His dark work

Nailed as he was to the wall, he could do nothing as his captor approached. They spoke in a foul tongue he could not and refused to understand. It was an evil language, not meant for man to speak.

It raised the knife, and he thought for a moment that would he it. A short, bloody ritual. Part of him refused to accept the truth. That he hoped that would be the end. Such an anticlimactic end wasn't in the books for him though.

The blade slices through the front of his uniform, earning a grunt as it scores a line of fire down his chest at the same time. Blood immediately springs to the wound, and the vile thing performing the ritual spreads the ruins of his uniform wide with twisted, gnarled hands. As the blood beads along the wound and begins to run down, the robed thing presses close and defiles his flesh further by pressing it's tongue against his chest and dragging it along the length of the cut.

He spit on it, and let loose with a few last growled curses. Scathing as they may have been, the thing before him seemed to not care, drawing it's head back leisurely. Though it's tongue remains pressed against him for far longer than it should. He somehow catches enough of a glimpse to see stitches on it's surface before finally the hooded creature separates from him fully with a flick of it's tongue.

Only for it to be replaced by the knife again. His eye shoot wide open and it's a struggle to not scream out in pain, one that gets harder and harder the more the knife transverses his flesh. Even just the tip of the blade was a kind of agony he had never known, far worse than being shot even.

Fresh sweat beads on his brow, and he seizes with his jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. He sits upon the tipping point, his system almost overwhelmed enough to simply crash, when suddenly the thing slams a massive syringe between his ribs, spiking his heart with some dark, sludgelike liquid.

The feeling of the ichor flooding his veins was finally enough to rip a scream from his lips. A brand new revalation of the depths of pain thrust upon his mind. He writhes against the barbed nails pinning him to the wall and loses cognitive control of his body, trapped in the agony his body was screaming at him. Unable to fully see the seal carved into his chest, or to know what had been in the syringe.

He was supposed to be protected from this. His faith had promised to safeguard him in return for his devotion. Why had he, a loyal servant, been forsaken like this? His thoughts run over and over themselves, a frantic and ineffective defense from the soul searing pain. He vomits out of some deep defense reaction buried within the human psyche.

Red and black and full of chunks he didn't eat earlier. He stares humbly at the cascade of fluids dripping from his mouth before a new wave of pain rocks his body.

Tears run freely from his eyes as his jaw flexes, operating under some power that isn't his. Flexing harder and harder in opposite directions until he feels it. A jagged line of pain that slowly becomes sharper and sharper.

The noise that escapes him is not a normal scream. It's a mind-blanking, throat burning exhultation of pain as his lower jaw raggedy snaps in the middle. The flesh of his jaw and throat rip along with it, turning the scream into a blood choked gurgle.

The rest of the transformation is faster, bones snapping and protruding from the skin, which hardens around then to trap the jagged things as some kind of weapons. Each drives his thinking mind further and further into the darkest recesses of his headspace.

What is left is a twisted creature, feral and deadly as anything, kept safe only by the thorns on each limb holding it fast. Upon it's chest is the eight pointed star of the undivided gods. The sorcerer removes his hood to look upon his terrible work. After licking his blade clean, he looks over his shoulder to the cultists assisting him.

"Next."