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(Art by Kim Swan!)Tethrien Silverfist - Blood Elf Warrior - World of WarcraftBehind the shadows of sturdy ox-horned helm, sweat beaded on too-pale skin. Durotar was as hot as ever, dusty and dry, the armor encasing him amplifying discomfort in the midday sunlight. What he had heard whispers of being an encampment, an outpost, was in fact a watchtower with what seemed like minimal defenses surrounding it. How the Kor’kron had not overrun it, he did not know.Still, with all the underground rumors of rebellion, this was the only one that had gotten off its feet. This was the only one that stood a chance against the might of Garrosh’s war machine. Over the heads of ragtag heroes he could see Vol’jin, proud and unflagging even in the wake of near-death. Baine stood nearby in intense discussion with the old troll. Forced into his position by sudden tragedy, the Tauren had shouldered responsibility with a swiftness and effectiveness deserving of respect. Tethrien had even heard whispers of Thrall’s return, but this revolution was not going to be won by conversation, and not by these men alone.Now was the time for those directly ruined by Hellscream’s tyranny. Vol’jin gave the voiceless a voice, gave the lost a leader, gave the downtrodden hope that even the darkest of days could be pushed through. Horde and Alliance bled beside one another, fighting a common foe. No matter how much Theramore and every other slight to the Alliance after burned them however, no one hated Garrosh Hellscream more than those that had once been his own.The barbaric way he bared his teeth was obscured by his helm, but the narrowing of his dully glowing eyes was clearly visible. The slights had become personal the day he found out his rank had been pulled out from under him. No longer did he bear the proudly earned Legionnaire’s bars, no longer did he raise his fist in defense of the warchief’s power. Garrosh was not his warchief, not any more.Fuck Garrosh Hellscream, and fuck the mockery he had turned the Horde into.Reaching up to remove his horned helm, Tethrien tucked it beneath his arm and adjusted the sit of his spiked shield at his back. When he got home to Nagrand, he would tell the girls. This time, before he marched off to glorious ends, he would set things right: Lhysandra and Laevra deserved that much, at the very least.There was much to do before he officially joined the effort, but forward he strode toward the throng of enthralled heroes listening to the discussion between their rebel leaders. He listened as well, tattered ears tilting back slightly. These gathered men—Vol’jin, Baine, Chen Stormstout, Thrall—were icons, but did they have the military knowledge?Things had changed significantly since Thrall was last in charge. Tethrien certainly was no exclusive source of knowledge, not the only former recruit of the Horde War Machine to defect, but experience first-hand with the changes made would be helpful, especially from various sources. If he was going to smear the Silverfist name further, if he was going to become a traitor in actuality this time, he was going to damn well do everything he could to return to those he cared for. The only way to do this was to dedicate himself wholly. No secret, no tactic would remain left unmentioned.As he stepped away from the rebel outpost after discussions had quieted, Tethrien bowed his head to look upon the ox-head helm tucked beneath his arm. He was a traitor well and truly, now. The scarred corner of his mouth throbbed in reminder of what that meant, as if he somehow had forgotten in his decision. If he was accused, if he was captured, this time his execution would not be in secret, and he had no doubts that it would indeed be final. Still, it was a powerful feeling, as much as it was in direct violation of his personal values. The ‘Warchief’ had broken that trust, that loyalty the day he stripped non-Orcs of their ranks.The warrior’s anger had not subsided, would not until Garrosh was dead—if even then. There was, however, a sturdy step to his stride, the strength of a man with purpose. Despite his actions making him turncoat, his heart did not sink. This was revenge, vengeance, this was retribution for disregarding the men and women Garrosh neglected for his baffling racism. Warmonger, a maniacal tyrant: power and pride had made of him their king.Tethrien would do his part to see his throne fall.Hard.The trip back to Nagrand was silent, but his mind was racing. This step required much preparation. His path led him not inside the main house but into the separate smithy. Not only would he prepare the girls with an explanation, but he would insure as much as he was able that they would be safe in whatever escapades they found themselves in even if he was gone.Armor, the property, his belongings. He would need to formally retire from Horde Corrections in order to dedicate himself to the cause of the rebellion—a far greater cause than serving beneath and with a collection of Blood Knights typically less useful and capable than they thought of themselves.It was not often that the massive elf was found to be poring over plans on a desk like some sort of scholar. This was a foray into design different from his norm, but how could he trust anyone else to craft her something good enough to not only protect but keep from hindering her? Trillium and Ghost Iron were both durable and surprisingly lightweight, they would suit his needs perfectly. Clefthoof hide was dark and sturdy—easily acquired from the local Mag’hari traders. Slim-fitted, quiet, mobile…It had been some time since his adrenaline was running so high. Although purpose was grim, he hadpurpose now, and for a man like Tethrien that was as welcome as victory itself. A path ahead meant he still had reason to continue onward.Long into the night he kept to himself, but this time it was not because of the onset of dark dreams. He had much to prepare and a limited time to do it in.