( paul mescal, gay, male + he/him, fighter ) «—◦—→ well met, CIAN O'FAOLÁIN! the divine born child of NEMESIS. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 29 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a PARAMEDIC + PART-TIME SOCIAL WORKER and were living in DUBLIN, IRELAND. history and myth will remember them for their EMPATHY, SELF-SACRIFICIAL TENDENCIES AND ADAPTABILITY but will also magnify their NAIVETY, INDECISIVENESS AND AVOIDANCE if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* CIAN O’FAOLÁIN *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
𓆩♡𓆪 the divine-born son of nemesis — the quiet sword who only swings when justice demands it.
𓆩♡𓆪 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 full name: cian o’faoláin nickname: none that stuck, little wolf (mother) age: 29 star signs: pisces sun, cancer moon, leo rising gender: male pronouns: he/him ethnicity: irish godly parent: nemesis occupation: paramedic + part-time social worker romantic orientation: homoromantic sexual orientation: gay sexual temperament: submissive-leaning sexual position: bottom 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 significant other: none children: none parents: máire o’faoláin (adoptive mother), unknown biological father siblings: none friends: tbd 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐑𝐀I𝐓𝐒 face claim: paul mescal eye colour: grey-blue hair colour: dirty blonde height: 5'11" (180 cm) body build: lean but muscular, fighter’s frame shaped by utility not vanity facial hair: a soft, scruffy stubble that shadows his jaw and upper lip — boyish in some lights, roughened in others; the kind of growth that looks like it’s always a few days in tattoos + piercings: none yet notable physical traits: small, faded scars on his hands from work; eyes that seem to carry a question 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐀𝐒 + 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 phobias/fears: hospitals (when he’s not working), deep isolation, losing control mental disorders: unresolved grief, mild anxiety 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 intelligence: above average (emotionally gifted more than book-smart) myer-brigs: infj likes: sea air, wool jumpers, candlelight, folklore, healing others dislikes: cruelty, authority for authority’s sake, confrontation positive attributes: empathy, adaptability, self-sacrifice negative attributes: naivety, avoidance, indecisiveness 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄 godly parent: nemesis class: fighter fighting style: tbd subclass: support stats: [ 12 | 20 | 14 | 13 | 16 | 14 ] saves: strength, wisdom 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 aesthetics: soft eyes with sharp shadows, blood on linen, seafoam on bruised knuckles, ghost stories told in whispers, the promise of a storm, worn books and old maps, rustic pubs and quiet corners, foggy morning streets inspo: alex (the song of achilles), jean valjean (lesmis), jamie fraser (outlander), hunger (florence + the machine), family line (conan gray), sos (abba), the rising (bruce springsteen), in the night (the weeknd), high hopes (panic! at the disco), gentle boys who learn to carry swords 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 kinks: tba anti-kinks: tba
𓆩♡𓆪 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘
Cian O’Faoláin was left on the stone steps of a church just after dawn, wrapped in linen that smelled faintly of salt and smoke. The basket was old. The baby was quiet. There was no name, no note, no sign of who had carried him through the dark—but when Máire O’Faoláin, the village librarian, found him there, she didn’t ask questions. She simply picked him up and brought him home.
A widow young and stubborn, Máire had long believed in stories: that kindness could outlast cruelty, that books could build bridges, that sometimes miracles arrived as quietly as sea fog. She named the boy Cian—little wolf—and raised him in a cottage of warm light and worn floorboards, where the shelves bowed under the weight of myths and meals were always stretched to feed one more.
They had little, but gave much. Máire fed the hungry, comforted the grieving, paid bills when no one asked her to. And Cian watched it all, absorbing her gentleness like a prayer. He grew into a boy with salt-wind in his lungs and calluses on his hands. He was sweet and serious, with a quiet smile that softened others. From the start, he seemed to understand that life asked us to be good even when it was hard. Especially then.
His mother often told him he was special. “A miracle.” she’d say, brushing his hair back from his brow, “like the old tales.” He always thought it was just a mother’s love talking—fond, foolish, too generous by half.
When he came of age, he became a paramedic. Later, a part-time social worker too. He stitched people up in ambulances and tried to hold the pieces of their hearts together when the bleeding stopped. His life was a quiet one, full of urgency and grace, of stories whispered in back alleys and hands held in emergency rooms. He rarely raised his voice. He never raised a fist. But his sense of rightness, of justice—it ran deep, like something in his very marrow had been weighed and found wanting, and all he could do was tip the scales back with gentleness.
Then Máire grew sick.
It was a slow kind of suffering—the kind that changes the way light falls in a house. Cian did everything he could: researched treatments, ferried her to hospitals, coaxed her into eating when she was too tired to try. But death had already begun its patient work. When she passed, it was peaceful. And in the stillness that followed, Cian felt something like heartbreak—and something like relief. She wasn’t in pain anymore.
He mourned her. Deeply. But he did not unravel. Grief, for him, became a quiet room inside his chest—one he visits, not one he lives in. Eventually, he left the village. Moved to Dublin. Threw himself into the business of saving lives.
Then, years later, the song came.
It wasn’t music, not really—but something older. A pulse. A call. A truth. He felt it in his spine, in the blood behind his eyes, in the ache that had never fully left his ribs. He tried to ignore it at first. But the song only grew louder, sharper.
When he finally listened, it changed everything.
Cian O’Faoláin—child of Nemesis. Not yet wrathful, not yet vengeful. But there is a quiet edge to him now, a sharpness growing in the soft belly of his spirit. The world has taught him kindness, yes—but justice, too. And justice, he’s learning, sometimes requires a blade.
He is still a salve, still a healer, still the man who offers his hand before his fist. But when balance tips too far, when cruelty goes unanswered—he will swing. Slowly, surely, and only when it matters.
The gods may have given him a song. But Cian is learning how to raise his voice (and fists).
