Brumbletide and the Rise of the Firebreather

"Michelle! Michelle! Long live Michelle!"



The cheers and chants for me are alone music to my ears. There is no need for instruments, but a king must have them to accompany his saunter. My throne, my glorious throne, shines in splendor now. With every step it glows brighter, welcoming its king. Its gold glitters. Its purple velvet like an amethyst sparkling in the sun. The light from the throne fills the room, the cheers roar louder than ever. Giddy-I am simply giddy! My lips part into a grin-I cannot help it. My foot touches the red velvet dais. My throne. My throne. It is mine. It is mine. And these are my subjects. Mine. They will serve me well. I step up. I turn to face my people.



The voice. The queer voice.



The obnoxious, searing scream has returned louder and more obnoxious than before. My subjects-they are all a blur. All I hear is the queer gong of the shrill antagonizing voice. What is it? Where is it coming from? What does it say? All is starting to dim. All is going black. Yet the voice carries on. And before everything is no longer, I hear it speak hideously clear.



"It is I, Michelle. I am you."