There was this field where I used to live. In the summer it was wonderful. There were hawks, and bugs and muskrats. All that remained of a very old building was a crumbling foundation, and at night the fireflies would come out. When winter came all of that vanished. The grass became short and grey and the lush bushes were reduced to sticks. It seemed to me that if ever there was a place for an extra planar visitor, this would be it. And so we have a wasteland angel.