Exquisitely embroidered tapestries lined the walls of Medb’s bedroom, but their impact was somewhat reduced by the room’s ambience. A musky odor with pungent accents of stale piss.

Fictional character;Simply means to portray an attitude alien to yours,just to deceive the public.

You and I are both like guys that have a rich neighbor... Xerox... that left the door open all the time. And you go sneaking in to steal a TV set... only when you get there, you realize that I got there first. I got the loot. And you're yelling that it's not fair? That I wanted to steal it first?

The Celt, and his cromlechs, and his pillar-stones, these will not change much – indeed, it is doubtful if anybody at all changes at any time. In spite of hosts of deniers, and asserters, and wise-men, and professors, the majority still are adverse to sitting down to dine thirteen at a table, or being helped to salt, or walking under a ladder, of seeing a single magpie flirting his chequered tale. There are, of course, children of light who have set their faces against all this, although even a newspaperman, if you entice him into a cemetery at midnight, will believe in phantoms, for everyone is a visionary, if you scratch him deep enough. But the Celt, unlike any other, is a visionary without scratching.

Pale hair fell in waves to his shoulders, framing a face mortal females considered a sensual feast. They didn't know the man was actually a devil in angel's skin. They should have, though. He practically glowed with irreverence, and there was an unholy gleam in his green eyes that proclaimed he would laugh in your face while cutting out your heat. Or laugh in your face while you cut out his heart.

When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.