Trapped

Blighted land.

Oh, how he hated blighted land…

Blighted land, cruel and desolated where farms and villages and lush forests once grew.
So many places of the world he had seen, some thriving, others fallen to ruin and destruction, invaded by vegetation or burnt down to ashes.

But not even the barren fields of Desolace, where he had journeyed once, long before, could make him feel that utter helplessness. In his restless dreams he always turned there, to Stratholme, hands covered in blood, as he staggered around, drained of spiritual energy, applying crude bandages to people with gruesome wounds.

Oozing cuts, blistered burns, members chopped off, bodies defiled in ways no sane being could imagine.

All light, all hope, forever lost.

At nights, he laid in his tent, eyes wide open, staring in the dark. Listening to the rustle of voices around him that only he could hear.

Listening to the demonic chaos that lay beyond the thin weaving of the real world. Learning to understand their calls and summons.

His will extending like a tendril, to engulf and pull into existence a tiny fragment of nether.

Every night, weeks in a row, until he was able to finally do it and the demon sprang into being in front of him, his small, child-like distorted hands blazing with fire.
Every night he grew in strength as demon master, while his own spirit became less and less free.

...and with each night he fell deeper into the abyss.