You sense the approach of a swagless soul.

As someone embodying the height of fashion, style, music and the colour pink you have a nose for this kind of thing. You're blasting your perfect bloody heart out there, putting the less perfect but they're presumably trying hearts of the underworld's demons on display, and it you can feel it landing everywhere but one little joyless bubble. A zone without taste, without drip, without style - holding itself solid against all the beauty stabbing into it.

"The creation of the Kingdom of Hungary was the result of incompetent administration of the Danubian frontier, allowing endless waves of steppe nomads to establish themselves in Imperial territory. Continuously distracted Imperial administrations were unable to re-establish the sense of civil society that underpinned the steady collection of taxes -"

A consistent muttering natter - academia substituting for personality. The soul of a priest who wouldn't accept anything less than the Papal throne. They're shutting their eyes and shutting their ears and cutting away at the foundations of your legend in books and scholarship rather than engaging with what is in front of them. This is ruder than just sleeping through one of your performances - this isn't a fellow performer at all. This is a [i]Manager[/i]. An evil Manager. And the most heart-rending performance of all time is only worth so much if nobody is in attendance because some stupid book thinks you're not worth talking about.

And urgh. The green glittery and glasses might have been a good nerdy librarian thing, but now there's a big flashy laurel wreath and plants and a demon spear and it's [i]atrocious[/i]. Absolute clownshoes production. She's pushing through your wall of sound, shielding herself with that cryptic muttering, blind and deaf to everything around her. You've known her for maybe a minute but she's already making a strong play for the title of 'Worst Empress'.