Imagine a rugged plane of broken red clay, black shattered mountains, and a charred gray sky with a dull burning light always on the horizon. Occasionally a strike of living flame falls down upon the rocks and earth, leaving clouds of noxious steam and biting granite shards behind. Slithering and jumping things frolic with a sinister glee in these brief moments only to be gone from sight as the dust settles. Other shapes dart across this barren space, too quick to be seen as more than a blur that promises indescribable terror should it pause long enough to be clear.

This is a small part of what some people call Hell, and the Family has ruled it since a time before that of any human living or dead. As far as the eye can see, and beyond, has been their purvey for an eternity. Never have they felt the grip of a true threat on their power, and as far as they might be concerned none ever would.

Those that had the power to stop them were either dead or quite happy with their work, and either answer merely fueled the dark certainty in their hearts.

All that changed in a time so brief it was almost beneath their notice. One human soul came to their lands with a burning anger so strong that he was able to best the Angel of Death, killing the celestial with his own sword. He defied the tormenting demons that worked in the Family�s name and raised the tortured spirits of warriors past and present from their Pit to fight under his cause.

The Family, for the first time, fights to hold their power�and an army of souls marches with slow determination towards their home on the Ancient Planes.

Now imagine that this small corner of the plane holds only small rocks and a small but sturdy shed. A demon sits in restless anxiety outside the door as he has done for ten years now, freed from the need for rest or sustenance it guards the only door safe in the knowledge that it is protected from the abilities of it�s prisoner.

Inside sits Edward Bent.

He�s been sitting in this cell for ten years, free from the need to eat but not hunger. Isolated and yet occasionally tormented by small gremlins, all that remains of the little creatures are their pitchforks; a little joke, he�s sure, between some of the more simple minded tormenters. Most of the small metal prongs are twisted from Edward�s attempts to pick the lock to his prison, which have had no success. Feeling exactly like he has been locked in one room for ten years he looks the same as the day he was brought in, an attempt to remind him of just how long this eternity would be.

What better hell for the single man that has known the worlds hidden to others than being confined for the length of all time in ten square feet of stone?

Then came the rumbling.

Edward didn�t stir, merely letting the feeling shake through his legs, as it grew stronger and curiously concentrating on trying to hear. The demonic keeper at the door looked up curiously, blinked two pairs as it caught the cause of the sound and let out a horrible cry that Edward would never forget; like the sound an animal with two legs crushed under a cement block and six throats to scream it�s pain would make.

There was a crash that knocked him from the door and against the far wall of his cell, and his cheek scraped roughly on the floor as the sound tore through his ears and the ground thundered.

The front of his prison was gone when he looked up, and the guard was a mere stain. His eyes sought out the cause for this through the wreckage and he saw something the size of a small mountain moving against the horizon with tremendous speed. Unlucky enough to catch a glimpse of the creature limbs and back he closed his eyes and lurched against a remaining bit of wall, fighting his stomach�s sudden need to squeeze at the meal that hadn�t been in his stomach since his first moment in this place.

His breathing ragged, he managed to calm himself after a reasonable amount of time, dusting himself off and surveying the wreckage. Allowing himself a grim smirk, he leaned over and pocketed a handful of the small pitchforks that had been scattered across the clay outside where the door might have been, and set his shoulders.

Edward Bent was going to go home, and all he had to do to get there was make his way through Hell in the middle of a war.