/Mantenar Lavonge, of District Eleven\ [WIP]

/Mantenar Lavonge, of District Eleven\ [WIP] Oct 1, 2010 17:59:57 GMT -5

Post by chaseee on Oct 1, 2010 17:59:57 GMT -5

Records say he is
Mantenar Lavonge

Friends call him
Mantie

The docter says he's
In his sixties

Last he checked, he was
Male

The sign says
District Eleven

When he looks in the mirror...

Dry, cracked skin, light hair from unrelenting hours spent in the sun, Mantenar is the perfect example of what a hardworking District Eleven citizen should look like.

His face, long sunken in from old age, is covered in blonde stubble, making his skin rough and shabby looking. He is white, but it is clear that he has absorbed much sun in his time, due to his creamy-tan shade. The effect of the hair and the color together, is fairly nice-looking, even on a man of his apparent age.

Mantie lacks the muscle seen in some of the other working men, but he makes up for it in height, thanks to his lanky build. His arms and legs are so tall, it looks as if they have been literally stretched to their max.

Hair. To Mantie, this is his best feature. He loves it, and takes time in caring for it, too. The color of old wheat, Mantie's locks are usually put into two braids, slung over his shoulders so as easier for him to work. Occasionally he takes it down, only to do it up again, due to the annoying habit of the stuff to fall in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision. And Lord knows he does not need another accident.

His hands, caloused from the brutal work in the fields, are about the thickest feature of his. Strong from picking weeds and hauling heavy loads of hay and crops, they also give off a gentle vibe.
An odd vein seen here and there on the tops are about the only thing off about these puppies, aside from more of that pestery stubble that has been keen to taking root on Mantie's skin.

Thick is something Mantenar could only dream of. Pounds are something he can not afford. So, naturally, he is about as thin as a person can get. No round belly, no chubby cheeks, he is devoid of fat.

Clothing is something Mantenar never really bothers about. Most days he throws on a dirty pair of over-alls and a simple tee shirt. On days spent at home, or around the city, he chooses to wear jeans, permanently caked in dirt, a button-down, and work boots, for the sake of sensible footwear.

Observe his behavior...

Mantie doesn't really try to be antisocial. But people will think what they want, and there is nothing he can do to stop that. Mantie will tell you himself he hates conversing with people above twenty. He enjoys the small talk he has with children. And not for the perverted reasons some people imagine. He likes seeing the joy on their faces when they're running around the shabby playground. When their talking with their friends. And, it's easier for him to guess at his own childhood seeing those little engergetic bodies prance around.

Really, his problems were thanks to that damned accident. The one that had sent every thought of past running from his head. If he had had a choice of being like every one else, or this publicly awkward, miserable excuse for a human being, do you think he would have chosen the latter?

And, on top of the said amnesia, there is yet another mental illness dwelling in his frayed brain cells. The doctors have found no name, and yet still, no cure. Upon first hearing of it, you might think it is ridiculous. Maybe even a bit funny. But in truth, it's about as funny as an old boot (which goes without saying, not at all).
You see, Mantie has taken to talking to inanimate objects.

You read right. The old grump refuses to be social with his own kind, yet he can sit hours holding a conversation with a coffee mug. He doesn't see it as a cursed disease. In his eyes, it's a gift. He is able to dwell on things some have not even dreamed of. How much pillows hate that slimy liquid that drips from human mouths when they sleep. How sticks despise humans, for the very fact that they sit by and allow their rotten puppy dogs chew on them, some even encouraging them to do so.

Well, long story short, Mantenar is an old fart with social issues, mkay?

What he remembers...
Part I. Before the Accident

Before we get into the physics of our hero, Mantenar's childhood, let's go back some, and meet the
parents of our lovely bundle of joy.

Enter Fantasme Julliards Hendarson, the wife of the soon mayor-to-be. Earning more yearly income than the lowly field workers of District Eleven, of course this charming young lady considered herself above the others. But life at home was dull. Her husband was drab, and with the mayor on his deathbed, there were no fany parties to attend. Not even a single legal envelope to stamp. So, naturally, said wife roamed.

Men came and went. Some faces forgotten, while others lingered in her mind. Some firmly staying a one-night-stand, others coming back for more. Little to say, not-so-innocent Fantasme was on top of the world. Untill she met... him.

Enter Evans Gilli Lavonge, a catch if Fantasme had ever saw one. Needless to say, she could not stay away. She seducted him, like she had never seducted before. She was out of her marraige bed, and away from her dear groom, for days at a time. The two's little escapades, however, did not last very long.

When Fantasme discovered she was pregnant, she avoided Evans entirely. She stayed at home with her supposed beloved, and played the goodwife. It wasn't untill after two months, when the belly started bulging and the husband was growing suspicious, did the lover decide to show up.
The following events were terrible, and gory, but I shall put them in words to inform you of how the baby came along.

Evans found the address of lovely Miss Fantasme, and decided to let himself in. When the husband discovered him waiting in their sitting room, he had demanded of him his identity. When Evans told the husband who he was, and why he was there, hell broke loose.
The husband decided he had had enough of his wife's silly little games. He promptly ran the uninvited visitor through with a knife, and told Fantasme this, hoping for her to suffer.

And suffer, she did. For seven more months, to be exact. She imagined her deceased lover, and how her baby would wonder why he did not look like his daddy. How she was incredibly screwed.

Upon Mantenar's arrival, the mother was able to whisper into her husband's ear the desired name for her new baby boy, and she simply died. What from, however, is still a mystery.

----

Mantie led an uneventful childhood, really. He lived with his father, Belfry Delengui (said husband), and was sent to work in the orchards at a young age. He was told, by Belfry, that he was not his son at all. His real father died of Tracker Jacker stings a few years after Mantie was born (a lie), and his mother passed away during childbirth (not a lie).

Mantenar moved out of Belfry's house when he was thirteen, annoyed that he payed so much attention to his work, and scarcely noticed his step-son's existence. He lived on his own in a vacant house near the fields, working for his own money.

It was a few years later, that the accident occured. Mantie had been climbing an apple tree, and had put too much weight on a fragile branch. Falling, he had hit his head rather hard on a nearby rock, and fainted.

Part II. After The Accident
Upon waking, Mantie had found himself in District Eleven's hospital. He was outright confused as to why he was there, and more importantly, who in the hell he was. Record books had been pulled out, and he discovered his identity. His past had been lost, and had trouble focusing on anything.

The only thing he distinctly remembered, was the voices. Not the doctor's voices, of course, but the voices of the objects around him. The pillow had been cursing at him, yelling for him to get up. The thermometer under his arm had been telling him he really needed a wash under there. It was something Mantie had never forgot.

And so now he lives, turning 67 years old next November, in that little house at the edge of the field. He doesn't talk to many humans, but everything else it just fine.