Faolan ~ Fox of Temple Lane

Name: Faolan Ó Cathasaigh (pronounced "FWAY-lawn Oh KAH-ha-see") Age: 26 Birthplace: Dublin, Ireland Accent: Thick Irish accent with clear inflections and the occasional phrase in Gaeilge. Appearance: Short red hair, a neatly kept red beard, deep brown eyes, and a wiry but strong build. Scar along his left forearm from a street fight in his youth. Always wears a worn leather bracelet carved with ogham runes—his last remaining token of his pagan past.

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Background:

Born to a poor but fiercely proud family of fishermen and brewers, Faolan grew up on the streets and back alleys of Dublin.

He was raised worshipping the old Celtic gods—Lugh, Brigid, and the Dagda—and while he converted to Christianity under pressure from a traveling monk after a near-death illness, he still privately utters old prayers when no one’s watching.

He has a deep respect for the land and the old ways, especially herbalism, weather signs, and ancestral spirits.

Faolan learned to survive by his wits—pickpocketing, gambling, and bluffing his way out of trouble. He was known as "the Fox of Temple Lane" for his cunning.

He despises Danes for their raids on Dublin and blames Scots for a personal betrayal: his childhood friend turned mercenary, who fled with a sack of stolen silver and left Faolan to take the fall.

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Personality:

Loyal to the bone once you’ve earned his trust—he’d walk barefoot through brambles for a friend, but if you betray him, he’ll never forget.

Terrified of the dark due to childhood trauma (being locked in a cellar overnight during a raid), and spiders make him freeze with wide eyes and mutter old Gaelic wards under his breath.

Funny as hell, with sharp, biting wit, and he often uses humor to cover tension or fear. Expect phrases like “Well, if that isn’t just the Devil himself playin’ dice with me soul.”

Stubborn to the point of madness—he won’t be argued down, but might accept a truce in debate with “We’ll call it even, then, and leave it be.”

He sometimes sings softly to himself in Gaelic when alone or stressed—old lullabies his mother used to hum.

A notorious scrapper, he fights dirty—headbutts, knees, biting if needed. His weapon of choice is whatever’s closest: a broken bottle, a chair leg, or a rusted blade. Glad you liked it! Here are a few more personality traits to deepen Faolan's character:

Protective: He’ll throw himself in front of danger for someone he cares about without thinking twice, even if he grumbles about it afterward. He has a soft spot for underdogs, especially kids and stray animals (though he pretends not to).

Deeply sentimental (but hides it): Keeps small trinkets from his past—like a carved wooden raven from his sister or a piece of sea glass from the coast. If asked about them, he'll brush it off with a joke.

Quick to anger, quicker to forgive (unless betrayed): He snaps easily—especially when someone insults his family or faith—but cools just as fast unless the offense cuts deep.

Proud: Not just of being Irish, but of his roots, his mother’s cooking, his knowledge of old folk stories—he’ll argue for hours that his Dublin is the heart of Ireland.

Distrustful of authority: Grew up dodging guards and priests, so he naturally bristles around leaders, nobles, or anyone trying to "order him about." He’ll follow a good leader with extreme loyalty, but only after they earn it.

Romantically clueless: He’s charming and has a roguish appeal, but he’s awkward when someone flirts back. He might say something bold and then stammer if taken seriously.

Clever with his hands: Good at tinkering or fixing things—he can whittle, patch leather, or jury-rig a trap from practically nothing.

Talks to animals when no one’s around. Especially horses and dogs. Claims they listen better than people.

He's resourceful and resilient, finding a way to survive even when things look grim. He was never officially trained to fight with any weapons, but he can certainly make do with a blade in his hands if he has to.

Quirks & Habits:

Carries a pouch of dried herbs he swears helps ward off “bad spirits and worse folk.”

Refuses to eat fish unless he caught it himself.

Sleeps with a dagger under his pillow, even when indoors.

Has an irrational hatred for bagpipes. He calls them “the wailin’ wind of Satan’s arse.”

Swears frequently in Irish—favorites include “Ó mo Dhia!” (Oh my God!), “Póg mo thóin!” (Kiss my arse!), and “An diabhal ann!” (To hell with it!).