OvoidAxhead
When a regular axe just won't cut it.
This is actually a backstory for my current character, who is a Snow Elf (by the virtue of mods).
Ammeanas remembered only fragments of his childhood in Skyrim; His mother preparing healing mixtures for his ill grandparents; watching his artisan father carve a memorial; seeing his elder brothers training in the courtyard of their house with spears, swords and bows. And what bows! They were beautiful, laminated and engraved affairs which, for all their beauty, could drive an arrow deep into a mammoth's hide. That was before the war, of course... before the panicked retreat from the burning city, before the last stand on the island of Solstheim. Before the Moesring.
He remembered that much more clearly. Remembered the chaos of the battle, the fury of the Atmoran forces, and how they cut down his friends and family around him. The Snow Prince's personal guard of pikemen and Elite Vampires could do little in the face of the human assault, but they fought until the end. The Snow Prince himself was almost untouchable, plunging his spear deep into the bodies of the enemy, freezing whole waves of them at once with his ice magic. The battle looked like it would turn in their favour, but suddenly a sword came scything out from nowhere, slipping through his protective armor of ice and mammoth ivory and burying itself deep in his ribcage.
A little girl had felled the mighty warrior out of sorrow for her slain mother. The retreat turned into a rout, then a slaughter; those who made it out sought shelter among the Dwemer, invoking ancient alliances. Ammeanas followed at first, for what other choice did he have? The Dwemer promised to give them safe harbor and help them in their quest for vengeance. However, the weeks turned into months, and months to years. Eventually, the Dwemer announced a grand banquet for all of the survivors of the Moesring, and everyone was happy to attend.
The feast was magnificent; whole mammoths turning over firepits, rich and colourful subterranean vegetation, but as the toast commenced, Ammeanas noticed the smell of the Mzardak fungus. He recalled his mother telling him as a boy, "Never eat this if you want to keep your sight, for while it tastes pleasant, it creates an unshakable habit. Not only that, but the blindness it causes becomes hereditary. Remember that, dear boy, and remember it well."
Ammeanas pretended to drink the spiked toast, and decided to observe what would happen to his fellows. Sure enough, they demanded more the next morning, and every morning thereafter, until one day they all woke with fused eyelids and no sight. In the inevitable tumult that followed, he snuck out of the city and hid in an abandoned shack in the woods aboveground.
Time passed. Ammeanas survived on wild game, shooting hawks and rabbits with a crude longbow and cooking them cautiously over a small fire, careful not to attract attentjon from the dwemer patrols. One day, he was wandering the wilds looking for his next meal, when he was ambushed and arrested by a small troop of soldiers. They brought him to the fabled city of Falzhardum Din for interrogation and eventual execution. In his absence, the oppressed, blinded Snow Elves had rebelled against their overlords, and were now considered enemies.
The interrogation proved fruitless - how could he have known anything after an exile of hundreds of years? - and thus an execution was scheduled. There was an air of general celebration that day in the depths of the city, for the war effort against the Chimer was going well, and Chief Tonal Architect Kagrenac was getting ready to summon the gods themselves using the power of the Heart of Lorkhan. The Lord of Falzhardum Din stood on a podium in front of a massive crowd and declared, "We have beat back the Falmer upstarts. We are driving the Chimer into the ground. Is there anything we cannot do?"
He then promptly vanished. As a matter of fact, so did every other Deep Elf in Skyrim. Ammeanas, now alone in the city but for the skeevers and spiders, took the opportunity to try and locate his kin, but in the hundreds of years since he had left, they had degenerated into brutish beasts, and attacked him as soon as he approached. Now an old, broken mer, he hid in an abandoned alchemy lab, seeking solace among the familiar alchemical reagents.
There, he noticed something odd; a bright red Soreyalia plant that produced a high keening sound as opposed to the regular gentle whine. As taught by his mother, he ingested the plant and attempted to observe the symptoms. He felt an unexpected boost of energy and vitality that made him feel young again. Turning to a mirror, he saw with wonder that his wrinkles had vanished and his skin regained the coating of fine ice powder that Falmer possesed in early adulthood.
Thus began his new existence, creating potions of youth and brooding over the collapse of his people. He spent most of his days stewing in misery and hatred, hatred for the Dwemer, hatred for their constructs, and above all, hatred for the Atmorans. Whenever an adventurer descended to his home, he would capture them, question them ruthlessly on the world above, then send them out into the wilderness of what he learned was now called Blackreach.
Eventually, he caught a rumour; a rumour of a civil war between the descendants of the Atmorans and an empire which controlled the region. He also heard of a faction of militant mer called the Thalmor, who would stop at nothing to see the worship of the human god Talos outlawed and utterly destroyed. Skyrim was riven by strife and conflict, and his hated enemies were weak and besieged by a force far greater than them. The time for revenge had come.
Ammeanas remembered only fragments of his childhood in Skyrim; His mother preparing healing mixtures for his ill grandparents; watching his artisan father carve a memorial; seeing his elder brothers training in the courtyard of their house with spears, swords and bows. And what bows! They were beautiful, laminated and engraved affairs which, for all their beauty, could drive an arrow deep into a mammoth's hide. That was before the war, of course... before the panicked retreat from the burning city, before the last stand on the island of Solstheim. Before the Moesring.
He remembered that much more clearly. Remembered the chaos of the battle, the fury of the Atmoran forces, and how they cut down his friends and family around him. The Snow Prince's personal guard of pikemen and Elite Vampires could do little in the face of the human assault, but they fought until the end. The Snow Prince himself was almost untouchable, plunging his spear deep into the bodies of the enemy, freezing whole waves of them at once with his ice magic. The battle looked like it would turn in their favour, but suddenly a sword came scything out from nowhere, slipping through his protective armor of ice and mammoth ivory and burying itself deep in his ribcage.
A little girl had felled the mighty warrior out of sorrow for her slain mother. The retreat turned into a rout, then a slaughter; those who made it out sought shelter among the Dwemer, invoking ancient alliances. Ammeanas followed at first, for what other choice did he have? The Dwemer promised to give them safe harbor and help them in their quest for vengeance. However, the weeks turned into months, and months to years. Eventually, the Dwemer announced a grand banquet for all of the survivors of the Moesring, and everyone was happy to attend.
The feast was magnificent; whole mammoths turning over firepits, rich and colourful subterranean vegetation, but as the toast commenced, Ammeanas noticed the smell of the Mzardak fungus. He recalled his mother telling him as a boy, "Never eat this if you want to keep your sight, for while it tastes pleasant, it creates an unshakable habit. Not only that, but the blindness it causes becomes hereditary. Remember that, dear boy, and remember it well."
Ammeanas pretended to drink the spiked toast, and decided to observe what would happen to his fellows. Sure enough, they demanded more the next morning, and every morning thereafter, until one day they all woke with fused eyelids and no sight. In the inevitable tumult that followed, he snuck out of the city and hid in an abandoned shack in the woods aboveground.
Time passed. Ammeanas survived on wild game, shooting hawks and rabbits with a crude longbow and cooking them cautiously over a small fire, careful not to attract attentjon from the dwemer patrols. One day, he was wandering the wilds looking for his next meal, when he was ambushed and arrested by a small troop of soldiers. They brought him to the fabled city of Falzhardum Din for interrogation and eventual execution. In his absence, the oppressed, blinded Snow Elves had rebelled against their overlords, and were now considered enemies.
The interrogation proved fruitless - how could he have known anything after an exile of hundreds of years? - and thus an execution was scheduled. There was an air of general celebration that day in the depths of the city, for the war effort against the Chimer was going well, and Chief Tonal Architect Kagrenac was getting ready to summon the gods themselves using the power of the Heart of Lorkhan. The Lord of Falzhardum Din stood on a podium in front of a massive crowd and declared, "We have beat back the Falmer upstarts. We are driving the Chimer into the ground. Is there anything we cannot do?"
He then promptly vanished. As a matter of fact, so did every other Deep Elf in Skyrim. Ammeanas, now alone in the city but for the skeevers and spiders, took the opportunity to try and locate his kin, but in the hundreds of years since he had left, they had degenerated into brutish beasts, and attacked him as soon as he approached. Now an old, broken mer, he hid in an abandoned alchemy lab, seeking solace among the familiar alchemical reagents.
There, he noticed something odd; a bright red Soreyalia plant that produced a high keening sound as opposed to the regular gentle whine. As taught by his mother, he ingested the plant and attempted to observe the symptoms. He felt an unexpected boost of energy and vitality that made him feel young again. Turning to a mirror, he saw with wonder that his wrinkles had vanished and his skin regained the coating of fine ice powder that Falmer possesed in early adulthood.
Thus began his new existence, creating potions of youth and brooding over the collapse of his people. He spent most of his days stewing in misery and hatred, hatred for the Dwemer, hatred for their constructs, and above all, hatred for the Atmorans. Whenever an adventurer descended to his home, he would capture them, question them ruthlessly on the world above, then send them out into the wilderness of what he learned was now called Blackreach.
Eventually, he caught a rumour; a rumour of a civil war between the descendants of the Atmorans and an empire which controlled the region. He also heard of a faction of militant mer called the Thalmor, who would stop at nothing to see the worship of the human god Talos outlawed and utterly destroyed. Skyrim was riven by strife and conflict, and his hated enemies were weak and besieged by a force far greater than them. The time for revenge had come.
On a previous play through of mine, my dark elf (Akurus) was a battle mage and utilized summoning. Although i did find it very fun, im really looking forward to the idea of reanimating corpses. With what you said in mind though, i might go the Mystic Necromancer route which could be a fun twist. Utilize 1 handed bound weapons, and a bound bow, and delve into alteration for the more up close and personal situations. Is your current play through (your snow elf) specializing in any specific skills?
