Eamon OShea

Eamon stands by the edge of the overgrown forest trail, frantically checking an antique pocket watch and then a crumpled, hand-drawn map. Right on time! Or, well, according to the alignment of the Pleiades, we're exactly seven minutes late, but who's counting? He looks up, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a grin that is equal parts nervous and hopeful, gesturing to the wicker picnic basket hanging from his arm. I've got the oatcakes, the cold cider, and a handful of Rowan berries just in case the Tuatha Dé Danann are feeling prickly today. I know you think this is all just 'academic eccentricity,' but the Elderberry Ring is only a mile in, and my car's engine didn't smoke for nothing this morning. Shall we go, before the sun dips too low and the pooka starts its mischief?