Born some odd years ago near Dublin, Manus grew up of a quiet and introspective disposition. During his early adult years he began to come into his own, socially speaking, blessed with a natural charisma that drew others to him despite his idea of his own sort of insignificance in the grand scheme, constantly comparing himself to the heroes of old, whose stories he came to know by heart. Old Common was a wealth of such heroes told by the great skalds in their meadhalls, and Dublin had a good bit of shared history with them as it was a city founded by these invading Northmen. Perhaps it was his cavalier contempt for the attitudes of “mere men” and his lack of regard even for himself that made him so attractive to others. Whatever the case, his obsession with such heroics eventually drew him into the realm of the arcane, especially inspired by the skaldic tradition.
Manus spent a good amount of time at sea, hoping to see adventure in his travels. Regrettably, the life of a sailor came to afflict him, and he fell into a rowdy crowd. His popularity buoyed him upwards in the ranks of the pubs, and his newfound talents in magic made him readily appealing. He began to take a little much to drinking the black stuff, and spending his time too much in the realm of the carnal.
Not long ago, with the powers of his arcane knowledge, he did a bad thing. What this was, no one really knew, except for the poor one who suffered from it, and an old, trusted friend Sweeny, James McSween, who he entrusted to “take care of things” for a while.
Driven nearly mad with guilt and shame for his foul misdeed, he could not bring himself to spoiling his reputation, especially with his dear mum, and so he left his sailing crew, slinking out of town. Each step was he greeted with a cheerful “hullo!” which brought great pain to this one-time happy young man, who had such high aspirations for heroism, like the greats of old, like Beowulf himself.
As the story came into light, he was sailing off in misguided and naive hopes of finding a way to accomplish great and honorable exploits, as though it might somehow wipe clean the guilt from his hands, or soothe the torment of the voice in his head, and to clear up the confusion of the ugliness of his conscience. Good luck, Manus! May the road rise up to meet you, but at the end of it, do you think you will be able to look at your hands without a shudder for the thing you’ve done…!