#I sam vimes'd him and I'm NOT sorry

[noonmutter]

Blow

DWC Feb 2024

Day 3: Bargain/Myth

As the conversation got less animated and Terry became more antsy to be on his way, Rumpole brought out one final set of papers. The lazy farmboy in him groaned, but outwardly, all Terry said was, "Seriously, I don't know any other plots. Th' closer y' get t' th' cities, th' less I even visited, let alone--"

"No, no, we're quite done with that, don't worry! I just had one other thing to bring to your attention before you got on your way. The Queen is refreshingly forward-thinking, as you've no doubt noticed by now, and as our beloved country is a touch low on…well, almost every resource…"

"Rumpole. I'm very tired, and I've already missed my deadline. Please."

"Oh, all right, but you're really spoiling the fun." With a small huff, the lawyer handed Terry another of those fancy papers bearing the royal seal, and he cracked it open to read. This one was a full-length scroll that hung down somewhere near his ankles, and it was absolutely covered in writing. Disgustingly dense fine print, on first glance, but once he found a few strange images, resembling nothing so much as a series of blank templates, he went back to the beginning to actually absorb what he was reading.

It wasn't that Terry couldn't follow legalese; he was in many respects a brilliant man, even if he'd never admit it or acknowledge it. He just really, really hated double-talk and wordplay this dry. It was at least fun to do that in poems and stuff. Doing it when you were talking about border disputes or who owned a cow was just infuriating. But as he read, he started to recognize certain phrases and terms from Rumpole's speech, which he'd also only partially listened to earlier in this meeting.

Much of it was what they'd already discussed about the dearth of citizenry remaining to lay claim to the various lands that lay barren and abandoned throughout the kingdom. What followed that was the rules for staking such claims, which were surprisingly thorough for all that they boiled down to 'If you're alive and have satisfactory proof of your identity, here you go.' There was follow-up regarding the payment of taxes, but that thankfully didn't appear to be retroactive. Their new queen had figured out right away that that would've been a civil war right out the gate, at least. In fact, it looked like there was a small stipend involved for the first year or so to help reestablish homesteads properly. Tess didn't seem to want people to grab the land and wander off. That, Terry approved of.

Once he got out of the homesteading stuff, things began to take a turn toward the matter of population, castes, and territories. The collapse of several houses due to the Northgate Rebellion and the fallout from the Shattering had been well-known in general, but this document appeared to be making it official. Even if it hadn't been from those events directly, it'd been over a decade since then; lots of the blue-bloods had scattered, died of old age, or just started over elsewhere. Those houses were gone, no scions remained to claim them, and with a heavy heart the Crown blah blah sure whatever dead nobles can't own anything so now the Crown's taking it back...makes sense. Still likely to be fighting about that, but less than there would've with a bunch of cousins and shit vying for scraps. Tess was already doing better than her great lump of a father at this, by his reckoning.

His reading slowed down significantly once he got to the next segment, where all those pictures sat in the middle of the paragraph. After a few seconds, his heart briefly stopped.

"Rumpole."

"Eh?"

"This is a proclamation o' th' establishment o' new houses."

"Ah, you've hit the nail squarely on the head!"

"I am not a noble, Rumpole!"

"That, my boy, is where you'd be wrong!" Reaching across the desk, the barrister plucked the scroll from Terry's stunned hands and rolled it back up. He didn't need to read it to talk about this part; he'd been warned well in advance that Terry Lias-Ambroce was going to be a bit touchy about it, and he'd come prepared.

"Like I said before, we've got a bit of a drought on almost every resource at present--and that includes nobility, wot? And as the Queen is a forward-thinking queen, she seems inclined to set things up before there's bunch of nasty squabbles while various up-and-comers try to do it themselves. Gilneas has had quite enough warring and destruction and we could all quite use a few years where we don't have more Gilnean deaths than births, eh?"

Terry made vague grasping motions at nothing with both hands, eyes wide. "I am not a noble!"

"Well, you're still technically correct, of course. No signatures, no change, eh?" Rumpole grinned, even while Terry barely reacted at all. "But you have gone and established yourself as a good candidate by the Crown's reckoning."

The lawyer began counting off on his fingers. "You have a strong military background with a nearly mythical reputation, good sir Lighthound. Did you really think that wouldn't reach the eyes of what remained of the court? Gilneas has precious few heroes, let alone living ones. Minor though you might think you are, you went and became one, eh?"

A second finger raised. "And, of course, you've the ability and the intent to lay claim to a not insignificant portion of land, here. And, if I'm not mistaken, you intend to take care of it properly, as a son of Gilneas ought."

The third finger went up as Rumpole fetched a specific sheet from the file he'd brought with him. "And then, of course, there's all these fascinating connections you've established. Both the Crusader-Lord and the Knight-Commander of the Argent Crusade; a retired Ironforge senator and patriarch of Clan Truthhammer and his wife, the High Priestess and Ambassador; Captain Sirenspawn and General Rutherford of the Grand Army of the Alliance... and those are just the direct ones. I've got records of you hobnobbing with Turalyon and Alleria, and attending the wedding of the First Arcanist Thalyssra and Regent Lord Lor'Themar..."

I told Dwyn I shouldn't have been there! Damn it!

"...and that's before I even touch on the indirect ones you have through your brother, and, of course, your wife."

"My w--"

"Well of course your wife, man!" Rumpole practically giggled at Terry's expression, situated somewhere right in the middle of furious and horrified. "You may not be a noble here, but through her, you're a noble there." He picked up another sheet from the file and gave it a little swat. "She went through all the picky nonsense to legitimize herself through the Doppelganger Decree of 28! Clever woman, that; lucky you, eh? And all clean and clear-cut on paper, that makes you the Baron of the Brightwood to your Baroness, eh?"

Of course Terry knew Shedwyn had been busy with all that. He'd been under the impression it was largely to spite all the jackass nobles who sneered down their noses at her, more than any real interest in the legitimacy of it all. Neither of them particularly wanted to be nobles, when nobles acted like that. He still wasn't sure what had been the tipping point: the third time somebody offered a tenth of the land's value to "take the burden off her pretty shoulders," or the one particularly offensive jackoff who'd commented that if she didn't have so much land, she might be able to deal with the "infestation" on it. He hadn't meant feral worgen.

Somehow, once Shedwyn had been formally and properly declared the Baroness of Brightwood Grove, Terry had still never truly connected himself to the thought that by marriage, he was therefore Baron.

Until now.

And he was pretty sure she'd done it to spite him, too.

It'd been three years.

She was never going to shut up about this one.

"The existing title isn't even a requirement for eligibility as far as the Queen is concerned, mind; it simply helps! A bit of borrowed legitimacy to add to your own impressive pile, eh? So. What do you say?"

"Come again?"

"Well, it's not something you have no say in, establishing your own house. Perhaps back in the day, when kings and queens tossed out titles like roses at a tournament, sure, but this is a very particular situation. Queen Greymane wants nobles who are Gilnean to their core; who are ready, willing, and able to do the work to bring our kingdom back to its former gloomy glory. And you, Sergeant, fit that bill, by my eyes and by the requirements she provided. But at the end of it all, it's your choice. If you are not willing, then the Crown is not interested in enslavement of any kind, even if it does come with prestige at the end of it. It's a choice, not an obligation, eh?"

A choice. One hell of a fucking choice. But this time, it actually felt like a choice; not a devil's bargain, where the alternative was objectively screwing him or someone he cared about. This had been a trap, to be certain, but not a literal one. It was the kind of trap where someone, somewhere, was laughing their ass off.

Terry Ambroce had always been a patriot. Even in his teens, when he was spitting acid about everything Genn Greymane said, did or would do, he did so for love of his country, not for himself. He'd intended to be part of the rebellion at Northgate, even, but everything had gone so wrong, so fast...

He'd learned since then that the fighting wasn't the hardest part. It was putting everything back together afterward. Fighting was easy. Battles had a beginning and an end; swords up, enough people died, swords down. Done. Reclamation, restoration, reconstruction... those went on for lifetimes. They required dedication, not eagerness. Building a nation was already hard enough; rebuilding one was a monumental effort. Holding it together, even harder still.

He'd spent half his life, now, insisting that Gilneas still lived. Even if he could never go home again, he knew he would've sworn on his deathbed that Gilneas still lived. And here, now, he had in front of him the opportunity to do what he'd wanted to do when he was a boy, and resuscitate it. He was already doing the math. Paper was the easy part, proclamations would be welcomed by many and growled about by few. Some of the growlers would inevitably start trying to cause trouble, test the viability of these new houses over and over. He could deal with skirmishers and bandits, but... politics?

---

Shu-fen was irritated. She'd gotten word from the Baron that morning that he'd been discharged, and that he would be picking up his children that afternoon. And yet, here she was, taking over that duty, since their normal escort had already been informed they could have the rest of the day off, and the Baron had failed to appear. It wasn't that escorting the Ambroce children was particularly difficult, as they behaved well for everyone except their parents; it was that she'd planned her day as well as the Baroness's around the exception, and now everything was out of order.

It came as no surprise to anyone, therefore, least of all Terry, when she punched him in the face as soon as he arrived. Part of that was because he'd surprised her, and it was really, really hard to do that, but still.

Once he'd gotten a moment to explain himself, she was willing to accept that perhaps he hadn't deserved to be punched in the face. And once he'd followed up with a suggestion, she actually apologized to him.

---

Shedwyn was worried. Shu-fen had dismissed some of the standard help, which wasn't anything to fret over, but then the Pandaren had received a notice, cursed, and excused herself. None of these things were particularly out of the ordinary--sometimes, shit just happened, after all; that was why she'd hired Shu-fen as an assistant in the first place. But, even after several years running of actual, honest-to-gods peace, she couldn't help but suspect more sinister things, given too much time to herself.

She was just about to go out looking for her when Shu-fen returned home. Her expression was a touch more wooden than usual, even with the tight little smile she was wearing, and that put Dwyn even more on edge.

"The Viscount of Keel to see you, madame."

Dwyn paused. "...The what of where? Hold on, that's not even on the schedule for today, is it?" In a brief, nearly panicked frenzy, she scrabbled through her papers to double-check.

Terry stepped into the doorway behind Shu-fen, who bowed respectfully and ducked outside to go have a good, loud cackle.

After a minute, Shedwyn finally thought to look up, and after another still, she parsed that this was indeed her husband, not some shadowy figure from her past (or his) back to haunt her yet again.

There was a pregnant pause.

"FUCKIN' WHAT?!"

( @daily-writing-challenge @shedwyn @sirdolraan @darbiebot @red-alynore )