Friendship Is Over

by MartiantheGray

Rating: teen
Tags: Other, Original Character, Comedy, Adventure, Crossover, Human, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 6345

Sucked into a portal that leads to a colorful land rife with rainbows, sunshine, and idealism, a man cosplaying as Tavish DeGroot, or more colloquially "The Demoman", must collect enough heads to reopen the portal back to his home dimension.

After being pulled through a portal into another dimension, a cosplayer who dressed up as the Demoman from Team Fortress 2 finds himself in a world that is more colorful, more happy, and more clean than his old one. He wants no part of it. So on his quest to return to his own world, he must stain the pureness of this world with the blood of the innocent... or at least that's what his possessed sword says.
In a race against time, and in an attempt to scrape together what little sanity he has left, Tavish DeGroot must brave the not so candy-coated surface of this world as he tries to get back to his family and friends. But what dark secrets lie beneath the seemingly faultless pretense of blue skies and cheerful guises this world offers at face value?
Let's go on a journey, a journey that delves deep into the hidden truths that are buried beneath the broad strokes of a deceitful brush. A journey to the side of the planet that even the sun dares not touch.

Written for the F*** THIS PROMPT contest by Verbose Mode at Rage Reviews!, which basically asked its entrants to write a Displaced fic. I hope you guys who have an aversion for the genre can give it a chance. Heck, I gave it a chance by even participating in the contest. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the story!

Published 2015-07-07 14:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2015-12-11 00:08:20 UTC

Grogel's Tavern

‘Twas a cool, quiet night in the mountainous planes of Gryphonia, nary a sound made except for that of the chilling winter wind. Under the star-riddled sky rested a lonely tavern, seemingly sleeping with the rest of the world from afar, with lights dimmed and noisiness muted by the howling of the breeze.

If one were to approach the ostensibly silent establishment however, they would be proven to be quite wrong in the assumptions they had made from a distance, as upon closer inspection a rather loud commotion could be heard from just past the entrance.

A fist slammed into a table, the owner of said fist letting out a fierce snarl as he glared at a figure across the room. “That is it! My patience has worn thin; I am going to walk over there and demand that that fugitive surrenders himself to the Crown!” said the gryphon as he stood, sending the chair he sat upon skidding backwards across the wooden planks of the floor.

“Calm yourself, Yuri!” commanded a second gryphon in a harsh whisper, reaching out to grab his impassioned partner’s arm. “You will make all of the time and effort we have put into finding this creature pointless if you accost him now. For Yahin’s sake, just wait until he is either suitably drunk or out of the prying eyes of civilians before you make your move!”

Yuri looked back at the gryphon holding him back, barely contained rage filling his green eyes. Before he could respond, his attention was stolen by that of his second comrade. “I suggest you listen to Hagfrey, Yuri. You know the reputation of this creature: a fierce combatant, a sailor-mouthed adventurer, a smooth criminal. There is a reason we three have been selected to carry out the arduous task of capturing him for the King.”

Yuri calmed slightly at his companions’ explanations, but still refused to back down. He pulled his arm out of the grasp of Hagfrey, not a hard task since the older gryphon was not actively attempting to restrain him, looking at the two of them with annoyance still lining his face. “You don’t understand, Geralt,” he spoke in a quieter tone, his fervency still present despite the change in volume. “This criminal must be brought to justice as soon as possible! For all of his facades in the guise of a friendly tradesman who sells hats for ‘two refined’, and his exploits across the Highland Fields, I have seen what a monster he truly is! Not only does he stand accused of murder, but he is an eldritch being that does not belong here. We must capture him and bring him to King Yahin so that he may be swiftly escorted to Tartarus by the executioner’s axe!”

The gryphon’s tone grew hysterical as he spoke, Yuri turning around again and moving toward the object of his obsession.

“Wait, Yuri!” “What are you doing!?” these questions went largely ignored as the gryphon closed the distance between himself and the criminal, who sat idly at the bar, beer in hand and a hood over his head.

“I will bring him to justice. I will reveal to the world what lies beneath his charade. The King will see what I have seen underneath that eyepatch of his, and when he takes his head I will finally be able to rest easy,” muttered the gryphon as he strode up to the hooded figure.

It had been a long, harrowing journey to Grogel’s Tavern. From witches to ghouls to dragons and various other creatures straight out of myths and legends, the weary traveler could finally settle down and have a drink for once after being pulled into this world by some crazy wizard at a cosplay convention.

What had started out as an average day was warped into something horrific when he was suddenly sucked into a portal that had opened up in a bathroom stall that he walked into to relieve himself during the convention. Portals serving as doorways to otherworldly dimensions do not belong at the bottom of toilets last he checked.

As he thought longingly of his time back on Earth, he whiled his night away swilling his bottle of ale, abolishing his frail sobriety in hopes of curing himself of the sadness that came with the somber musings. As he pulled the bottle away from his mouth, his brooding was interrupted by the sharp loudness of a chair scraping against the wooden floorboards, another birdie taking the empty seat before ordering a mug of cider.

The weary traveler did not even offer the gryphon sitting next to him a glance, his attention set solely on the nearly empty bottle in front of him as his senses were dulled by the alcohol he had imbibed. The gryphons made some of the strongest stuff out there, and with the fact that there were five more bottles surrounding the traveler, it was no wonder he was nearly dead to the world around him. The only reason he knew there was a gryphon sitting next to him was because they were the only species that frequented this particular establishment.

When the bartender handed the other gryphon his mug of cider, he downed it in but one swig before slamming the mug back down onto the bar. “DeGroot,” hissed a familiar voice.

The weary traveler cussed beneath his breath as he recognized who spoke in such a spite-filled tone. “Yuri,” he responded simply, still looking pointedly at the bottle in front of him. “What brings you of all people here?”

“You know damn well why I am here!” snarled the gryphon, slamming a fist on the bar, cutting off all idle conversation in the room as everyone turned to see what the ruckus was about. “You, Tavish DeGroot, are wanted by King Yahin for the murder of a nobleman in the capital city of Beaksworth.” Tavish chuckled drunkenly at the absurd name of the city. “Not only that, but I have seen what goes on inside your head; your very existence here is disastrous!”

Tavish ignored Yuri’s last sentence with another small chuckle. “Tavish DeGroot? You keep using that name, but I don’t think you understand that placing that name and the heinous crimes you accuse me of in the same sentence is a rather large insult not only to me, but to me mum ‘n’ pa. I don’t appreciate that. Please, call me Demoman instead.” Tavish brought the bottle back to his lips, going bottoms up as the gryphon in the seat next to him fumed.

“What you wish to be called doesn’t matter. Or at least it will not matter when your neck is separated from your shoulders by the cold steel of the axe. You are going to pay for what you’ve done, and I am here to see that you do not evade your fate any longer.”

“Aye, you can try, lad. You can try just like every other merc, pirate, and assassin has. But tryin’ is different from succeedin’. It’s bloody far from it, in fact. So ye can bring it if yer feelin’ so cocksure; I’ll be certain to show ye just how unimpressive the length of that goes when you do, though,” said Tavish as he finally turned to Yuri, showing him a white beard that contrasted quite heavily from his brown skin. What caught Yuri’s attention, however, was the sinister red glow that radiated from behind the eyepatch that rested over his left eye.

“Ye’ve been quite persistent in yer endeavors, Yuri. Ye’ve nearly gotten me time an’ time again. This time, though, I just may take yer head,” said Tavish as he pushed aside a waist-high, white-trimmed red cape that looked to belong to royalty to rest a gloved hand on a battle-worn claymore that was sheathed by his side.

The gryphon’s glare hardened as he scowled, reaching to pull out a dagger that rested by his armored hip, flaunting it in front of the weary traveler as he picked a tooth with the pointed tip of the blade. “You always were a jokester, weren’t you, Tavish? Even when I considered you a comrade, you knew just what to say to make me laugh.” Yuri pointed the dagger at Tavish, making stabbing motions as his cronies strode up to surround the man, though both had somewhat hesitant looks on their faces. “King Yahin did not clarify what condition he wanted you in upon your ‘safe’ return, did he? So he would not care overmuch, I do not think, if you were to be short another eye when you are dragged back to Beaksworth.” Two more daggers were drawn, yet the weary traveler either did not notice, or he did not care. Instead, he again lifted the ale to his lips, cussing when he realized there was none left.

“Bloody hell! Where’s my ale gone? Would any of you happen to know?” he asked as he lifted the empty bottle to display it to everyone in the tavern, particularly the three gryphons with their weapons pointed at him. “No? Well ain’t that a shame. It’s not as good as scrumpy or rum, but I’d still like to share with me best mates.”

“Enough of your games, DeGroot!” exclaimed Yuri, pressing the length of his blade across Tavish’s exposed throat. After a moment of utter silence throughout the establishment - the occupants watching with avid interest and the bartender leaving to go upstairs with a sigh after locking up as many cupboards filled with glassware as possible - Yuri continued speaking. “I am hoping that you do not go quietly just so I can have a valid reason for sticking you in the belly, you beast.” He leaned forward, his green eyes never once leaving the brown eyes of the Demoman.

Tavish grabbed Yuri by the wrist, twisting it and causing the gryphon to scream out in pain before grabbing him by the head and slamming his face into the counter. He then stood up, sending his bar stool careening into Geralt, the unsuspecting gryphon catching the brunt of the impact right below his eye as he made to charge, knocking him off-balance and lacerating his cheek as he recoiled from the sudden and unseen attack.

Tavish ducked forward, dodging a quick swipe from the remaining Hagfrey, who jumped to tackle him into the counter. Tavish smiled when he realized they weren’t going for the kill, opting to grab Hagfrey by his arms and fall back to the ground, winding the gryphon as he landed atop him with all his weight.

Rolling off the reeling bird, Tavish ducked underneath the swing of a bar stool. He turned to the gryphon that held the makeshift weapon as Geralt used his wings to power his charge, flying toward him with the legs of the stool pointed at him in the same way a jouster would his lance, pushing him into one of the tables. Tavish grunted in pain as he hit the table's edge, grabbing two of the stool’s legs to keep himself from being completely pinned. He lifted both of his legs and placed them against the feathery chest of his opponent, pulling on the stool as he pushed with his lower body to send the gryphon airborne before his flight was suddenly halted when he collided into the wall on the other side of the room.

The small crowd in the tavern cheered at the show of violence, some even seeming to make small bets as to who would triumph in the tussle before Geralt’s defeated form landed on one of their tables, sending both beer and bits in every direction.

Working a small crick out of his neck as he walked over Hagfrey to the bar, Tavish kicked the downed gryphon across the face as he passed, knocking him out. As he neared the pained form of Yuri, the gryphon suddenly spun around, his knife following a wild path as he desperately lashed out at Tavish, his beak bleeding and his eyes crazed. Tavish stumbled backwards, his rounded beard getting trimmed slightly shorter as the knife shallowly slashed through the white hairs covering his chin. Yuri jumped out of his seat to continue attacking Tavish, attempting to pierce him anywhere he could with his sharp set of steel.

Tavish grabbed the bottle he had emptied earlier, smacking the gryphon’s wrist as he made to spit him on his dagger. Yuri grunted angrily as he made to slash Tavish across the face, the man using his bottle to deflect the attack by again striking the gryphon in the arm. Before Yuri could recover, Tavish grabbed the infuriated bird by the throat and broke the bottle over his head, knocking him out cold.

The Demoman looked at his broken bottle as he caught his breath, watching as some of the liquid that hadn’t been drank spilled to the floor. “What a shame, eh? Still, I did get to share with one o’ me best mates in the end, at the very least.”

Tavish looked around the store, seeing several surprised eyes staring back at him. “Oi! Show’s over, lads ‘n’ lasses, so back to drinkin’ with ye!” With that said, the other bargoers quickly went back to their conversations, some who betted during the fight coming out a few bits richer while others wouldn’t be able to afford anymore alcoholic beverages for the night.

Picking the stool he had knocked into Geralt earlier up, Tavish set it back down in its original spot before reaching under his cape and pulling out a cloth bag. He reached in to pull out the bits for the drinks he ordered before thinking and deciding to leave the entire bag on the counter to pay for the drinks of his assailants and anything that was possibly broken during the scuffle.

Why did he pay for the drinks of gryphons who had attacked him? Well, he had no clue either; his drunk mind reasoned that they wouldn’t be able to make the payments themselves, what with being currently unconscious and bleeding, so their money would be better spent on their collective medical bill, he thought.

Not only that, but somewhere deep down, he regretted what his relationship Yuri had devolved to. What had once been a blossoming friendship forged by fire had deteriorated into a series of conflicts that recently ended with a fight in a bar of all places. And he had more money on his person than that, so that helped with the decision to leave a single bag of bits to the owner of the tavern, Grogel, who would likely not be too pleased with finding three unconscious gryphons sprawled about his establishment.

Shaking his head, the weary traveler shouted to the bargoers whom he had seen eyeing his pouch of bits. “Hear ye, hear ye! To all occupants of this fine pub, listen here!” he pointed to the bag he placed upon the table. “If that bag is so much as breathed on by anyone in here, I’ll ‘ave all yer heads! Do I make myself clear?” He looked around the room, challenging any ballsy individuals to try to take the bag. When there was no response and no one made any movements, his glare softened. “Good.”

And with that, he walked to the entrance Grogel’s Tavern, content with the fact that one way or another, Grogel would get the bag of bits as a personal apology from him. Either the scum inside would heed his warning, or they would immediately set upon the money, meaning that they’d have to go over one another to get to it. They’d be too preoccupied with getting their faces kicked in by their ‘friends’ and giving the same treatment to others to ever lay a talon on the bits.

Tavish pushed the front door open, the chilly air outside him hard even through his protective apparel as he left the relative warmth of the bar. He reached under his cape, this time producing a balaclava that he then tied around his head to keep his face warm.

‘Just another day in the Hyperborean Mountains…’ thought Tavish to himself as he made to trudge through the snow that seemed to stretch on forever. ‘My journey’s got to be nearing its end soon. The Eyelander says that I don’t need too many more heads before I can reopen the portal to go home. Not to mention the fact that the voices have been quieter than normal.' A small smile made its way to his face at the thought of returning to someplace familiar. He didn’t care how many people he had to kill so long as it got him back to where he rightfully belonged.

And so it was with renewed determination that Tavish DeGroot, the Demoman and weary traveler, pushed onward to complete his morbid mission, the thought of home, not heroism, etched into his mind.

Author's Note

If you couldn't tell, this is a Displaced fic. I wrote this little story as an entry to the F*** THIS PROMPT contest, but I may actually continue it from here. This is also a great way to find something to write after my small bout of boredom with my other story, Reverie Bound, which I do plan on keeping updated.

Anyway, thanks for reading guys. I know Displaced fics get a lot of antipathy (I myself have only read about one or two that are actually good on this site), but I hope to make this one stand out amongst the sea of terribly written Displaced fics out there. I'll see you guys in the next installment! Peace out!

The Bladed Fields

An indeterminate amount of time had passed when he awoke. All he could remember was a green flash and the flushing of a toilet before he had opened his uncovered eye to find himself here. Wherever ‘here’ was.

He sat up, rubbing at his head with a groan as he took off his beanie to shake off the sand that had gathered on it, looking around to find himself on a lonely beach. Tavish sat there for a moment, trying to adjust to what little light shone through the bleak greyness of the sky and the eyepatch that had covered his left eye before he grew annoyed and lifted the pesky covering so he wouldn’t feel so uncoordinated.

When light somehow still did not make its way to the eye that rested underneath the upturned eyepatch, Tavish confusedly rubbed at his face, trying to shake any lingering drowsiness from his mind. He still found himself halfway blind, frantically scrambling to where the ebbing water met the shore when he had gathered his bearings to gaze at his reflection in the water.

What he found he found staring back at him, though, left him speechless. Tavish blanched at the shocking revelation shown by the foamy seawater that gently licked at his pants, discovering that his eye was ...missing. Not only that, but as an afterthought, he noticed the subpar apparel that he had worn to the cosplay convention he had been fool enough to participate in - which consisted of red cargo pants, combat boots, a beanie and an eyepatch, and a vest with batteries in place of grenades - had been replaced with the actual get-up of TF2’s Demoman.

His inexplicably authentic change of attire didn’t shock him nearly as much as the new cavity that had appeared in his head, however, and he couldn’t help but stare into the void that once housed his eye in horror.

‘I’m… missing my eye,” he thought to himself as his guts churned, a sickened feeling nearly overwhelming him. His sudden change in speech didn’t even click with him as his mind was focused entirely on the lost organ. “That was one of my two favourite eyes!”

Tavish blinked as righteous anger built up within him. He would have otherwise been shocked and reduced to naught but a whimpering mess, but the fuzziness in his head, combined with the fact that he had found himself in the middle of nowhere only to find himself with only half of his sight, filled him not with horror, but fury. And so with that fury, he took a trembling hand, raised it, and brought it down with a hardy resolve into the soft sand on which he rested.

“RrrAAAARGH! I! WANT! MY! PENSION!”

With mighty bellows and mightier blows, a small section of the large shore was tossed fore and wayside in Tavish’s hissy-fit. As he cursed the heavens and demanded his recompense, the gods above were left speechless and awed, having never witnessed such a frenzied display of indignation and childish rebellion. Today was the day they had bestowed upon a mere mortal their true fear and respect. Or rather they would have if they were paying him any mind.

Ten minutes had passed before enervation bore a heavy weight on the exasperated man’s shoulders, replacing his trauma-induced tetchiness with an overwhelming sense of weariness. With this weariness came an oppressive dose of reality. Tavish, already on his knees, fell forward, catching himself with his hands as he grasped the loose sand, allowing it to be sifted through his fingers before scattering back to again cover the shore. It was all real. “It can’t be… it can’t be real.” Said a defiant Demo.” Where am I? What’s happened to my eye?” Tavish paused for a moment, finding something else to be off. “And what the bloody hell happened to me voice!”

Shaking the unimportant thought from his mind for the first two questions, Tavish crawled to the edge of the ocean’s ebbing waves to throw some of the cool water onto his face to calm himself down. Mind respectably more clear, Tavish looked around the beach, finding there to be a rocky expanse that elevated in some off direction.

Choosing to approach out of both curiosity of what lay above - and in hopes of finding some sort of hospital - Tavish climbed up the small hill, having a fair amount of trouble grasping the rocks of the smoothed surface and gaining a proper footing before he finally made his way to the top. As he observed his surroundings, he saw that the shore seemed to stretch forever into the shrinking distance, and, as he turned to examine the lay of the land above, he noted, with no small amount of anxiety, that the same could be said of the lush green highlands that painted the broad panorama.

“Holy mother of…” Tavish’s thoughts faded into the all-embracing vista. a gentle breeze disturbing the slumbering grass that folded under the pressure of his boots as he stepped forth, unsettling the untouched scenery. Finally remembering to pull his upturned eyepatch back over his useless socket, he gave another sweeping gaze over the landscape, attempting to find someplace remotely dissimilar to that of the rest of the oppressive green. This dissimilarity manifested itself in the form of one of the sun’s golden rays settling upon a spot of the earth well-hidden behind a slothful hill.

As he continued, another, harsher wind brushed past his face, seemingly attempting to shoo him back to from whence he came. Despite this, he soldiered onward like a moth to a flame, not knowing where else to travel on his, thus far, directionless journey.

“As if a wee bit o’ wind’s gunna keep me from my destination,” said Tavish with a grim resolve. It was true, however, that his course - now firmly planted within the pink tissue of his mind - could not by any regular means be upset, as he knew not where he was going. This embedded thought that rested its stout and cumbersome presence on his conscience, while filling him with a dread unlike any other for what he would find resting beyond the elevated earth, also gave him a gross stubbornness as he focused narrow-mindedly on finding a quick end to his journey.

One step, two steps, three steps transformed to dozens, to hundreds. One hundred steps, two hundred steps, three hundred steps. Up and down the escalating and falling hills, with flat footfalls nigh nonexistent in between, Demo’s strength slowly but surely had begun to abandon him. And with the wicked whisks of the wind growing faster and more wild with each step he took, his breaths were growing shorter and his movements more taxing.

He trekked forward regardless, some force born of either foolishness or determination - possibly a combination of both - pushing him onward. Soon, the rich and diverse array of colors forming a rainbow, however transparent, made themselves clear, stretching from the clouds down past the hill and meeting the sunlight behind the hill, showing him just how close he had gotten to his destination without realizing. Just beyond that very hill was his salvation, this he just knew!

Three steps, two steps, one step. Eventually he was losing ground to the winds as they grew in intensity, howling in his ears to stop, to turn back. Raising an arm in front of his face, and squeezing shut his eye to keep the sharp cold that had begun to coat his immediate surroundings in a thin layer of frost from doing the same to his remaining organ, he by some miracle found his footing. He ignored the pleas and demands the gust carried with it, and again he pushed against the invisible forces that chilled his weary body to the bone. One step back was three forward as he climbed the frozen hillside, and after what had seemed to be an eternity, Tavish had finally conquered a mighty hill that stood an imposing seven feet in height as the howls of the wind became deafening shrieks.

The screeches again fell to howls, and the howls simmered to a low, impatient whistle as Demo pulled himself to the top of the hill, overlooking the point where the rays of the heavens kissed the earth below. What he saw on the other side…

Another sudden rush of wind knocked him off balance, shoving him down the ever so large hill. He ungracefully landed belly-first at the bottom, picking himself up to find his hands resting on a cold stone path that heavily contrasted the green of nature that was so prominent everywhere else on this seemingly untouched land. Lifting his head, he scanned the area around him, feeling slightly unsettled as he noticed dozens upon dozens of worn and battered swords planted into the ground, seemingly serving as makeshift tombstones for fallen warriors. The only question that racked Tavish’s overwhelmed mind was exactly who or what felled them.

“What in the devil happened here?” he asked as the low whistle again picked up in intensity, gradually growing louder and louder.

He then looked down the path to where the sun’s light and the end of the fading rainbow rested, focusing not on the sound, but on the object of interest waiting at the end for someone to claim it: A sword. It seemed quite novel in the fact that, unlike all the other weapons that seemed broken beyond repair or rusted to uselessness, this one - while still obviously used - was not only in what looked to be superb condition, but was also for some reason or other driven deep into a large boulder. However impossible it was for this to be done with any regular old sword crossed Tavish’s mind. Something about this sword seemed familiar to him, and he desperately wanted to hold its hilt in his hand and allow it to be a part of him once again.

Stepping over ancient helmets and discarded shields, Tavish closed the distance betwixt him and the sword as the light shined brighter and the wind grew harsher.

“Leave.” It pleaded. “Turn back.”

But so focused on the mesmerizing allure of the sword was he that these demands once again were met with an unhearing ear.

The wind brushed against his ear, much closer this time than ever before, revealing the owner to be female. “This warning will be thy last, He Who Seeks. Prithee, turn back, lest We cast Our judgement, swift and unyielding, upon thee.”

At this, Tavish slowed, if but for a moment. “You have in your possession that which does not belong to you, spirit.” The words spilled from his mouth without him fully being in control of them. “I am here only to reclaim what is mine.”

The wind grew louder still in response, the light of the sun retreating behind the dreary clouds above as ice once again formed atop everything, including Tavish himself. He continued shambling toward the sword, getting closer and closer as the wind picked up in intensity before he realized that it had grown deathly quiet. Frost blanketed the surroundings, making the graveyard of a thousand swords seem as though even time itself had frozen in place in anticipation for what would transpire next. Soon, the oppressive silence was shattered by a soft, lilting voice.

“...Then thee, too, must fall.”

And with this ominous statement came a rustling sound from the gelid grass, followed by what sounded like a brand being unsheathed. Tavish turned around to see the blades being sliced in half before they were reduced to mere atoms mid-air. As the path of destruction weaved between the swords of the fallen warriors, headed straight for Tavish, his pupil shrinked to a pinprick. He threw himself out of harm’s way as the line of assured annihilation left a fresh cleave in the stone path where he stood less than a second earlier.

Clumsily rolling to his feet, the frigid man kept his knees bent and his legs distanced apart in order to be able to better dodge any further assault. Searching wildly for his attacker, he finally caught sight of her undulating form standing in front of the sword, keeping him from making a run for the weapon. She was an elegant being, seemingly composed entirely of a fast-moving breeze. The tiger-like entity had glowing blue symbols running down her head and back, and her claws, each easily the size of his head, glistened like daggers. She stood about a head or two over Tavish, and her fierce blue eyes never left his own as she adjusted the flamberge nestled between her dangerous teeth.

Tavish tried to save face with a glare of his own in return despite not knowing how or why a tiger was made of air or wielding a deadly weapon, but his narrowed eye widened in surprise when he felt the warmth of his blood traveling down his cheek from a cut too deliberate to have been anything but a final warning on the tiger’s part.

“Seeker, thee have Our wishes repeatedly chosen to ignore.” The creature thought to Tavish. “We are Sanzafihr, Guardian of the Isles, and for thy transgressions…” Sanzafihr crouched low to the ground, narrowing her eyes as a low rumbling growl emanated from her throat.

“Thy life.”

The moments following, abrupt as they were, grew to be some of Tavish's less favorable memories.

Author's Note

And our favorite foul-tempered, bomb-lobbing Scottish cyclops is back, baby!

A Stain Upon the Earth

In an instant, Sanzafihr was upon him, sword lifted high in the air as she looked down at Tavish with murderous intent. Caught off guard by her quickness, Tavish nearly found himself frozen stupefied before a sudden rush of adrenaline spurred him forth. He jumped beneath the overgrown feline as she tore through the iced earth on which he stood mere moments before, rolling to his feet as he made a beeline for the boulder that served as a makeshift hilt for the sword he felt so desperately drawn to.

A feral growl sounded from behind him as the wind once again picked up, and he dropped to the ground on instinct - hands covering his head as he let out an undignified shriek as the weight of his mortality once again burdened him - as two quick movements in the air left the weapons that were placed into the ground just in front of him cleaved into two. Tavish rolled to his feet and, deciding that if he were to die here it best be dignified, grabbed the first two objects he could find, a wooden kite shield that he quickly placed a hand in, as well as a beaten battle axe.

Weapons in hand, he felt a certain spirit wash over him, cleansing him of most any fear that had overcome him, allowing him to focus on only what was happening at the moment. It was rather liberating. Despite never having handled or even held a weapon before, Tavish felt a certain amount of proficiency in his grip, as it was neither too tight from anxiety nor too loose from an inexperienced feeling of immortality brought on by being armed, and a fine confidence welled within him like a burning fire that glowed dimly from within his being. His senses appeared to clear as well. He could smell the ice the still air carried; he could see every movement of Sanzafihr as she bound toward him in what appeared to be slow motion; and he could feel the adrenalized smile worm its way to his face as he brandished his blade.

He’d never felt more alive.

“Leeeet’s do iiiiit!”

With that battle cry, the next few moments passed in a haze of impassioned shouts and snarls as Tavish and Sanzafihr cast all of their might into their flurry of attacks, both ready to spill the others’ blood. Of course, Tavish put all of his effort into dodging the swift swings of Sanzafihr’s sword as he danced in between the weapons serving a double purpose as gravestones to keep the tiger from overpowering him, knowing that the fragile shield he held in hand would do little to stop the sword’s edge and the large force of impact that it carried, but with his attention mostly settled upon the blade in her maw, Sanzafihr had landed a number of swipes that knocked Tavish to and fro, his breath escaping him as the ancient guardian brought down with all of her might the great sword. He had but a moment to widen his eyes before a large cracking sound was made.

In the distance, an observer would have seen a small cloud of frost rise into the air, complete with shards of frozen grass, and they would have felt the rumbling of the earth as blade connected with body; they then would have heard a piercing cry of agony following said shaking, the commotion frightening any birds that took refuge upon this lonely isle into the skies as they flew to escape the fray.

Tavish could hear nothing past the sounds of his own pained screams, Sanzafihr standing over him with a cold look in her eyes as she yanked her sword from the earth, splitting the feeble shield that he had used to protect himself and causing the red of his blood to stain the white of the icy ground.

“The pain will subside in but a moment, Seeker.” As this thought echoed through Tavish’s frenzied mind, Sanzafihr adjusted the oversized dagger held betwixt her teeth, preparing to impale him, the next words coming from her actual maw in a gesture of respect for her adversary. “Though thou mayest not have found what thou were looking for, We granteth thee the peace of a noble warrior’s death.” With that said, Sanzafihr’s sword began to emit a dull glow as the same intense winds from before drew over Tavish and around her sword, frost covering its tip. “Fare thee well.” And with that, she closed her eyes and jammed the blade into the earth where the wounded man lay.

Upon uprooting the bloodstained sword, Sanzafihr tossed away the brand, letting loose a trembling breath. She then opened up her eyes once again to find that Tavish had simply disappeared, just like the rest who fell to her. Only, this time something was… off.

There was a wrathful shout and a surprised yelp in her clarity, Sanzafihr casting an astonished stare onto none other than the Demoman, then to the axe firmly planted into her side. When she looked back to Tavish, she had seen that there blazed a sinister red radiance from both his good eye and beneath his eyepatch. In an instant, a haze befell her, and with her addled state of mind and body, a memory.

“I-impossible…” she said, staring deeply into that primeval glow the entire time, recognition dancing across her dimming eyes. “My King… King Hildegard… is that truly you…?” And with that, the great Guardian of the Isles fell. With a final exhalation that seemed to be a mix of both abject terror and relief, the light in Sanzafihr’s eyes died. Upon closing her eyes for the final time, Sanzafihr bowed in the direction of the sword stuck within the boulder as the air around her went wild, the winds picking up in speed and intensity as the clouds of the sky darkened, eliminating any impression of the sun’s golden rays that once rested above as Sanzafihr’s form began to flicker, eventually dissipating into nothingness and being carried away by the softening breeze. It seemed as though the world had lost something it held in great care.

Tavish’s eyes had long since stopped glowing their sinister sanguine, the man simply staring as he witnessed what appeared to be the guardian’s death. He didn’t know why, but a part of him felt a great sense of loss. It was with this overbearing feeling of sadness and disgust that he began to weep for someone that he knew so little yet so well.

Author's Note

No power in the world, regardless of how brilliant, can alter the stone upon which an action passed is engraved.