The Monarch sat on his golden throne, the centerpiece of the large, Imperial-styled Ceremonial Room. Gracing the surrounding gang of officials with his presence. He can sit confident, his rule undisputed ans absolute. His chest forward and head held high, he was the man the country should have been proud of.
"Hurry up, painter, gold doesn't tend to follow the shape of your but so much. My ass is pleeding with my mind to have you executed and the longer it takes, the more he's making a convincing argument", the Monarch said nonchalantly.
The painter cawers some more behind his easel, rushing his brush even more across the canvas. The fact that the obese Monarch is depicted quite slim, dare we say even muscular, in the painting has nothing to do with any lack in skill of the artist, but everyting to do with a healthy concern for his own well-being.
The big machild that is the Monarch sat back in his throne, the corners of his mouth seemed to try to meet up with his feet: "I'm bored, what's the news?"
The crowd anxiously watched one another, knowing very well that the right words could mean a promotion, while the wrong words can cause a...
"Blasted, you there, biographer and narrator, stop scribling for a moment and tell me something I don't know yet! May the gods help you with such a nigh impossible endeavour."
I quickly penned down this words and stood up.
"Well... I... There is trouble brewing in Heroasylum [sic] and the great nations, ofcourse not nearly as great as us, the great nations of Suverina and Tagamtuim have both interests in the region."
"When did that happen?", quote the Monarch.
"Ehm... a couple of... weeks... months now?"
"WHAT? How come I was not informed earlier? Where is my Minister on Foreign Affairs?", puffed out the Monarch in a hissy fit.
A small, meager man stepped forward and, his eyes facing the floor, said apologetically: "We don't have anyone for Foreign Affairs... or anything else foreign", shamelesly forgetting the Representative of Foreign Cuisine.
"You then, Sir Pent Blackney, you have once been abroad, what is your opnion on this matter?", the bethroned adressed his latest favourite.
The man with rather feminene gestures, but with the roguishly good looks to pull it of, explains: "The conflict is pretty far from us, so should we get involved it can get rather tricky and expensive. But if we do not react, we may be forgotten like so many proud nations of Europa are these sad times. I propose a compromise. We support Tagamtium. The land is becoming a bureacratic wasteland and their government is burried in paperwork. They probably won't intervene actively, hence saving us the trouble to participate on the ground."
Sir Pent paused and summed up for the Monarch, who was dozing of: "We could side with Tagamtium."
The Monarch stood up, a task which took him some effort, and stated: "We shall form an alliance with Tagmatium!"
A scrawny looking fellow comes out of one of the many doors of the Ceremonial Room, holding a document with a stretched arm before him and with a cloud of century-old dust behind him: "I'm sorry to inform you, my leader, that we seem to have an alliance with Sevurina."
"Inconceivable! Are those Suverina people of noble, blue blood? Do they have tradition? If not, any such alliance would just be meaningless."
"I'm afraid they are, they're a Archduchy after all."
"You are really trying to anger me, little man! Go trow yourself in the lion pit as an apology."
"We don't have a lion pit", the man pouted.
"Ah, then you're in luck", changed the Monarch in tone: "in stead of an execution you'll reveive a promotion. You are now Minister of the Lion Pits. Just make sure to test it yourself when it's done."