Kandar origin, specifically one that would be found in sea-bordering areas such as Witchaven. This is coupled with his love for the sea.
- Montressor follows a code of personal chivalry and enlightenment, believing that his actions as a man should be noble and just and that, to be truly happy, he must do good to others around him and do what he enjoys while he can.
- Montressor can be considered as a very liberal thinker and can be seen as very accepting, looking past social "boundaries" such as race, economic and social class, sexuality and religion, seeing every mortal as equal.
- Montressor has a fondness for well-made hats, particularly fezzes, cavaliers, and wide-brimmed hats.
- Montressor's name was originally derived from "Montresor", a character from Edgar Allan Poe's short-story, "The Cask of Amontillado".
- Montressor is Emyris Bayne's fourth roleplaying character, though he is the oldest to remain active, having been initially created in the January of 2013.
He is categorized as a division two Mahjarrat under the Divisional Split Theory.