The Each-uisge stood on the desolate black sands of the Hebrides. It wore the Tideglamour of a fine stallion, sleek and inviting. It scented a rider approaching from the sea.
A massive shape rose from the surf. It was twenty feet tall, covered in barnacles and seaweed, with one eye and a club made of driftwood. A Fomorian. One of the ancient, chaotic sea-giants of Irish myth.
The Each-uisge sniffed. This was not a human. But it was meat.
The horse trotted forward, looking submissive, hoping the giant would try to pet it.
The Snack
The Fomorian saw the horse. It didn't see a steed; it saw an appetizer. It reached out a hand the size of a rowboat.
The Each-uisge shifted. Abyssal Drag. Its hide turned adhesive. It planned to stick to the giant and drag him under.
The Fomorian grabbed the horse. The sticky skin worked; the horse was fused to the giant's palm.
"Good glue," the Fomorian grunted. Colossal Grasp.
Instead of being dragged down, the Fomorian lifted the horse to its mouth. The Each-uisge shrieked, transforming into its monster form, biting and clawing. It made no difference. The Fomorian bit the head off the water-horse with a sound like a crunching glacier. It chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and tossed the rest of the carcass back into the loch. "Too gristly," it complained, and continued its raid inland.