Zhuravlev Family/Guimoiun/The Consistently Jank Life of Guimoiun

This chronicle contains the stories of Guimoiun Zhuravlev as told by Roleplay Messages.

5/18/2012

Guimoiun wandered idly through the streets of the village near his manor in Canock. The newest buildings were down the street up to his left, and Guimoiun was determined to use his lordly privilege to inspect them. He had sent a letter off to his family, informing them of his heightened position in the world as well as his rededication to trading. Nothing had returned yet, but he wasn't too concerned about the silence. It had been a while since he'd written anything home, so expected there to be a lot in whatever response he heard.

Turning the corner, Guimoiun came face-to-face with the new workshop of the desk-man. Guimoiun had commissioned the improved facilities as a ledger line in his appropriation for the houses of healing. All of the money came out of his own pocket, so he figured he could mis-spend it as he pleased. He was considering entering and placing an order for a fifth desk, when a shriek interrupted his contemplation as to what pattern he'd have wanted this time.

"Get this... this... THING away from me!!"

Some stuffy-looking merchant was swatting at a brightly colored bird. He was a larger man, with a forest-green coat and thick beard. Guimoiun laughed, and then called to the bird. He wandered over to the man, to make sure he was all right.

Twenty minutes later, Guimoiun stroked Malachite's feathers. The parrot had a 1m wingspan, bright green feathers, and a read tuft on the top of its head. It matched Guimoiun's emerald robes quite well, and his personality even better. The bird had accosted the man thinking him to be the Lord of Canock, but recognized his master's voice well enough after being called by name. Guimoiun continued to pet the bird as he retreived the letter attached to its leg, and was surprised to see just how short the correspondance was.

Guimoiun- Please update: How are the elections going. We're quite interested in hearing whether our favored son has been made banker, or chancellor, or whatever it's called there in Serpaentland. Also, send money. Love, Mom and Dad

Guimoiun scoffed at the letter, shook his head at the outdated, ignorant terms they used, decided that it would be easier to ignore their idiosyncrasies, and then started thinking. Who was the Chancellor of Scales. He'd heard nothing of the election results, and everybody he'd asked about it over the last couple of days had responded with a confused look, a slight chuckle, or a dismissive "Who cares?". He was starting to wonder if the realm would ever sort out that issue.

Guimoiun turned and headed back to his manor, when he noticed something that ought not to have been happening. The workers who had been constructing the new homes for new villagers were building still more houses. Guimoiun flagged down the manager.

"What's going on here?"

"We recieved word that more people are to move out of the city soon, we decided to take initiative and finish the work sooner rather than later."

"Well, finish it later! You know how fickle the cityfolk can be."

Guimoiun sent the work teams home and finished his evening walk. He released Malachite to fly freely around the manor, and then summoned the servants to inform them of the increased cleaning that would be necessary. Finally, he retired to his study and scribbled a note to his parents.

Mom and Dad- Nobody is the banker, here's some money.

Guimoiun grabbed two silver pieces from the drawer of his desk, and pressed them into the green wax sealing the envelope. He covered them with more wax, and then pressed the Zhuravlev seal into the letter. Sighing, he gave it to his servant, saying that the message was to be returned by pigeon.

Satisfied, Guimoiun went to bed.

5/20/2012

Scratching his head, Guimoiun re-read the latest correspondence received from the capital.

Supreme Chancellor Luthor has appointed himself to the vacant position of Duke of Clyderee. Duke Cadelius has been appointed Chancellor of the Interior.

Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Guimoiun had been under the impression that Luthor was already the Duke of Clyderee, and that only he and Yenom had been in the running for Chancellor of the Interior. Order seemed to have left Strombran, and been replaced with confusion and miscommunication. It was enough that his builders planned too much housing, or that the printers had printed all flyers directing his citizens to bring their complaints to the "Lord'/s estate".

Sighing, Guimoiun reached over and took Malachite out of his cage. The bird showed his affection by uttering the phrase he had heard most frequently since his arrival;

"Rawwwwk! - What the hell!"

6/5/2012

The election results ought to have come in several days ago, but Guimoiun had not heard anything. He expected that he'd won, on account of his being the only one running, and so he began working on a new bulletin as per his original plans.

"... will be reimbursed for any taxes levied against them by the banker for any transactions that ..."

He stopped in mid-sentence, because there had been a knock at the door of his study. Guimoiun put down his quill, adjusted his robes, and answered.

"Lord Guimoiun?"

The scribe was wearing the insignia of the Supreme Chancellor, and Guimoiun figured that the man must have something to say about the end of the election.

"Baron, actually, or possibly Chancellor, if that's what you're here about."

"Well, yes, it is, actually..." mumbled the servant before trailing off. He seemed quite uncomfortable with either Guimoiun or with the news he was delivering.

"Well, let's have it, then!" said Guimoiun, a smile spreading across his face.

"Well, sir, the election ended, as I'm sure you know, and you were the only one running, as I'm sure you know, and -"

"And excellent!" said Guimoiun. He reached into his pocket, looking to pay the man a tip for his fortune of delivering such good news.

"Well, sir, no. Not excellent. Not at all excellent." The man's face fell as he saw Guimoiun take his hand out of his pocket completely empty. "You see, sir, although you won the position and title, according to the laws set down ages ago at Strombran's founding-"

"Four months ago."

"What?"

"Strombran was founded four months ago."

"No, sir, not the realm. The city."

"Oh."

"Well, according to the ancient laws passed down through the generations before us, a officer of the ruling court cannot begin their work in their new capacity until they have been formally acknowledged in person by the current ruler, whomever it may be."

"Well, return to the Supreme Chancellor at once, and we'll take care of it. I know for a fact that he wants me in this position. He said it himself."

"Well, you see, sir, that's why I'm here. The Supreme Chancellor is unable to accommodate such a ceremony into his schedule. He has been swamped with diplomatic issues of great importance."

"Like what?"

"It's not my place to know the Chancellor's everyday comings and goings, but most recently, the Chancellor has been attending day-long meetings with a delegation from Minas Ithil on the subject of pancakes."

"Pancakes?"

Guimoiun was extremely confused. What did the Chancellor have anything to do with Minas Ithil or pancakes?

"Yes, sir, pancakes. Pancakes were banned long ago in Minas Ithil, and the subject has recently come up again for debate. Chancellor Luthor is an expert on the uses of pancakes, both medicinal and recreational, and so delegations from both sides of the debate have travelled here, seeking his counsel. "

"So, let me get this straight: I am the Chancellor of the Interior, but cannot perform any of the duties as such until I have met with Luthor, who is currently dealing with pancakes?"

"Not so simply, sir. The Chancellor is doing many other things as well, not just dealing with pancakes. He's a very busy man."

"Clearly. So, what can I do in the meantime."

"Well, sir, I am happy to report that you have a right to the title Chancellor of the Interior, and can be addressed as such. However, any correspondence addressed to such will be sent to Margrave Cadelius, the previous Chancellor of the Interior."

"So, I can't do anything."

"Nothing other than wait, sir, I'm sorry."

"Very well. Thank you."

The scribe left, and Guimoiun sat back down at his desk. He looked at the bulletin he'd been working on, stashed it away, and soon enough fell asleep in his chair, dreaming of pancakes.