MacTavish.

The god of luck and mischief. Of dice-throwers and thieves, of teenagers hoping to sneak out without their parents discovering them, of subtle lies weaving a web of manipulation to turn the tables of fate in your favor.

Most see him as too risky and unreliable to pray to. Other gods can provide things like honor, steadfastness, and strength. MacTavish offers none of those virtues.

No, he specializes in vices. Gambling, drinking, shagging, snogging. Heady ecstasy brought on by the hand of someone who won’t be there in the morning and the swirling fumes of heavy liquor strong enough to make most mortals lightheaded.

Down on your luck, you stop to rest at his temple. It’s a crumbling place, with nobody to keep it properly run or cleaned. The walls are cracking, the roof bowing.

You kneel, your body aching and weary from your travels. You’re clothes are tattered, your sandals splattered with mud. Exhausted, you mumble a half-hearted prayer and lean against the base of the marble statue raised over the alter, depicting MacTavish in all of his wicked glory.

He’s tall and well-built, his arms strong and his jaw winsome. There’s a mischievous look on his handsome face, and he’s dressed in a short tunic, with a cloak draped over one sturdy shoulder.

You close your eyes, feeling the wind buffeting through the stone columns to bring fresh air to you.

“Hit a wee bit o’ a rough patch, did ye?” asks a rich, smirking voice with a thick Scottish brogue. “Och, dinnae fret. Happens tae the best o’ us.”

Your eyes snap open, and there he is.

MacTavish.