Long ago, an elven death mage by the name of Vanareth summoned monsters by the thousands, erecting sealed barriers around the part of the forests he called home to ensure that his work wouldn't be disturbed by outside forces, and that his demons wouldn't be discovered by the people of Syndar. The demons, however, drew more power from him than intended, and when he locked himself in a nearby cavern system for his own protection, the barriers around the grove began to weaken, and while the demons weakened in power and number, eventually the barriers keeping Syndar safe collapsed.
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It was dark, and cold, and rain poured down in freezing sheets that stung his skin through the many layers of thick woolen robes and heavy cloaks he wore, but Vanareth didn't care; he ignored the rain, the wind, even the loud cracks of thunder, all because there were better, more important, things to focus on than some uncooperative weather. He stood waist deep in a pool of water so cold it burned his skin, feet bare on an outcropping of rock slick with ice and frozen blood, and he waited, taking several deep, even breaths to calm himself, despite the creatures he'd made watching from the shadows under the trees. He had made them, yes, but they no longer listened, hadn't for many years now, and he was sure that whatever kept them from simply killing him while he slept would fade like the rest of his wards were over time. The spectres, at least, were still his for the moment, made from the corruption he'd allowed to fester and bound with his own blood, though somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew those, too, would betray him in the end.
Despite the cold in the grove, and the fact that Vanareth himself was nearly frozen, the athame was warm to the touch, and when he touched it to his skin to trace one of the many scars already lining his palm, he barely needed to press for it to tear both scar tissue and unscarred flesh wide open, magic (hot and angry in a bitter contrast to the cold of the grove) crackling painfully along his skin and tearing more wounds open in its wake, causing blood to pour into the water at an alarming rate. He clamped his arm close to his chest in an effort to stem the flow using his robes and cloaks, skin searing where the wounds managed to touch as he scampered back from the water. It was as if someone had extinguished a torch. No sooner had his feet, long since numb from the freezing air and even colder water, touched the dry ground of the caverns beyond the pool did the magic burning his skin fade away completely, the flow of blood slowing and finally stopping, and his hands returned to their numb state rather than burning and crackling.. Fire sprang to life in the cavern opening with little more than a thought, filling the area with a warmed that might have been comforting under any other conditions, but with the pool gurgling and churning just outside the door, the corruption he'd cultivated using it to make more of the spectres, and the demons still lurking in the dark just beyond it, Vanareth felt anything but cozy and warm.
He knew, somewhere deep down, that he would need to leave soon, because his wards wouldn't last forever, and the second they weakened enough for the demons to get through them, he wouldn't be able to run anymore. But he wouldn't be able to run fast enough, or far enough, to be truly away from them; they would always look for him, and in the end, they would find him, and then the people of Syndar would suffer for his cowardice. They would suffer anyways, he was sure, because the last of the barriers keeping them in the grove would fail when his wards did, and once they finished with him, he was sure they would wander out. He would need to be stronger to keep them safe, either enough to kill the demons and disperse the corruption, or enough to maintain his barriers indefinitely. The former option would have been the preferable one, but indefinite containment was better than nothing.
Something snarled from the other side of the fire, but he ignored it; they couldn't cross into the caverns unless the wards failed, and if that should happen, a surprise death would be preferable to one he saw coming. He should have planned this out better, let someone else put up the wards, anything that wouldn't have lead to where he was now, cowering in a cave and waiting for his magic to fail him because the things he'd brought forth wanted to kill him.