Martin ran. Even when he was at his most relaxed and most confident he was still running: it's what he did. For a faithless priest, turned fae, turned Demiurge it seemed like the obvious course of action. It didn't help that he always felt like there was something out there… watching him. Still most of the time over the years, decades, and centuries he was able to put aside and focus on what he found valuable: the Demiurge of Deception had fingers in many pies over the years, but mostly ended up focusing on the efforts of the Collegium Profanum and the Wyllanbar in Britain. He found himself places where he was tolerated in each and he ran more slowly, though he still remained the same and most around him aged, died, and crumbled to dust before his eyes. When the Collegium ranged out to recover and restore Camelot, he carved himself out a little home-come-laboratory in the earth beneath the famous castle. Here he pushed himself and others to break the bonds of their mortality and weakness. Martin ran.

Martin ran. At all times, for the longest time, the water bottle which once belonged to the assassin James Tilley hung at his side: a memento of his fleeting humanity, and his struggle to break free from it. A struggle that he attempts to pass on to the rest of the world: to free humanity from the ire of the gods. At least that's what he always told people… as well as himself. Still, as the Alp-water, fed with the fae water from his bottle, flows downhill to and successive generations became more and more fae increasing numbers begin to disappear: stolen to feed Martin's expanding gluttony. Even as Martin ascended to Demiurge, and became bored with this scheme: his scheme was challenged by those who would rail against the fae for no other reason that being fae. Coming too close to the Gods once again, Martin was left with no choice. Martin ran.

Martin ran. The more he grew, the more effortless it felt: yet even as he was fleet enough to barely touch the ground, the path conspired against him. When he tried to turn right, the world seemed to speak back; what it said was undeniable: “Left!” The deceptive one fought against this, by pushing further and further from where the path was demanding of him, but the world always conspired against him. Eventually, he found himself at the end of the path - at the place where it lead: home. His home. With a sense of wonder and trepidation he opened the door, and stepped inside. In front of him, arrayed in a great semicircle, sat all the Gods and Saints. To his left, Osmund; to his right, Adela; and at the centre, in front of them all stood St. James the Greater. The door slammed shut behind the Demiurge: Martin couldn't run.

“Martin,” started Saint James “I believe it's time we had a talk.”