#tethrien

[tales-of-nexus]

Portrait 4/6 for @stride-the-stars! This time of my Bloof Elf warrior, Tethrien Silverfist! THANK YOU FOR COMMISSIONING ME, AS ALWAYS

[tales-of-nexus]

Alt!

(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.

[tethrien]

"Just shut up and kiss me."

It had been an unexpected thing, seeing the lithe figure approaching across the bridge into Terokkar.  Tethrien stood in silence, hands clasped behind his back and beneath the shadow of his bulwark.  He had been staring thoughtfully into the dimness of the evening, tattered ears tilted back and chin lifted high.  

Movement caught his eye quickly enough, the shuffle of booted feet on smoothes stonework apparent not long after.  It did not take long for Tethrien to recognize the tall form draped in fine clothes and white-streaked blue-black locks.  He pursed thin lips before turning to more fully face the approaching fellow, pale bow rising.  “Dathonlan.”

If the unsteady shuffle had not been intended toward the warrior’s presence, it certainly was after the familiar electric hum of the soldier’s headset.  Handsome features split into a broad grin full of too-white teeth, long ears perking as the fal caster straightened.  All of a sudden, he walked in a more languid fashion, head and spine straight, attention focused as if these would diffuse the prior image of drunkenness.  “Tethrien! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Or not terribly fancy considering the location—you’ve been drinking.”

“Just a little!  A few drinks with a client, nothing too much.”  With that charming grin still in place, Dathonlan stopped a short distance away from Tethrien, overlooking the slight tug of a scowl at the corners of the pale warrior’s scarred lips.  ”Is that concern?”  

“You know, it’s a rather long fall from the bridge to the ground.  It would be unfortunate if you misstepped.”  

Dath’s answer was a laugh, and he leaned his hip against the raised railing along the bridge’s edge.  “You’d catch me, wouldn’t you?”

Tethrien could only manage a grunt—possibly in agreement.

For a long time they stood in silence, not entirely unwanted or uncomfortable.  There was always a distance with the older Sin’dorei, a careful half-step away from easy comfort.  “You should have gotten Mezaku to get you.  You reek of liquor, and before you saw me, you were shuffling and stumbling because no one was looking.”  Tethrien crossed his arms loosely over his chest, turning to look out across the cityscape beneath them.  “Going to get yourself killed, you know, pulling stupid shit like that.”

“You can just shut up and admit that you give a damn, Tethrien.  It isn’t really so terrible.”  The dark-haired Elf sidles suddenly closer, one slender hand reaching up to rest against the brute’s armored bicep.  He pushed up on his toes, looking up at the soldier with an expression the pallid man found utterly confusing.

Before there was any swooping or continuation of Dathonlan’s suspicious lean forward, Tethrien ducked and scooped at the back of the caster’s legs and spine, scooping him up with the ease borne of physical strength.  “You’re drunk.”  He huffed, offering no answer but to tighten his grip at the squirming of his capture, and promptly turned to stride his way toward familiar pathways toward Nagrand.

It was early afternoon before Dathonlan woke.  It took him a few nigh frantic moments to recognize the militaristically arranged living area and the clean smell of freshly baked bread.  The house was quiet, and even as he listened back the discomfort settled in his belly, the rakish Sin’dorei could hear no movement within the building.  The drape of heavy blanket was warm, and it smelled strongly of musk, leather and steel; beside him on the table rested a tall glass of questionable looking liquid, a few slices of thinly sliced bread, and a small note folded into quadrants.

Dathonlan,

Should be back in a few hours, took Laevra out to the Mag’har to gather some spices.  If you get up off that couch for anything besides normal body functions—or vomiting—then I’m going to break your kneecaps.

Tethrien

Bleary eyes widened at the small, neat writing, and Dathonlan couldn’t help but flash broad smile and release a breathy, smoky chuckle as he tipped his head back against the couch once again.

[tethrien]

What-if Wednesday: 3!

3.  Dressed up fancy

He stood in solemn silence in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the bathroom door, tattered ears tipped back against the sides of his head.  To him, the whole thing looked entirely awkward and out of place.

Charcoal gray pinstriped  suitcloth fit with professionally tailored sleekness to the elf’s large frame, stark against the deep blue and silver of the brocade waistcoat worn beneath.  A high-necked white button-down clasped at his throat with a silver silk cravat tucked beneath the double-breasted closure of his vest.  

Laevra had managed to convince him to trim his beard and pale hair, and he sat patiently as she brushed hacked locks into a smooth tail tied with a navy velvet ribbon the same color as his waistcoat.  All-in-all, he looked ridiculous, he was certain.  Absolutely ridiculous.

Still, the induction into the Kirin Tor was a big moment for his daughter, and she had requested that he attend the ceremony as her “date”.

Drawing a deep breath and smoothing a hand through his rather tamed and far shorter beard, Tethrien tugged open the door and strode downstairs to where Laevra waited nervously in her gowned splendor.

Ah, the things he put up with to protect his little girl from wandering eyes—and hands.

[tethrien]

What's your idea of a pleasant awakening? How about a 'pleasant' one?

Tethrien tilts his head slightly, dimly glowing eyes at half-mast. “A warm morning at home, woken only by my internal clock—or the smells of a meaty breakfast.  A natural quiet is always good on those kinds of occasions.”  He snorts softly through his crooked nose, then purses his lips.

"You know, recently in Nagrand there has been some sort of rampant bed infestation.  Sharks, I think they are.  Bed sharks."  Although pale cheeks and tattered ears flush slightly pink, the broad grin is relatively shameless.

[tethrien]

[tethrien]

Revenge, Vengeance, Retribution

Behind 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 had purpose 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.