Unstoppable

The last light of the day is fading when a lone traveler steps out of a wall of trees and into a lonely meadow. He stops a moment and takes in the sights and scents of the land. It is large enough for his purposes, and suitably removed from the nearest inhabited settlement. He hadnt encountered a soul... not so much as a sketchy bandit hovel for miles and miles. There were towns in this part of the world once of course. He spots the ruins of an old horse cart, and what could have been the foundations of a shack of some sort off to the side. This must have been a farm a long time ago.

He kneels a moment and adjusts the straps on his worn boots, then stands to his full height, brushes the loose foliage out of his cloak and sets to work.

The first item of business was securing some light before the full darkness falls upon him. He lines the edges of the meadow with sticks and branches gathered from the thick forests around this place, and with a flick of the wrist, and a word that wasn't quite a word, he wills them to fire.

Next he'll need some wards. He removes the sword from from his belt, and kneels with it across a knee. It is not a fancy sword. Nothing flashy, ornate, or pleasing to the eye. It's obviously seen a lot of action, and doesn't receive the care that it probably should. He knew someone who was annoyed by that. He grinned at the thought of that annoyance. 

The one extraordinary quality of this particular blade is it's willingness to contain and channel spells. Most of your average. smith produced blades would simply melt or shatter with a charge of magic. This one was made for the task. 

He traces a pattern across the blade with his left index finger and it begins to glow a muted shade of green. Then he begins to walk the meadow, tracing large circles in the dirt with the tip of the sword. Each circle contained an array of warding sigils. 6 rows of three he traces them. From the north end of the strip of land to the south, and then at the southern tip of the circles he draws one final large circle... this will be where he makes his stand.

Inside the large circle he sets up a small pyre, lights it afire, and then empties his satchel. A makeshift branding iron formed into the shape of an ancient spell seal. The symbol translates roughly as "To Bind". He places the iron into the fire and soon it is glowing red orange.  The next item is a human skull. This particular skull was difficult to come by, but that's a story for another time. It belonged to an ancient sorcerer who called something terrible into existence while delving into fields of magic that are better left alone. A creature so horrible that it is all but stricken from the lore of these lands, or any other.

This is the very creature that he hopes to summon today.

Now he will need an anchor. He places the blade upon his knee and traces another pattern. This time the blade glows as blue as the clearest sky you could imagine. He sets it aside.

Coming to his final preparations he removes the last item from his satchel. It is a tightly sealed flask. He carefully removes the cork, and notes that the cold blue liquid inside has no odor. When he drinks the entire bottle, it tastes like all of the peppermint on the planet in one gulp. After some very unflattering coughing, he finally masters himself. His vision is blurry and he feels hyper aware. The mana potion will allow him to ignore his limits for a bit now.

He slips a small dagger from his belt, drags it across his left palm, and drips the blood down upon the skull of the sorcerer. While he does this he jokingly chastises himself... "Heretic! Blood Mage!" he smirks and then he tosses the blood soaked skull into the fire. 

"The bait is set..." he thinks. "No turning back now." 

He removes the white hot brand from the fire, takes a few deep breaths and then places it directly into the center of his left palm. He winces as the mark is made, and then places the brand back into the fire. 

He picks up the glowing sword with his right hand, kneels in the center of the circle and then plunges the blade as deep into the soil as he can manage. Then he holds on for dear life with the unburnt hand.

At first there isn't anything particularly alarming. He hears the rustling of leaves in the wind and the quiet crackling of his fire. After a few minutes there is an alarming absence of sound. Until that silence is broken by an unholy bellowing that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere.

He grips the hilt of the sword, his anchor, as tightly as he can and with his free hand he grabs the brand... 

At the northern edge of the field the color begins draining away from the world. The black of night becomes a sick gray/white mixture, and reality seems to fold into itself...

The bellowing again... Louder this time. It's coming through.

A swirling vortex opens and from it the creature emerges. It is the size of a house, and it looks like the decapitated head of some kind of cow... but twisted and horrible. It is Unnatural and impossible in every way, and in a drained world of white and gray, it's deep red eyes are the only color that can be distinguished. It screams, and so does he.

The creature lurches forward, struggling against the wards he placed. They are breaking one by one. He never expected to stop it. He just needed to slow it down. It's huge maw opens and the smell of death floods his senses. Everything seems to pull toward it, but for now his anchor holds.

Closer now... The last wards are breaking as it pushes forward. It is nearly at the edge of the circle... Just a little closer... 

The blade in the ground begins to tremble. It is holding, but he's not so sure about the earth it's holding on to. 

The creature's horrific snout comes to the edge of his last warding circle and he knows this is the only chance he has. He grasps the brand in his burned hand and lunges forward with it. The binding sigil burns into the creature's snout. He flings the iron aside, and raises his branded palm to the creature and begins the desperate spell.

As he recites the black twisted spell, the creature screams directly into his face, and he sees his own death. It screams again and he sees the doom of all living things. One final time and he witnesses the final doom of all existence. A vast barren wasteland under the red light of a dying star. It is filled into the horizon with broken and devoured things. All the accomplishments of man, and every other sentient creature, piled into the garbage heap of the universe and forgotten.

The scar on his palm is glowing the same sick red as the beast's eyes and they are both screaming... and then suddenly it is over. The creature is gone and color returns to the world.

He falls to his knees and passes out.

The light of morning awakens him, but he's not sure which morning. The hunger he feels tell him maybe it wasn't just one night. He wants a shower and a bed, but they are both many miles east, so there was nothing to do but walk.

He straps his sword back to his side and surveys this place one more time. He has most likely cursed this land, but it was for a good cause... Maybe.

He rubs the now blackened scar on his palm and then covers it with a glove.

"Well you're into some dark shit now, Adver... Better make it count."