Thomas Feyborn.
Descendant of Maryushka.
Head of the Collegium.
The man who became fae.
Demiurge.

May 1195, Village of Blackbird Mounds in the West Riding of Yorkshire

Thomas looks to the side, where Ishri is standing, quiet and grim. Neither of them is surprised that the Wyllanbar have turned down the offer of uniting with the Collegium Profanum. Both of them knew it would come to that, in all fairness. Ishri still insisted on giving them a fair chance, hoping that her being a demiurge would carry more weight. It didn't. The Wyllanbar would not forsake their immoral methods and clearly didn't see a problem with them.

Now the assembled members of the Collegium and Knights of St. George prepared for a final assault at the stronghold. Over four dozen of the finest fighters have gathered there to deal with the menace once and for all. As they approached Kalidium, all they saw was ruins covered in foliage. However, they trusted Thomas to lead them past the magics. True to his word, when the first knight crossed over the collapsed gate, the world shimmered around them, reforming into a well-kept courtyard surrounded by high walls.

As they entered the stronghold, they were bombarded with fireballs and lightning from all sides. A vicious fight ensued, with many casualties on both sides. The Wyllanbar clearly preferred to die than to surrender. They were skilled opponents, using terrifying spells that even the Collegium have not heard about previously. However, they were outnumbered. All of them have perished in the fight, unwilling to be taken prisoner.

The members of the Collegium have then freed any captive fae that the Wyllanbar have experimented on, however after a quick look at the unethical magic they were dabbling with, it was decided to burn the stronghold to the ground, so that no one would be able to repeat these atrocities.

The destruction of the stronghold was methodical and thorough. As the Knights and the Profanae left, many of them have turned back to see the same view they were greeted with. However this time there was no illusion magic, no spells at work. Kalidium was truly destroyed. The Wyllanbar were no more.

Two figures stand silently before the blackened remains of what was once London; they reflect upon the history of the once great city. The few survivors cannot agree amongst themselves as to when exactly the downspiral of the city that held the honour of being capital of England for less than a hundred years. Some claim it began with the rise of Gregor Rivers' thieves guild. Others when said guild was corrupted into a cult of Dii Casses. Or perhaps it was the corruption of the tower by the local God Cernunnos? Maybe the fate of the city was a delayed reaction to the death of its centuries-old protector, Sheriff Lawbringer, cast low through the power of the infamous druid Wymond Payne and subsequent death at the hands of Aelga the Ruinous? Perhaps the situation salvageable right up until Aelindis Kingslayer tricked the inhabitants to their death upon the Great Ark? A few claim the city was even tenable right up it burned, set aflame as a grand funeral pyre for Wilfrida's lost love?

The demiurge and the druid look to each other, and with a nod of agreement begin their task. The city must be cleared, the land renewed to make way for the future. Thomas calls up his magic to destroy the charred timbers and soot covered stones, whilst Rory calls upon Robor and the old pagan gods to renew the land. The river rises, washing away the dirt, taking away the refuse of Dii Casses, the bodies of all those who had remained. In time the land would sprout grass and later trees, returning to what once was.

Over the course of his immortal life, Thomas would return to the place each year, keeping the memory of what happened there alive. Each time he would help out a little with the rebuilding. From the bountiful earth would rise first a village, then a small town, growing later into a small city after a few hundred years, though nevermore to rival what it might have once become, nevermore to be the capital of the land.

Come one, come all, see the greatest show in all the lands!
A performance par excellence!
A performance without parallel!
Be it juggling fire, flying through the air in death defying feats, or the flashiest of magic!
You'll be amazed, you'll laugh, you'll cry!
Come and see The Firebird!
In the Greatest Show On Earth!

Thomas ignored the cries of the man hawking tickets, ducking around the back of the tent to find his however-many-times-great grandmother. Once a demiurge, she had given up her power to instead be with those she had come to love. Now she was merely a travelling performer - or as mere as one can get whilst still being Maryushka.

Since his own rise to the rank of Demiurge, Thomas had come to cherish the short times he could spare from his time as Master of the Collegium and spend in the simple pleasures of his friendship with his family, and tonight would be another night of tales remembered around the campfire, good spirits, and fine song. Tomorrow he would have to go back and see to the admissions process for another year, but he did not dwell on the thought for too long, as a small red bird flew out to meet him.