The Miotasach are the echoes of stories not yet told, the forces of intent who slipped between definitions as they crossed the thresholds of reality. They are the impossible ones: too strange for science, too wild for taxonomy, too real to be denied. Some are born of belief, others of places where logic fades like mist; a few simply *are*, refusing name, form, or origin.
They drift in from the corners of thought, from the margins of dreams and prayers. Some wear faces borrowed from mortal fears, others from hope. They may dwell beneath the skin of the world, or perch just outside time, their essence brushing against reality like a forgotten chord. For some, their very being is magic; for others, they *are* the question to which magic is the only answer.
Here, in the infinite acceptance of Tír na nÓg, they are not monsters or miracles, but kin. Their strangeness is not flaw, but gift. The Miotasach remind us that even in a realm shaped by love and memory, there must always be room for the unexplainable—for the beautiful unknown that waits just beyond the last line of the oldest map.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.