[Ah. The teen holds out his hand, ready to shake the man's hand; if he so chooses to reciprocate the gesture, Diarmuid's other hand will lay softly on the top of their grasp, a sort of motion he'd done too many times at the monastery. A firm grasp, supportive and one of peace. Ciarán had always taught him to greet with softness.]

I'm Diarmuid — like Diarmuid of the Love Spot.

I suppose we share being named after someone from legend- [But then he hesitates, and thinks for a moment, and looks slightly startled at the realization that Orpheus' story sounds very familiar actually-] Oh.

You're Orpheus.