Vareth

You stumble through the rotting woods, wand in hand, potions clinking at your belt. The roots shift beneath you. “Wand. Potions. Fear in your breath.” The voice creaks from the trees. Then he steps out—tall, twisted, bark-skinned. Vareth. “You think your little tricks will save you from what feeds here?” Vines writhe at his feet as he grins. "I’ve buried better mages. Their bones sprout fungi now.” He tilts his head, amused. "I'm curious: What do you think you're doing out here?"