The Loch was still as glass. On the shore stood a magnificent black stallion, its coat sleek and inviting. Tideglamour.
The Each-uisge stamped its hoof. It was the deadliest water horse in folklore, waiting for a weary traveler to mount it so its skin could turn adhesive and it could drag them to the bottom.
A figure approached. He wore a tattered black robe and carried a farming implement. He looked weary.
The horse whinnied softly. Ride me.
The Grim Reaper placed a skeletal hand on the horse's flank. "A fine beast," Death whispered.
The Trap
The Reaper mounted. Instantly, the horse's skin grabbed the robes. Abyssal Drag.
The Each-uisge shrieked triumphantly and plunged into the icy water. It dove deep, dragging the rider down to the crushing dark where it usually feasted on liver.
But the rider did not struggle. He did not drown.
Underwater, the Reaper’s hood floated back, revealing the skull grinning in the murk.
The Severance
"You mistake me for harvest," the Reaper spoke, his voice vibrating through the water. "I am the harvester."
He raised his scythe. It glowed with a pale, necrotic light.
Scythe of Severance.
He didn't cut the horse's flesh. He cut the magic binding its soul to its form.
The blade passed through the Each-uisge’s neck. The beast spasmed. The adhesive magic failed. The horse's eyes went blank as its spirit was reaped, leaving a heavy carcass to sink into the silt.
The Reaper floated upward, breaking the surface and walking back to the shore, his robe dry in seconds.