(Write what you want to continue the story. No character is protected. No restrictions beyond driving the story forward.)
King Feren paced in his throne room. Today was the day of the decision. The wolf pelt he wore as a cape fluttered heavily behind him. He turned on his heel. His strong well worn hand scratched at his long brown beard.
Prime Advisor Cauldwell entered the room and stepped down to one knee before the king.
Grumbling something close to "about damned time," swoops past Cauldwell with an unintended flick of his cape, beams of sunlight glinting off of the gems encrusted into the twisted, blackened crown sitting on his head. Turning before the great stone chair, he sits, wolf skin cape twisted over his legs. "What took them so bloody long?" Feren asks, the Prime Adviser rising and taking his place, behind and to the left of the throne, hands clasped in the small of his back.
"I've no the slightest, Your Majesty. I received no word from the porter other than that they had arrived." Loosing one hand, he holds it out, palm up, tone unassuming; "King Feren, I understand you prefer to deal with a.....common, shall we say? touch, and it has served you well. But in this matter, might I suggest, very humbly, using a bit of tact?"
Four fully armed dwarves enter the throne room. Right behind them is a particularly strongly built dwarf with a large battle axe hefted on his shoulder. The last dwarf is dressed in purple cloth and chainmail underneath a set of shiny silver armor. His white beard flows down to just tickling the tiled floor. A crown sits atop his head.
The four dwarves flank the dwarf king as he approaches King Feren. His gravely voice sprung from the depths of his throat like a stone giant from a lightless cave.
"FEREN, YOUR PEOPLE SHALL PAY FOR THE SICKNESS YOU'VE BROUGHT TO MY LANDS!"
"You'll find no charity for the plague your people bought and paid for, Farengar!" Feren shouts back at him, massive hands clenching the spheres at either end of the throne's arms, rising slightly. "You were warned thrice the Boxes were unpredictable; you were warned before shown them, you were warned before you finalized the sale, and you were warned before you opened them!"
Cauldwell sighs inaudibly and rubs at the bridge of his nose, throwing the other hand into the air, palm raised. "So much for diplomacy," he breathes to himself.