The Each-Uisce Comes

we turn our lanterns toward a lake in medieval Ireland, a lake without a name, a lake that held its secrets close and its hunger closer. This is the tale of the Each‑Uisce — (ACKH‑ISH‑keh) — the water‑horse whose beauty was a lure, whose patience was a trap, and whose appetite was older than any prayer whispered on its shores.