To the Mortal World
MacTavish is a burly little man, a stout mountain dwarf of a fellow. He looks as though he’d just stepped out of a bare knuckled brawler advertisement circa 1900, complete with a bushy handlebar mustache and buzz cut, both vibrantly red. Indeed, he is a veteran of many a barroom brawl, and has the crooked nose to prove it. Oftentimes, the most notable features are his huge and hugely crooked teeth, and the leather eye patch that covers his left eye, though he will occasionally let his milky dead eye “breathe.”

There is a story to be gleaned from the many tattoos and scars that crisscross his body, and MacTavish isn’t shy about sharing the various chapters, generally out of order, over a pint of whatever’s handy. The scars are far older than the tattoos, it seems, and in such numbers that they form a kind of armor. As for the tattoos, they are a hybrid of Celtic, Viking and muscle car imagery, working into a strange kind of inked armor.

Often chomping on a cigar stub, MacTavish is always ready for a fight, and isn’t above picking a fight to scratch that itch.

To the Changeling World
No taller, MacTavish seems to be far denser, like the stone that makes the heart of a mountain. His Gristlegrinder nature is made clearest here, his teeth like crooked tiles of millstones. As a man quick to smile, his terrible grin is ever on display. His mustache and hair has grown into a rich blood red. His eye patch has taken on a rougher look, hand stitched and rugged. The milky eye it covers looks like an orb of swirling fog. The good eye remaining shines with a touch of madness.