Stoutman

Little did Duke know, back in the bustling chaos of Southshore, that he was being sold down the river by the Queen and Bolvar, a man who projected loyalty like a holy aura but was, in reality, a Grade-A conniver. If their scheme worked, Duke would be signing his own death warrant and still be grinning like a Cheshire cat, helping them count the gold.

Upon his return to Southshore, Duke found himself neck-deep in a swamp of responsibilities. He barely managed to exchange a few pleasantries with the legendary Mayor Heni Mareb before a tsunami of administrative duties crashed over him. His temporary official residence, a humble wooden shack boasting a living room, a dining room, and two bedrooms, became his personal purgatory, overflowing with a mountain of scrolls, petitions, and demands so disorganized they looked like a goblin's laundry pile.

Clearly, Bolvar had never once cracked open a book on urban planning, let alone played a game of "SimCity." His ancestral fiefdom had grown organically, like a fungal infection, and Bolvar, a pure-blooded warrior through and through, had the administrative finesse of an Ogre. Thus, the entire sprawling mess of internal affairs had been unceremoniously dumped into Duke's lap. Everyone knew Duke had a penchant for meticulous urban design, so the grand vision for the region awaited his divine decree.

With a flourish, Duke waved a dismissive hand, pulling rank with Barov's special decree to cut Mayor Mareb off at the knees. "Your Lord, Duke Barov, has graciously bestowed upon us permission to erect refugee camps and all associated facilities anywhere within the Hillsbrad Foothills region!" he declared, leaving no room for argument.

Next, Duke summoned the former civil officials of Stormwind City. With a decisive stroke of his quill, he drew a massive circle around every single blade of grass on both sides of the hundred-kilometer highway stretching from Southshore Town to Hillsbrad Farm. Poof! Just like that, all of it was declared prime farmland, ripe for reclamation. He was treating this place like his personal backyard, and woe betide anyone who disagreed.

Then, Duke dispatched Windsor to rally the troops and purge the mines north of the avenue of their monstrous, three-meter-tall abominations – the dreaded Snowmen. These hulking, frosty brutes posed a grave threat to the Stormwind refugees. Oh, and while they were at it, a conveniently located vein of ore, the Jade Mine, also found itself "accepted" into Duke's burgeoning portfolio.

Finally, Duke received two rather unexpected visitors: his loyal followers, Edwin VanCleef and Gryan Stoutmantle.

"Your Excellency Edmund Duke, Gryan Stoutmantle, Sheriff of Westfall, salutes you!" the grizzled, middle-aged man with a distinguished gray part in his hair announced.

Duke blinked, his mind momentarily short-circuiting. He'd been keeping a close eye on Gryan Stoutmantle, for good reason. History had him pegged as a future Grand Marshal, one of the rare, true rags-to-riches heroes who'd clawed his way to the top in the chaotic aftermath of Stormwind's fall. Unlike poor Windsor, who was destined for an early grave, Gryan was a late bloomer, still kicking and commanding as a Marshal even in Duke's original timeline.

Gryan, a true son of Westfall, had, according to the dusty scrolls of history, retreated with Lothar to Southshore when Stormwind crumbled. He'd then joined the venerable Knights of Uther, becoming one of the first Paladins, primarily active in the holy city of Stratholme. Later, when Lordaeron descended into anarchy, and whispers of the Defias Brotherhood's chaos reached his homeland, the Westfall, he'd returned alone, a lone wolf answering the call of his kin.

Stormwind, at the time, had been too busy licking its own wounds to send aid to Westfall. This had lit a fire under old Gryan. He'd donned his armor once more, rallying the Westfall folk to form a spontaneous, ragtag militia – the Westfall People's Army – to fight the Defias Brotherhood tooth and nail. After the Brotherhood was finally crushed, and Varian returned to the throne, the Northern Expedition began anew. Stoutmantle's People's Army, now rebranded as the Moonbrook Brigade, was absorbed into the regular army, and Gryan himself saw his rank and title soar. Following the Northern Expedition, the old warrior had returned home with his brigade to help rebuild his ravaged homeland. But then, the Cataclysm struck, and the Defias remnants, like persistent weeds, resurfaced. Through sheer grit and endless struggle, Gryan Stoutmantle had eventually climbed to the coveted position of Marshal.

Yeah, Duke knew. Gryan was, without a shadow of a doubt, the real deal.

So, when the future Marshal opened his mouth, his second sentence nearly sent Duke into orbit:

"Your Excellency, I have spoken with your esteemed follower, Sir VanCleef. We believe we can open a second front behind enemy lines in the Westfall, disrupting the Orcish grip on the region and laying the groundwork for His Majesty Wrynn's eventual counter-assault on Stormwind City."

"Pffft!" Duke choked! He literally sprayed! The mouthful of water he'd just taken exploded from his mouth, a geyser of disbelief. Even turning his head didn't save VanCleef and Stoutmantle from the impromptu shower.

What in the name of the Light was this?! This historical odd couple, these sworn enemies who were supposed to be at each other's throats, were now proposing a joint venture to wage guerrilla warfare in the Westfall?!

Hold on a minute, VanCleef! Did you forget that in the "history" Duke knew, it was Stoutmantle who put a bounty on your head?!

Duke's internal monologue was a cacophony of bewildered expletives, but then, a lightbulb flickered. He suddenly understood Stoutmantle's logic.

Duke quickly composed himself, pulling out a handkerchief with a practiced air to dab at the corners of his mouth. "My apologies, gentlemen, how terribly uncouth of me. I assure you, I wasn't laughing at you. I merely had a sudden, rather amusing thought."

VanCleef and Stoutmantle, bless their hearts, immediately bowed their heads, suddenly fascinated by the non-existent ants on the floor, pretending they hadn't just witnessed their Duke perform an involuntary fountain impression. Duke was a big fish now, with a thousand irons in the fire, and he was only granting them an audience out of respect for VanCleef. Stoutmantle, a mere local sheriff, knew his place and kept his burning questions to himself.

Duke steepled his fingers under his nose, covering half his face, his expression now gravely serious. "Let me be clear: His Majesty Wrynn, before departing for Lordaeron to secure aid, issued a direct order. To counter any further Orcish incursions, all Stormwind forces are to be reorganized and are strictly forbidden from leaving the Hillsbrad Foothills. Now, I want to hear your reasons. The real reasons."

The two men exchanged a quick glance, and Gryan Stoutmantle spoke first.

"Your Excellency, I am a son of the Westfall. I know every nook and cranny of that land. While His Majesty did issue a royal decree for our people to seek refuge, and you, Your Excellency, have indeed sent ships to gather them, the truth is, nearly ten thousand souls refused to abandon their ancestral lands. They're holed up in various mines, living off dwindling supplies. They need the Kingdom's support, and in turn, the Kingdom will need their support for the future counter-attack on Stormwind. Remember, when Stormwind was under siege, it was the Westfall's bounty that kept us from starving."

After Gryan finished, Duke shifted his gaze to VanCleef. "And you?"

"Master..." VanCleef began, the word seeming to catch in his throat, but he pushed through. "When I left Stormwind, I swore to do more for you. Not long after arriving here, I underwent the professional Thief's test. My instructor declared me a 'thief genius, one in fifty years.' So, I thought, if I were to lead a team of rogues, it might prove... exceptionally useful to you, Master."

Duke sighed inwardly. Talent was talent, no doubt. VanCleef was born to be a master of shadows. But history had taken a hard left turn. The Defias Brotherhood, once the bane of every adventurer's existence, was now destined to remain a figment of a forgotten timeline. No wonder Stoutmantle, seeing the writing on the wall, had thrown his lot in with VanCleef. Everyone knew the Duke had the authority to raise ten thousand private soldiers, and with his blessing, they could completely bypass the King's ban.

Duke pondered for a moment, then a slow, decisive smile spread across his face. "Alright!"