Meglamania (Annalisa Marin)

[Thomas Cosa]

3rd of Summer, 512

"KING. KING. KING," the faceless crowd chanted, screaming before him.

"Me," Thomas whispered, smiling. He sat upon a gilded throne, sprawled comfortably on thousands of plush cushions, all decorated with scenes of his bravery, and power; sewn with words of wisdom, all his own. Each one was a masterpiece in it's own right, each one more beautiful and intricate than the next.

Expensive and delicate silks adorned his body, sleeves decorated with silver and gold. Smooth, and soft, the robes only emulated his own beauty; tall and strong, as he would have been, had he had chosen the knighthood.

Thomas smirked at the thought, his head weighted with the assurance of his own decision.

His crown.

Glowing in it's own simple perfection, a simple ringlet of white gold rested on his head, contrasting his black hair magnificently.

"KING. KING. KING," they continued chanting, crying for his attentions. They loved him, they adored him, they wanted him.

They needed him. They were born for him, they lived for him, and they would die for him.

"Mine," he returned there call, cold eyes staring greedily at hundreds of thousands before him.

"All mine."

[Annalisa Marin]

Anna remembered her mother once telling her that dreams were the window into the soul, that they offered insight into the desires of the heart that mere words could not convey. Of course this was the same woman who had told her that rubbing her feet with water in winter makes one catch cold in the head, so taking her words with a grain of salt was always wise. She also rarely remembered her dreams or experienced vivid dreaming, as such this scene was extremely unusual. The chanting and shouting of deranged praise from the crowd around her was rather odd, what was even more strange was the word they were chanting. "King. King. King." It was a fevered kind of chant, one that bespoke of a demented and single minded loyalty that was extremely grating upon Anna's nerves. Her face fell into its comfortable scowling position as she roughly shoved a fool that dared to jostle her. He simply continued his chant without missing a beat. This was overwhelming and it was certainly not natural by any stretch of the imagination. The young professor struggled to see what they were all looking at but even her impressive height was of no use here. She was definitely not in Zeltiva at the moment, in fact she had no idea where or when this was. Was she dreaming? If that were the case why did they not chant for her? Why were they not kneeling and groveling at her feet and begging for her tender mercy? Who the petch were these fools praising if not her? Anna roughly shoved her way through the crowd, trampling anyone stupid enough to stand in her way. The angered woman wanted answers and she wanted them in a timely fashion, if she did not get them soon the fire would start flying. As she cut her way through the crowd she caught a glimpse of the target of the crowd's affections, a man dressed in the finest of clothes sat upon and elaborate and beautiful throne. No doubt he was this so called "King". Anna herself had noticed the heavily embroidered robes adorning her body, with archaic runes in the Ancient Tongue etched in fine gold. Her ponytail was held back by a golden band encrusted with the finest of jewels, and sandals made of supple and soft leather adorned her feet. She looked every inch the imposing wizard, ready to rule the world in with an iron fist. It appeared however that someone was sitting in her throne. That simply would not do. The professor pushed aside the last fool in her path to this so called King and stood in front of them tall and powerful, looking every bit the powerful and self assured sorceress she deserved to be. Her grey eyes looked upon the man on the throne imperiously. "Who the petch are you, where the petch are we, and what the petch are you doing sitting on my thone?" Anna demanded, her voice loud and haughty. "Be aware that you address Annalisa Marin, Master Wizard and Favored Daughter of Rhysol, incur my ire at your own risk." She declare, drawing her sweeping robe up around her regally.

[Thomas Cosa]

"Your throne?" Thomas scoffed at the intruder, lazily waving a hand at the pure insanity of the idea. "No, this is MY throne. See?," smiling, he pointed at himself, "I'm sitting on it, ergo, it's mine. Mine, mine, mine," He sang, pushing himself upright on the throne.

"But, I'd assume a...master wizard would be intelligent enough to understand that, no?" He paused, eyes following the golden threads spelled out in the ancient tongue, decorating thick robes of the finest cloth. Her hair was pulled back tightly, secured by a golden band, shining gemstones embedded in the ornate jewelry. He smirked, "Master wizard or not, at least she made an effort at looking the part," he thought snidely.

"And as for who, I am," he motioned toward his crown, and then to the thone, "I would have assumed that obvious, Annalisa. I am the king, but as a gesture of charity," he wet his lips, smiling wider, "I will give you my formal introduction," he paused, clearing his throat.

"You stand before the one and true king of Mizahar, Thomas Cosa. I am the standing Archmage of Sahova, blessed son of the Seer, and the greatest animator since Mashean himself," Thomas said pointedly, a shining scepter materializing in an open hand, "Gods and men both bow before me, and I highly suggest you do the same."

He hadn't noticed the growing silence of the crowd around the two, only eyes for the woman before him.

She would bow, or she would die.

[Annalisa Marin]

Anna's glare only intensified as the man continued to speak, this man possessed some gall to address her in such a way. Rhysol had chosen her to be his messenger to the world, and instrument of his power beyond mere mortals. A king was still only mortal, blessed by the Seer or not and a king could still die before the power of an immortal. Whatever this whole thing was it was becoming reality to her, every action and word she spoke made perfect sense in the context of this dream. Likely she was so wrapped up in this that she had no real idea this was not reality. The young wizard drew herself up, a sneer of pure contempt on her face. How dare this fool talk down to her in such a way? "Sahova? You mean that spit of land beyond the shores of the mainland? A place barely worth an inch of Zeltivan soil? You will excuse me for my lack of intimidation, Thomas." She spat, using his name rather than his title in deliberate insult. Anna strode forward boldly, ignoring the silence slowly gathering around the two of them. She stopped her advance halfway to the throne, a dark and deadly glare upon her face as she looked only to the so called king before her. The young wizard would never bow to a lesser, the only one she ever bowed to was Rhysol, lord of Evil and Chaos. No mere mortal could possess her loyalty, not now or ever. "I will take into consideration that you are either delusional or a fool. I am an immortal, blessed by the power of Rhysol and one true lord of all magic. You are but a man, an insect before my eyes and power." She countered. Anna drew up the hem of her robes slightly and put forth one sandaled foot, smirking slightly as she looked at him cruelly. "If you fall to your knees and place your lips to my foot I might consider sparing your miserable life." She challenged. Anna was the true power of Mizahar by the grace of Rhysol, his chosen bringer of Chaon, betrayal, and despair. This so called king was nothing compared to her power or the power of Rhysol, just a despot with delusions of grandeur soon to be crushed under her heel. He would either accept her generous offer of mercy, or she would slay him and all with in this throne room. Either way they would fear Rhysol and his Harbinger and bow before her.

[Thomas Cosa]

Thomas laughed, "You would compare Zeltiva to Sahova? Some wizardyou are, then," he scoffed, "Any wizard worth their Djed knows the Citadel as the epicenter of post-Valterrian magics, perhaps even more so since I took the reigns," he smiled to himself, "And what does Zeltiva have? Kelp beer?" he laughed again, pushing himself off the chair, now standing.

Thomas snorted, "And I wouldn't brag about being so loved by Rhysol, if I were you. You of course know what he is know for?" he smirked, kicking pillows left and right as he made his down the stairs, "Rhysol the deceiver? The betrayer?," he paused, pouting his lips in false pity, "You pathetic fool. Nothing 'blessed' can come from him, surely you understand?," he shrugged, walking down to meet Annalisa, smiling, "Perhaps though, you will some peace in the next life," he whispered, so close the other wizard would feel his breath.

"Pretender."

Thomas turned towards the crowd, only know realizing they had grown silent -- aside from one small voice.

"Pretender."

Small and frail, the voice still managed to carry across the seemingly infinite, whispering doubts pulling at Thomas' ears.

"Pretender."

"Prete --,"

"WHO DARES CALL ME FOR FALSE?" Thomas screamed, face red in rage. He glared at Annalisa -- she was doing this, somehow. Everything had been so perfect. So controlled.

She needed to die.

"Kill her," he growled, finger pointed at wizard.

Nothing. No one move.

Again, the voice echoed, "Pretender."

"STOP IT. STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT," He screamed, hands clinging to his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the voice, desperately wishing it away. "DIE!" he commanded, hoping the crowd would respond.

And respond they did.

"DIE. DIE. DIE," They chanted viscously, independently. They stirred restlessly for a moment, pushing forward against each other, rushing with hands outstretched towards the two wizards. A wave of faceless bodies poured Thomas, blocking his view. Chocking him, suffocating him.

Thomas struggled against them, pushing back with whatever he could muster. They tore at his skin, his clothes, pulling and pulling. Everything was being taken, was being stolen.

And then there was nothing.

He stared out at the emptiness, shivering in the torn rags of his silk robes.

"Hello? Where am I?"