The events of the 7th of Timber, 1070
Duke Whippedentries sat at the small dining room table in his little sitting room, his brows pulled down in an impressive glower. As he fed strips of greasy bacon into his mouth, his gaze swept over the few meager possessions he claimed as his own: his five ornate weapon racks, the dresser that held his pathetic little rock crystals, and diamond encrusted steel toy boats, and his stupid polished platinum statue in the likeness of Queen Rigar. It was all crap, all of it, so pathetic in it's size and it's worth.
"Bah!" he yelled as he swiped his arm across the table. His plate skittered off and cracked on the floor, and the marble salt and pepper shakers vanished under his cabinet. His lips pulled back from his teeth as he frothed with rage. "This is absurd! Look at this, I'm living like a damned pauper!"
Sitting across from him, the reedy Hammerer Postrose offered a thin, placating smile. As he leaned forward his robes slipped up his, showing off thin bands of intricately worked tattoos that wrapped around his forearms. "You're right, sire. You're absolutely right. This is a travesty, these selfish Dwarves are fulfilling their own base needs - how can you best serve their interests, if you are unhappy in your position?"
"That's right, Postrose. That's right - that's my whole damn point," the Duke said, wagging a finger at the Hammerer. "And what are we to do? We can't punish the lot; Aryn banned the guard and that idiot mayor Sulari is enforcing it - we can only make suggestions as to how we wish things should happen and hope that they listen to reason."
"Why don't you leave it to me," the Hammerer said soothingly. "Perhaps I can inspire them to do the will of their betters."