A certain fisherman [...] went to the same place again to fish, and he put a row of hooks on his heels in case he met the Púca again; he attached them like a horseman's spurs. When evening drew near, he made a halter of the fishing-line for the Púca. The Púca met him the second time. He himself caught the Púca, put the fishing-line over his head like a halter, and started to ride him. He drove him wherever he wanted to go, and he kept putting his heels with the hooks like spurs to the Púca's sides, so that the Púca was shedding blood from the pricks of the hooks.

Excerpt from "The Púca: A Multi-Functional Irish Supernatural Entity" by Deasún Breatnach

The púca (or pooka, or puck - there are many variants on their name, depending on who is telling the story) is a mischievous creature of Irish and English folklore, a shapeshifter who may appear as any number of creatures, most often a wild colt. Naughty children are warned against eating overripe blackberries because they may have been entered by the púca. If you accept a ride from the púca, you may expect a wild, white-knuckle gallop and that will likely end quite abruptly when you are thrown from their back. Spurs may protect you, but if you don't have any, don't worry too much. These are creatures of mischief rather than of malice, and they are often protective or helpful spirits.

The Burren didn't just witness the delivery; it participated. As Ethan leaned against the ancient, silver-barked hawthorn, the ground beneath him began to churn like a slow-motion whirlpool of rich, black peat and glowing blue embers. The air was no longer just mist; it was a thick, shimmering curtain of "Between-Time" that separated the world of men from the realm of the Pooka.

The delivery was less a biological labor and more a magical extraction. Ethan felt a profound, liquid heat radiate from his core, a sensation of molten gold sliding through his veins toward the point of release.

With a sharp, ozone-scented gasp, the first egg emerged. It didn't fall; it was pulled by the roots of the tree. It was perfectly oval, the size of a large hare, its shell a semi-translucent gold that vibrated with a soft, melodic hum. The other five followed in a rhythmic, pulsing sequence. As each egg left his body, the agonizing pressure that had defined Ethan's last eight days vanished, replaced by a cold, tingling void. The glowing roots of the hawthorn reached out like wooden fingers, gently guiding the six golden ovals into the soft, luminescent hollow in the earth. Once the clutch was settled, the peat began to fold back over them, hiding the harvest from mortal eyes.

Throughout the ordeal, the Pooka remained a statue of midnight fur on the limestone ridge.

Its golden eyes were the only part of it that seemed alive, glowing with an intensity that rivaled the eggs. There was no fatherly warmth in that gaze—only the cold, ancient satisfaction of a cycle successfully renewed.

As the last egg was buried, the Pooka stood taller, its long ears swiveling toward the tree. It let out a single, low vibration—a sound that Ethan felt in his marrow—before it turned and dissolved into the mist, its silhouette flickering and then vanishing entirely.

Ethan slumped further against the tree, his body feeling impossibly light. His abdomen, once a lumpy mountain of golden potential, was now visibly deflated, the skin wrinkled and cooling in the Irish night. The golden flecks in his eyes began to dim, retreating back into his natural hazel, though a faint, shimmering residue of the Pooka’s magic remained on his skin like fine, golden dust.

The "Thinning" was over. The gateway was closing.