Name: Lou Longhand Being: God Previous Names and Epithets: Lugh, Lámfada, Buile Shuibhne, Mad Sweeney Gender/Sexuality: Indiscriminate Man Origin: Ireland How Long in Gooduck?: on and off since the 1990s Occupation: Owner and Proprietor of The Public House Traits: Foul-mouthed, Spoiling for a Fight, Charming
Bio:
When you lived as long as Lou, your history goes a bit fuzzy around the edges, but he remembers this much:
He was born of Ireland. Of the rolling green hills and the rich forests and the smell of sweet cream on the breeze. He was a king, once, and a god, before that. Godking of the fertile land he called home, with a name that invoked honor and oathkeeping.
The years went by and The Church descended upon Eire. A priest of that invading God sought to build a house of worship on his land and he put a stop to it. Killed a man of a faith. But not before being cursed--his death would come on the tip of a spear ran through him, just as he'd inflicted upon the priest.
His own gods were still powerful, brought him visions of his death the night before a battle. Like a coward, he fled from the fray. The Morrigan cursed him to wander the world as a madman for his transgression, as untethered and transient as a bird. He lost sense of himself, of time, of place...
And as more years went by and the old ways faded, the Godking once known as Lugh roamed Ireland as a cursed sort of faerie, only invoked by small children playing games and the odd devotee that kept pagan traditions.
It was one of those believers who dragged him across the Atlantic to America. But she forgot him promptly upon arrival and he's been puttering around the continent for the last 150 years or so, finding scraps of worship where he can--spillover from St. Patrick's day, the occasional neopagan that gets a ritual right, a bit of praise teased from a lover's tongue.
Most recently, he finished a series of outlandish tasks for another of his godly colleagues stuck here in the world's great big melting pot. It earned him his godhood back, even if it didn't wipe his slate clean. So now he calls Goodluck home. Runs a little pub where he can make the rules. Relies on dear @ruby-hampton to keep the place running. And dreams forever and ever of the rolling green hills and rich forests he'll never see again.
Headcanons:
Still has an Irish accent despite being in America for a century and a half
Has a hoard of gold and treasure that he's spent centuries collecting in hopes that he might one day present it to The Dagda for redemption
Rolls his own cigarettes--that's not a joint, thank you very much, that's fine tobacco
