Philip Howlanger was a very proper man. From his meticulously manicured mustache to his immaculate wardrobe, his mild demeanor to his impeccable character, everything about him was proper.

As it should be. He was the second most powerful person in Hobart Kingdom after all. His title was prime minister Earl Howlanger. He was his Majesty the Wild King William’s right hand man and his keeper of secrets. To Hobart Kingdom, his career was akin to that of a storyteller or a puppeteer. In the literal sense, he was a spy master, as the second most powerful person in any kingdom always was.

Late one one afternoon, Philip was sipping tea on the observation deck he had installed above the business wing of his enormous manor when he did something very uncharacteristic of himself. With a sudden jerk of his hand, he spilled some tea on his priceless robes.

It wasn't much tea, but it now adorned very expensive and very rare green singing spider silk. The bold, robust flavor of the Earl's fine, foreign afternoon blend would not benefit the robes magical properties, nor did the splotches aesthetics compliments giant lister eardrum hair embroidered into the robe by the finest and enchantress in all the kingdoms. That was not a very proper thing for Philip to do.

More than that though, it was a personal gift from the Wild King himself, and now Philip would have to stand before the king wearing his priceless, soiled gift.

Without averting his eyes from the splotch of tea he spilled, he addressed an elderly man dressed like a butler. The old man, holding a handkerchief for the spilled tea, was Philip’s personal attendant. Though his beard fell all the way to the ground and coiled on the deck between his feet like the sixth god’s statue’s beard, at a youthful eighty years of age and with a full head of hair, the minister’s right hand man was not nearly as old looking as the stone Wizard spread throughout the kingdoms.

“Sir?” the butler inquired, unsure if he had heard his Earl correctly.

“Do it and do not dally,” Philip snapped, frustrated with his servant’s inaction.

“Yes, at once Mister Minister.” The white haired man, nimbley for someone with over twice the Minister’s years, quickly vanished.

Earl Howlanger noticed that he was still holding his tea cup. He finished the sip, and frowned. His displeasure wasn't from the taste of the fine tea, nor from the tea he was wearing.

His displeasure stemmed from a secret he heard, a single secret that one of his men procured, was turned into a code word, and carried on the wind into the ear of the Earl.

Not far away two children were playing in a marvelous courtyard. The owner of the courtyard, the Marquis of Kingston, enjoyed his privacy, and for that purpose, had built a separate personal mansion on his appealing five acre estate. Twenty five thousand square feet of refrigerated, secured, private paradise, located in the middle of the kingdom's capital, on the kings estate, was the Marquise’s first class fortress of solitude. At least that is how outsiders like the Prime Minister interpreted this exclusive, high-security compound located in his Majesty’s backyard.

The two story mansion, had four rectangular sections forming a courtyard in the middle. Trees, flowers, trimmed grass, and a splendid fountain created a peaceful, luxurious space, and unknown to outsiders, the Marquise liked to share his space.

Little Timothy was splashing around in an outdoor bath. His innocent four year old laugh echoed through the courtyard spreading smiles in its wake. His sister, younger by one year, little Tiara, was being subjected to an onslaught water attacks, and giggling merrily.

Though Martha, the maid charged with the children's hygiene, was not spared from his wild splashing, she too was infected by his laughter and giggled while she and little Tiara happily endured.

Martha enjoyed these small moments, however brief they were. She wished things could be like this forever, but that was never the case.

For as long as she could remember she had been Marquis Thomas Lloyd's personal maid, his servant. She grew up in this courtyard along with many other children over the years. A long time ago, there were kids older than herself around, but the other kids all left at around five years old making her the oldest. Now as an adult, caring for small children was something she had always done and she was the type that taking care of other people came naturally. She was good at it, which might have been the reason she was still there while so many of her old friends were not.

Twenty five years ago, Martha's parents were in debt. They could either sell themselves or their three month old baby. She had been Thomas Lloyd's slave ever since. The only people that she's ever known we're also property of the Marquise. She had arrived at this large Hobart City estate before she could walk and never having stepped foot anywhere else, this was all she knew.

“I wish he wouldn't stare,” she thought. Her master, had a habit of staring. It made her anxious when he was watching, but more than anything it set ablaze her sense of guilt. She was helpless to do anything about her situation, so she would try to enjoy those small moments that seemed so far away. That was impossible under his gaze.

The Marquise was lord of the old capital, which he often traveled to. Fortunately, this meant he was not always around to stare at is revolving property. Unfortunately, that was not one of those times. While Martha had never personally seen her master do anything out of hand, she had also not seen any of the other kids she grew up with since they were children. Thomas Lloyd used to look at them like that as well, intently, with a charming smile that didn’t match his keen eyes.

She didn’t know why only she was still there, and she didn’t think she would be around for much longer. There wasn't anything that she could do about that kind of stuff though. Still, it was better when he was away.

To her relief, one of his men said something to the Marquis in a hushed voice causing her master to leave in a hurry. She didn't know or care what was said, but she was thankful to be rid of him. Now she could go back to bathing the children in peace. Happily giggling with little Timothy and Tiara was the only thing she could do. It was something that she had to do, for their sake.

Before Philip could finish his tea, his carriage was already waiting. It's exquisite craftsmanship and ample use of gold plating made even the Wild King's personal carriage look drab by comparison.

He paid no mind to his old butler when he entered, nor did the butler look directly at his Earl before closing the door and retrieving the step. The two white stallions needed no further cues and began their trot down the long driveway.

The adjacent address this glamorous transport was trotting to was protected by layers of hardened security. They were already within the outer walls of his Majesty’s thirteen-square mile royal estate. The next checkpoint, a stone's throw from Philips wrought iron front gate, was a gatehouse tunneling through the royal castle’s inner wall. This solid fortification had two fast baring drop gates, a bunkhouse, and a holding cell.

The “Inner East Gate” didn’t see much traffic but was manned by nine seasoned warriors nonetheless. These men of low birth were loyal and disciplined. Most of them used to be squires for lower nobles, and through exceptional merit became sworn retainers of the crown. They were all tough and skilled, willing to die, or kill for their king at a moment's notice.

Their uniform was a full metal jacket of pale silver colored steel plate armor, but only one of the nine men wore his gauntlets and helm. Ronald Mossberg was the youngest of the gatekeeper's, and the most recent victor of the Hobart Tough Man Tournament. By unanimous decision, he was the one standing outside and stopping anyone attempting to pass. Unlike his comrades, he didn’t have a noble cousin or uncle. He had been born in a small town on the outskirts of the kingdom, and thanks to his blessing of strength and no small amount of ambition, he became a champion. When he crushed the breastplate of the Fist Prince, it caught the attention of the Wild King and earned him a position as a royal retainer. Though it was hot and boring standing around all day, stopping the infrequent traffic, this well paid, cushy position was far better than his old life of fighting all the time, and one day it would be him in the refrigerated common room with cards and ale, while a new rookie baked in the sun.

He took his responsibilities seriously, and he was ordered to halt and identify every carriage and every pedestrian. That was his duty, but upon seeing the Prime Minister’s golden carriage turn toward his station that late in the afternoon, he became rigid as a statue. When the dazzling vehicle crossed his area of authority, the faceless metal suit remain steadfast at attention, allowing the stallions to transit without impedance.

Not a moment later than the gilded carriage stopped at its destination in front of the castle’s east entrance, another butler placed a step and opened the door. Philip paid no more attention to this servant than he did his own. He did not spare a single glance at any of the other servants either, not the golden knights, the clerk's, the busy magicians, nor the one very startled maid he collided with rounding a corner. He walked directly to the king's private chambers, a feat only a couple people are capable of, with deliberate steps.

In this world titles were not granted randomly, nor did the recipient get to pick their own title. Kings and queens often had two titles. One was granted formally by the royal court based on what they believed to be most fitting, while the other was an informal one, normally arising from the displeased peasant population. The existence of this title did not, in itself, mean the recipient was a bad ruler. There were, of course, disgruntled peasants in every kingdom.

It's difficult to determine the specific reason William Hobart was named “the Wild King.” It seemed to have as much to do with his unkempt hair as it did his unruly personality. Foreign scholars often falsely thought it was because Hobart was a rather remote kingdom, surrounded on three sides by frontier wilderness.

Regardless of the reasoning behind the Wild King William's title, it was a testament to his sound rulership that, even amongst the common folk, his formal title was used far more often than his informal one, the Savage King.

There was a time, when that title was far more common, though to William Hobart, those dark days of the Savage King’s reign were distant memories. These days, Hobart Kingdom had enjoyed twenty years of peace, prosperity, and good relations with its much larger neighbor, Kismond Kingdom.

William was in a good mood when his Prime Minister rapped on the door. “Enter,” the Wild King said, not bothering to look away from the “ Annual Status of Grain Distribution and Reserves of Hobart Kingdom,” report he was pruising. The spy master entered and crossed the study, his heavy footsteps fell silently on the enchanted hardwood floor. “Alright Philip, what is it that can't wait until tomorrow?”

The Earl swallowed his hesitation and delivered the news. “Your Majesty, the Kismond Kingdom’s Third Army has received marching orders.”

“And?”

“Their orders are to our borders, your Grace.”

The Wild King’s good mood immediately soured. He haphazardly discarded his document with an irritable flick of the wrist, and looked at Philip. His sight drawn to the splotch of tea on his gifted robes.

Fifty three years ago, a Fire Dragon had been menacing the outskirts of Hobart kingdom. The Wild King’s personal slaying of that Dragon was his most renowned achievement. Its priceless remains were put on display as a symbol of Hobart’s strength, until they were traded for the Legendary Class wind robes his Prime Minister had just recently soiled.

If this were a different time he might have quibed about taking Philp’s nice things if he’s not going to take care of them properly, but instead he said, “We must summon the council at once,” in a grave tone.

“An emergency council has already been convened your Majesty.”

“Is that so?” The king asked, searching through a disorderly pile of parchments.

The master of spymasters could likely predict his king’s thoughts regarding this matter, but he was first and foremost a servant. As such, he knew better than to assume the will of his master. “Your Grace, how should the council be directed?” he asked.

The Wild King found the parchment he was searching for. It's titled read, “Summary of the Military Might of the Noble Class of Hobart Kingdom.”

William, scanned the document and resolutely said, “All available men and materials will be sent to reinforce the border. Hobart's end strength will have to grow considerably. You will informed the court that there will be no concessions. They are to act accordingly.”

“By your will your Majesty.” Philip performed a well practice bow.

William Hobart seized up his closest confidant for a moment. Though his attentioned lingered on the splotch of tea, he still felt confident that a better man to shoulder these burdens did not exist and plainly stated, “dismissed.”

The main hall of the Hobart Kingdom Royal Court was arranged like a concert hall with seven rows of elevated benches forming a forty foot wide half circle. It had seating for five hundred, but with only Viscounts and above who were immediately available present, the hall looked nearly empty.

Philip could already hear the clamour of sixty or so disgruntled noblemen before he opened the door.

“Who does he think he is, summoning us on a moment's notice.”

“It's like he's beckoning a pack of dogs.”

“I for one will not stand idle while Prime Minister Howling Mad insists on abusing his authority.” That voice came from the Duchess of Wellington, Ann Millin. She was a woman for whom Philip was familiar, and often at odds with.

Across from the sparsely populated benches, next to the podium the king would sit at, the Earl of Hobart, Prime Minister Philip Howlanger, entered the fray. “Order,” he called.

All eighty or so pairs of eyes were on Philip, and for a moment the hall was silent. That was only for a moment though. Once the sixty or so disgruntled noblemen realized that the object of their displeasure was present, the hall became chaotic again.

“What's the meaning of the Howlanger?”

“Do you have any idea what the term reasonable notice means?”

“The king will hear about this Howlanger!”

Philip was expecting this but still found it fatiguing. He pinched the bridge of his nose to hold down his frustration and bellowed, “Order! The council is in session and there will be order!”

The rabble subsided, again only for a moment. Dutchess Millin, the one to break the silence, did not like Philip. Though she was pleased his summon excused her from her nephew's fundraising party, she wouldn't let slip an opportunity to give Philip a hard time. “Fine then Mister Minister. What’s this whisper you’ve summoned us over?” she asked accusingly.

“It is a matter of the utmost concern, my lords and ladies, and requires our immediate action,” Philip said, and shifted his attention to the Dutchess, “I would not have summoned you had it been otherwise.” Before he could continue, a loud voice interjected.

General Moore was a short, bald man, wide as a barrel, with a handlebar mustache and a bad temper. He'd been interrupted from his liquor and lovers to attend this council and furiously demanded, “Answers, answers Howlanger! Your little stunt has caused some of us significant inconvenience. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I’ll ensure your no longer Prime Minister, Mister Minister, so stop wasting our time with frivolous words and get to the point already!"

Philip decided to disregard the general’s inappropriate outburst. He didn’t need to smell his breath to tell he’d been drinking heavily. “The Kismond Third Army marches to our borders," he finally said.

Again, the hall became silent for a moment. This time seemingly all eighty or so noblemen erupted at once.

“Nonsense.”

“Why would Kismond march on our borders?”

“We can’t fight the Third Army!”

“Order! Order!”

The rabble didn’t fully subside until Dutchess Millin spoke over the commotion. “And you sure of this because, why? You heard it in the wind?”

A nod was the spy master’s only reply.

“Even if it’s true, we don’t have the strength to win a head on engagement with the Third Army, and we don’t have the reserves to win a prolonged war against Kismond. What would you have us do Mister Minister?” Marquise Loyd asked as though the whole matter was someone else’s problem entirely.

Philip thought his carefree attitude was insufferable. “It is not what I would have you do Marquise. It is what the crown will have you do,” the Prime Minister waited until he had the audience's attention before continuing, “We will bolster the border defenses with every available resource and prepare for an indefinite blockade.”

Once again, the hall fell silent. This time for longer as the ruling class of Hobart Kingdom let the gravity of those words sink in.

“So what if the Third Army marches to our border? Good King Henry won't give the order to invade,” the intoxicated general said, emboldened by liquid courage. Several of the noblemen voiced their agreements.

“Then what do you recommend General Moore?” Philip asked, his tone displaying his annoyance with the general’s line of reasoning.

“I say we do nothing. Call them on their bluff.” The drunk was loud and confident, like he had solved everything with a single sentence.

Dutchess Millin, more perturbed than Philip by his remarks, said “Moore you dithering drunken idiot! If that damn Wicked Ninth Prince decides to take Wellington, Moorehaven would be a mere fortnight's march away. Would you then defeat the Wicked Ninth Prince and the Third Army solely with your mustache?”

The general responded with a scornful expression on a beet read face. “Will Hobart even survive another build up? A tax hike and conscription will make us vulnerable to subversion. Wellington, being on the border, will be the most vulnerable. Would you then be lynched by your own peasants, oh wise Dutchess Millin?”

“Are you a fool and a coward?” She was somewhat reserved when addressing the Prime Minister, but held no such reservations when it came to the general. “You’re more gnome than man, short, fat, and fearful,” she spat with disgust.

“Order!” was again called, and again the hall was orderly for a moment.

“If we have another border closure, rebellion won't be far behind.” Marquis Lloyd's off handed comment caused the rabble to erupt once again.

"We should appeal to Good King Henry."

“Paying ransom would be the most efficient thing to do.”

“There will be no concessions,” Philip bellowed.

“Are we witnessing the return of the Savage King?” an especially panicked Viscount asked.

Philip whispered a brief chant with a stern expression, and shouted “Order!” obscenely loud, loud enough to blow out a common man’s ear drums, “And you will hold your tongue Viscount Applewood!” Tolerating the general's drunken remarks was one thing, but he would not allow Hobart’s own nobility to speak ill of his king. “By the word of the king there will be no concessions. This session is for the purpose of fortifying the border and preparing for an indefinite blockade. Anyone here unwilling to submit to those two objectives may forfeit their titles and wander the frontier. Now!”

Finally, with the threat of exile looming over the session and the deafening voice of the Earl lingering in their ears, the council moved on to more productive topics, which was appropriate as they had plenty to discuss. So much so that the sun would rise before they disbanded.