It was sunset.

On the hill, the artist stood on an outcropping rock and surveyed the potential battle. The enemy was depleted after engaging one of her enemies. The latter was competition, the former were critics. The critics usually employed solo, hit and run tactics, but they had foolishly stood united against a common foe. This presented a stronger front, but it also made for an easier target. Her lip twisted, sneering derisively. Anyone with such low self-esteem as to be constantly judging others clearly needed to be wiped off the face of the 'Net. How dare they. How dare they.

The rationalizations rose up like glimmering shields to protect her ego, which was in a large box on a wagon nearby. It has once been small enough for her to hold it in her hands, and then for several of her lieutenants, now it was carted everywhere, in a triple-guarded cart. One of said lieutenants turned to the others.

"Is she crazy?" she asked in a low voice. "I mean, the people down there may be a little harsh, but they make valid poi-"

She broke off. A dagger had appeared in the middle of her chest, and she clawed at it, blood foaming from her lips. She fell to the ground, and a shudder ran through her body as she vanished.

She had fallen out of favour.

"I really wish I hadn't needed to do that," said the artist. But for the scuff marks on the rock, one wouldn't know she had moved. "But I had to. She was an infiltrator, a spy send to turn you all against me." She spared them a glance, with a peculiar half-smile on her lips. "Don't you see?" When no reply was forthcoming, she turned back to the plain.

Her weapon was drawn and pointed aloft, and several dozen pairs of eyes-those of her troops-were drawn to it like a beacon. She pointed the pencil at the scattered opponents, bracing her flag with the other hand, and the hordes of drooling fangirls shuffled-then ran-past the shuddering lieutenants. They knew they were safe, really, but it was creepy, all the same. After all, a traitor once had the creatures turned on her, and no one had seen hide nor hair since.

The horde rushed down to the plain, making the earth shake. The while the lieutenants staggered, the artist kept her footing perfectly. She had to be in control. She had to-for them.

"Make me proud, girls," she whispered.

A sound like the explusion of gas was heard, her cape billowed slightly, and a few, faint multicolored bands of light appeared near the seat of her breeches.

The two at the front of the scattered group in the valley paused, and looked at each other. The taller of the two, a tall, slim, brown-skinned young man, clad in blue, grey, and black robes, pushed his glasses up his nose, planted his staff, and peered at the cloud of dust, judging it's movement. "What, no pincher movement? No swinging around to the South? No trap? No subtlety?" His hands danced in the complex movements of the logic summon.

"What," said his counterpart. "You expected any?" She was pale-skinned, short black hair framing near-manic blue eyes. She wore black, green, and white armour, and wore two swords at her waist.

"Not really, gived her work, it's just..." he sighed, and finished the magic. Blue fire rained down from the heavens. Swathes were cut in the fangirl lines, but they kept coming. Now their battle cry of "KAWAII" could be heard, and the thunder felt. "I just want to fight an opponent with some concept of strategy, y'know?"

"If they had any, we wouldn't be fighting them," the girl pointed out. "Do you want to do the speech, or should I?"

The young man swung around. "Fangirls!" he declared. "We've all fought them before! Some of us used to number among! They are weak and cannot really hurt you if you keep moving. Do not, I repeat, do not, stop to engage! Remember, we are not after them. We are after that wagon! The enemy's gate," he concluded, as the first of the fangirls leaped toward him, its claws outstretched, "is her ego!" And with that, he pulled a small knife from his belt, and spun, taking the fangirl clear through. Then he flung her off the pencil and into several of her compatriots. Tucking the knife back into its sheath, and taking up his smooth, white staff, he began fighting his way straight up the center, using his weapon's head as both a scooping and piercing tool. The girl was half a step behind. She glanced back over her shoulder for an instant, her smile matching her eyes-

"Let's roll."

And battle was joined.

This was originally about one artist in particular, but turned into a commentary on artists in general, those who wield their fandom like a blunt instrument.

The wizard is of course me, the warrior you may recognize, and yes, oh yes, the artist is in SparklyPoo.
Largely the Line Tool, PS7, 5+ hours with Infoweb slacking.