ABOUT.

CANON. ❝…Mad Sweeney had started his life as the guardian of a sacred rock in a small Irish glade, over three thousand years ago. Mister Ibis told them of Mad Sweeney’s love affairs, his enmities, the madness that gave him his power (’a later version of the tale is still told, although the sacred nature, and the antiquity, of much of the verse has long been forgotten’), the worship and adoration in his own land that slowly transmuted into a guarded respect and then, finally into amusement; he told them the story of the girl from Bantry who came to the New World, and who brought her belief in Mad Sweeney the leprechaun with her, for hadn’t she seen him of a night, down by the pool, and hadn’t he smiled at her and called her by her own true name?…❞ Sweeney's canon (Gaiman's American Gods) dictates enough belief can create a personification of its focus. This includes creatures of myth, monsters, gods, etc. Mankind is unaware of this, and carries on mostly like our own. These beliefs made flesh go unnoticed for what they are, follow their followers, and become more corporeal and vulnerable as they lose belief. Multiple personifications can exist for a single being, such as Jesus, if beliefs differ. Mad Sweeney is a conglomerate of many legends - a guardian spirit, a cursed Irish king, a faerie. As faith lulled and changed, he changed with the believers in order to survive. Sweeney is a 6'5" drunk and brawler, outside of being mythical. As a personality, he is irreverent, fickle, and self centered at first go around. That said, he is also fiercely loyal, protective, and emotional. He is crushed by the loss of purpose and worship, which he conceals with enthusiastic fighting, fucking, and generally being a nuisance to those around him. He is not inherently a bad or good creature, and relates to humanity more than the average demi-god. Most recently consumed with guilt over a choice he made in service to Odin, and is attempting to reconcile himself to that. BIO. ❝I only met Mad Sweeney twice...the first time I thought he was a world-class jerk with the devil in him. The second time I thought he was a major fuckup and I gave him the money to kill himself. He showed me a coin trick I don't remember how to do, gave me some bruises, and claimed he was a leprechaun.❞ - Shadow Moon An important fact about the way he tells these stories: Sweeney himself does not know what is true. Though it's possible Sweeney's history extends well beyond the three thousand years in Ireland, whatever he was then is mostly lost and overlaid by everything that came after. A member of the Tuath Dé, the mythical demigod race of Ireland, he began as a warrior god-king of sunlight, poetry, and luck. As cultures clashed, his people eventually became the aes sidhe, the faerie people of the hills, and he found himself in shifting realities. While his worship was strong, it was limited in number and constantly under attack by other faiths and invaders; he eventually merged (or maybe that came after the story, he couldn't tell you) with the tale of Suibhne, the Cruthin king of Dál nAraidi. While Suibhne was a fearsome king, he could not contend with encroaching Christianity - he eventually condemned himself by flying into half-mad (and naked) rages toward St. Ronan, a bishop building churches on his lands. After Suibhne's careless murder of a psalmist, Ronan laid a curse on the king; that he will wander as his spear did, through the air, like a bird - maddened and perching in trees at the sound of bells, and would die by the spear as he'd murdered the psalmist. Robbed of honor and sanity, he wandered for years; not even the pleading of his love Eorann could bring him down from the trees, and eventually she too disdained him for the heartbreak. He remained a faerie, maddened and wandering, clinging to folk tales of Mad Sweeney the leprechaun. It was in this state, largely unloved and starving for faith, that he was brought to the Americas. Among a few others, young Essie MacGowan prayed him across the 18th century Atlantic with her, feeding him crumbs literally and metaphorically. Upon her passing, there was no one left to tell the tales of leprechauns; not as they really were. Sweeney has reached the end of his stories - he can't become the leprechaun on the cereal box, and he can't spin the kind of faith that calls for cream and gold anymore. All that kept him warm was a king's treasure, plucked from the sun. Something that might've kept him together for centuries, being as there is no king of America for which to lay claim. Without that, he's fucked.