A century ago, two great scourges walked the land, the names of which we do not mention. One was a terrible warrior, clad in ancient elven armour of purest galvorn, and armed with a great sword of which the less is said, the better. None was safe from his wrath, and out of cocky self-confidence and spite, he made a point out of spending tie with the paladins of the light, as if the challenge them to even try and strike him down.
Even worse though was the Plaguefather, the Twice-bled, Bane of the East, the Right Hand of Death. He led a great crusade of death into these lands, and only by a combine, heroic effort was the end of it all averted. Later on he returned as the architect of the great plague that tore these lands. Empowered by the staff he had made and sanctified by the blood of hundreds, he was nigh unstoppable. He killed with a word, spread contagion with a look, and any who tried to strike him down found that their blows merely rent their own bodies apart, not his.
When they joined forces, it seemed as if all would be lost. But fickle is the nature of the dark ones, and deep within the forest south of here, the warrior betrayed the necromancer, and managed to strike him down. Yet so potent was his foe, that in his last moment he managed to unleash a torrent of twisting, warping, unclean forces, which consumed them both utterly, and devastated the forest for miles around.
However, their weapons remained, torn and twisted, but still potent beyond mortal comprehension. They are now fused into a scythe, resting deep within lands no sane man would ever visit. Should it ever be recovered for good or bad, the face of the world is sure to change.