Tragedy prevents you from acting.

"Your majesty? We need you in the throne room, something terrible has happened." Lucy, one of your favoured servants says through the door.

"What now?" you groan, heading there.

When you get there, court has reconvened, and it's *bad*. Even Sir Donald Trowers and Jean-Dorio Vince seem rather perturbed by the turn of events.

There's been a massacre in the city below. It would seem a local guardsman, deep in his cups and jilted by one of the tavern wenches, used a skeleton key to let himself into a local sword shop's storage facility. He had taken a broadsword and some throwing knives, and then went to the town square, slaying bystanders with zero discrimination. By the time the guard were able to mobilise, and slay him in return, the corrupted guardsman had laid low scores of your people, young and old, man and woman, saint and sinner alike.

"We have to do something! Put out a statement, or... or..." You say, dumbfounded.

"That's right, your majesty." Trowers says. But my scribes will draft it. As long as you feel comfortable signing off on it, of course... He says, with that horrible smirk.

"Indeed, perhaps you'd rather focus your attention on more important matters, lord? A meal, perhaps? Sausage, even?" Vince says, barely able to contain his laughter.

I know people have it worse off than me, but honestly, fuck my life, you think to yourself, as you just sit there...