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The crumbling, molten remains of Winburgh circa 1966. In the Imperial year 1966 the Grand Covenant intended to make good on The Winburgh Proclamation; to tear down the city after years of brutal conflict, and in its place erect a monument to wars past and present for peace, and for commemoration. But nobody said exactly how it needed to be demolished. It was by invitation that Hohkmat heard that there was to be a razing, and as sure as the sun will rise - you can always count on pyromancers to be present where there is fire to be set. A handful of magi, carefully selected by the Chamber of Fire, were to set out from Hohkmat's gates, and ride to Winburgh. Upon arrival, they would soon find more casters to add to their number. The magi prepared to weave their grand spell as the Covenant set about looting and setting fires of their own... There was but one request, from King Aleksandr II himself - "The Church in the centre must niet be touched." - A fitting end for a city that razed churches; to be itself razed, save for its church. An entire bag's worth of focusing crystals had been ground into a fine dust in the name of this objective, then carefully sown about to create the expansive circle that would act as a conduit for the flow of mana. Atticus, not alone - but with the help of many - was to make manifest a new feat of High Magic... "Magi of Hohkmat, heed me!" Called the acting commander of the Hohkmati rally. "Today we bring ruin upon this pitiful, blighted city. From nothing it was raised, and to nothing it shall damn well return." "Atticus! Save for the church... Burn it all to the ground." A self-satisfied grin twisted onto her face. Sarah had been here before, as had many of her fellow Hohkmati, when they were forcefully taken from the streets and their homes; rounded up like animals by a horde of Veletzians, Urukhai, and Ferrymen. That memory, along with the city, was soon to be cleansed by purifying fire. Vengeance comes hot, but it burns slow. She had waited a long, long time for this. Masters, adepts, journeymen and spellblades alike knelt to place their hands against the ritual circle, seeking to grant unto Atticus the power to turn even the very stone itself to ash. Power beyond what any mortal could truly hold alone surged into him from the collective effort of all in attendance, elevating his capacity into the perceivably divine; for how else could you describe the power to level cities? It swelled into existence as a great torrent of flame. Embers floated on the wind, the skies themselves cracked and the air was tainted with the unmistakable sting of ash. Lungs surely burned with each laboured breath of the rapidly exhausting sorcerers. Blazing colour burned into the air until at last the spell reached its peak, giving birth to an indescribable cascade of blue fire that reached into impossible sixth tier - perhaps the seventh tier - of magic. On this day, those in attendance bore witness to Reinhold's Burning Pyre.
