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Guimoiun scoffed at the letter, shook his head at the outdated, ignorant terms they used, decided that it would be easier to ignore their idiosyncrasies, and then started thinking.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.

8/7/2012

(Let's assume, for purposes of convenience, that I posted this a couple days ago and from Dontow.)

Ambassador Guimoiun was getting tired of the charade. He kept talking to the merchants about the possibilities that Strombran had to offer, and the merchants kept not listening. It had been six hours already, and it was clear that nobody's mind was going anywhere. Thinking about food, sleep, and his impending paperwork, Guimoiun began to inch the conversation toward the door. Another two hours would make no difference. As he reached for the doorknob to go, the door gave its own unexpected interruption in the form of a knock.

The hosts were quite taken aback to see a messenger from Luthor, Supreme Chancellor of Strombran at the door. They were even more surprised to see that the letter he carried was for Guimoiun.

"Sir, the elections have ended, and you have been selected as the Chancellor of the Interior, once again."

Guimoiun had almost forgotten about the elections over the last hour or so, from his trying to convince the locals that Strombran was well worth the hype.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" asked Guimoiun, "I won't be able to take up the position until Luthor is able to meet me in Strombran. I have no plans to go there soon, and he's busy running the realm."

"That's just it, Chancellor Guimoiun. The elections contained a referendum on Strombran City's ancient requirement for a ceremony and face-to-face transfer of power. The measure passed, and responsibility can now be handed from person to person on the authority of the written word of the Supreme Chancellor. As of reading your letter, you will become the new Chancellor of the Interior."

Guimoiun hastily tore open the letter, read it aloud to the waiting merchants, and decided that this turn of events would make for quite the interesting conversation. He moved away from the door and back into the house.

_________________________________________________________________________ (Present time)

Several days later, Guimoiun returned to Canock. The meeting with the desk-man had gone well enough, and he was now supervising the installation of a new front on Guimoiun's favorite desk in the study. Guimoiun sat at his second favorite desk in the main chamber of the manor where he received visitors and business associates. He wrote a letter to the people of Strombran thanking them for their support, gave it to his scribes to copy and send, and got to writing another important piece of business. Guimoiun had tallied up the amount of time it would take to run his businesses both local and abroad, and had come up four hours short per day. It was time that he reflected more faith in Sir Severus by appointing him Steward of Canock. He called for Malachite to be brought to him, dipped his quill into the ink, and began to write when he felt a sharp pain in his hand. So much talking and not enough writing had left him out of practice, and his hand had cramped. He called a scribe in so that he could dictate the letter.

"What is the purpose of the letter, sir?" asked the scribe.

"I intend to appoint Sir Severus as the Steward of Canock so that he may have more authority on the day-to-day operations of the land" replied Guimoiun.

"Sir, that can't be done."

"And why not?" Guimoiun was not used to insubordination or incompetence from this particular scribe.

"Sir Severus is now Lord Severus of Tarree, just this morning."

"He is, now? That's going to make things difficult. Well... Write instead to Jonathan in the village. Tell him that I need his services again."

2/25/2013

Guimoiun sighed as he sent the messenger away with the flyers detailing the ban of Da Way. Not only had he lost the (less than stimulating) debate, but he'd been the only one to have voted in favor of it's legality. Open practice and the founding of temples was out of the question, but there were ways he could respect the traditions of his faith while staying within the law. Preaching was not something he was terribly interested in anyway, and there were more fun, and still (probably) legal, ways to pay tribute.

__________________________________________________________

"And so, In the interest of good fellowship, economic growth, and in celebration of the continued peace within the Southern Alliance, I hearby announce the foundation of Strombran's newest and largest ever brewery and tavern, The Rusted Sickle, to be personally bankrolled by the Zhuravlev family for the enjoyment of the people!"

The crowd roared as Guimoiun finished his speech. Men were already moving in behind him with shovels and pickaxes, eager to start construction on this gift to the people. He walked down the street, passing out silver coins to the children who had come to hear him speak.

3/2/2013

Silence filled the halls of Zhuravlev Camp. All of the men were sent away, the servants alseep. Even Malachite, the messenger parrot, was not heard. He had been sent away by the Lord of Canock with a letter to nobody in particular. Silence was essential while the portly lord was as troubled as he was tonight.

Dielo was going to die. Guimoiun was sure of it, and it shook him to the core. While Jovyl may have been the one to introduce him to Da Way of Da Great Goat, it was Dielo who had taught him the intricacies, and along with them true inner peace in the practices of Da Way. The old man had been a mentor to Guimoiun in a very troubled time indeed. He recalled it as he thought of the man, his beard blowing in the wind.

   "There was a great meadow" Dielo was saying. "In it was Da One. He was surrounded by a large crowd of people, listening intently to what he was saying.

   "'I am Da Way and Da Truth and Da Life. No one gets to Da Ale except through me.'

   "Now there was in this time, a great man.-"

   "Who was he?" asked Guimoiun, wanting to know everything about Da Faith.

   "Um... I guess nobody knows." said Dielo to his now crestfallen student. "It was lost a long time ago. Anyway, this man had been a faithful follower of Da Way for his whole life, who well respected among the people for being so faithful. He stood in front of the crowd and spoke to Da One. "O, Great Hairy One. I am your humble servant. Show me the secrets of your ways, so that I might become your faithful priest on Earth, to enlighten those who do not know of Da Way.

   "Da Great Goat smiled and said, "BURP," Guimoiun jumped at the sudden intensity at which Dielo had articulated Da One's word, "and promptly swallowed the man whole. The people were alarmed, and asked Da One what he was doing. Da Hairy One replied, 'The true secret of my ways is Da Ale. And no one gets to Da Ale except through me.'

   "And so the people waited. Some were rather disgusted by the notion, but did not complain. About three days later, Da One farted a great fart, and out flew the man. (most of the people around passed out, but that's beside the point). He was unharmed, but needless to say, he did not smell particularly nice. Indeed he was downright repulsive, but the people saw that the smell seemed to please Da One, and it was then that their noses were opened, and they smelled that Da Great One carried a similar scent all of the time. And thus it was that the name Da Smelly One was given, and soap was outlawed, so that all could be blessed with a smell to shadow that of Da One. As for the man, he again asked about the secrets of Da Way, and was replied to with a hearty "BURP" from Da One."

   Dielo finished, reveling in the tale, and Guimoiun sat confused in front of him. Finally, he asked "What does it mean?"

   Dielo laughed and replied "BURP!" leaving Guimoiun more confused than ever before.

Remembering he'd spent with Dielo wasn't making his troubles any easier, and so he looked deep into the grass at his feet and began to pray: "Oh, Great Smelly One, who created the world, and who's inebriated state during that action explains why things don't make sense sometimes, please watch out behind Dielo Filador, so that his enemies will not take him in the manner of Rosegarden Guy. Guide him where you will, but if it be to death, let it be honorable and swift." At the end, Guimoiun let out a small burp as tribute to Da One who Created Ale.