Northern Skyrim.
At the same time.
A human mage.
He was born in Saarthal.
The first city in their new homeland.
He spent his early childhood not with a wooden sword, but listening to the stories of the old men.
It was no surprise that his talents for the magical arts eventually manifested, astounding the few semblance of mages that the people who left Atmora had.
When the child grew up and became a young man, he had already surpassed all his teachers living in the City of Men.
Eventually, feeling unsatisfied with what he had achieved, he was forced to leave his beloved wife and child and go in search of new magical knowledge, which ultimately led him to the elven wizards.
Their tower, towering over all of Skyrim, welcomed the man with surprising joy.
The elves, whose skin was cold as snow, were generous with any knowledge, except for that which was forbidden even to themselves.
After all, as they put it, there was nothing wrong with teaching someone who wouldn’t live a third of their lifespan.
And they saw no danger to themselves.
He didn’t pay attention to it then, considering it the usual desire to keep their knowledge from competitors, as human blacksmiths do.
He was away for many years, and when he finally returned to the city, he found only burned ruins in its place.
As he learned from the conversations of the elves who guarded the remnants of the City of Men in small numbers, the latter had been destroyed by the elves themselves, and all the inhabitants had been mercilessly slaughtered.
The grief he felt then was beyond words.
“Oh Gods, I swear an oath of vengeance!
My spirit will not rest until I destroy all the accursed Mer of the snow!” That was the terrible oath of vengeance he swore then.
In the forest near the city, among the old firs covered in feathers of snow.
It was then that he took a new name, forgetting the old one.
Ahzidal.
“Bitter Destroyer” that was now his name for every man or elf who knew the language of the people of Atmora.
But…
Despite all his determination to carry out his revenge, the mage knew that he was still far from the level of skill of the elves who had destroyed his home.
In magic, they were unsurpassed.
He knew this as their own student.
And so Ahzidal began to seek more knowledge in the mystical sciences, plunging into the magical art deeper than anyone before him!
From the bearded elf-dwarves, the Dwemer, he learned the seven natures of metals and how to harmonize, forge, combine, and enchant them.
From the Ayleids, Ahzidal learned about the ancient runes and the magic of dawn, granted to them by a certain goddess of Light, whom they also called the Rainbow of Light, the Radiant.
From the High Elves of the south, some of whom he managed to find in southern Skyrim, the man learned the battle magic of the elements and their combination.
From the Chimer of the East, descendants of those who left with Veloth the Pilgrim from the south, he heard and learned about the Daedra and the mystical realm of Oblivion.
He took the best of the knowledge of almost all elven peoples, preparing and anticipating the use of the power he had gained against his Snow Elf teachers.* * — canon.
Ahzidal is a vastly underrated character, in the game being merely a dragon priest.
But this guy is so cool that he managed to gain the knowledge of the elves in the Merethic Era, when the vast majority of humans were simply slaves!
And that’s not all.
…And then, when he heard that his old chieftain Ysgramor had arrived with his army from Atmora, having managed to stop the civil war there and bring all warring factions under his command, he went to him.
For three nights and three days he traveled to the northern coast near Saarthal, where a huge fleet had landed and was beginning to set up camp.
“Hey, who are you, and why are you dressed like a damned elf?” a guard pointed his spear at him at the main passage, and soon several warriors in full steel armor arrived.
But they didn’t rush to attack him, obviously seeing that he was a man.
“Hear me, valiant warriors, who have come to avenge your slain kin in Saarthal!” he began loudly, planting his feet wide.
“I am from the burned and desecrated city, for which you have come to exact vengeance.
My name is Ahzidal.
I took it as a sign of my purpose — vengeance against the accursed elves of the snow!
Tell your leader, Ysgramor the Great, that an old acquaintance of his has come, one who left to study with elven masters years ago!
He will recognize me!” Obviously deciding that a probable elf slave wouldn’t curse them so loudly, especially with possible scouts around, for whom the wooden walls of the camp were being built, a messenger was sent from the guards…
And the chieftain did not keep him waiting long.
…The mage involuntarily caught his breath.
Ysgramor had also changed over the years.
He had grown stronger, just like Ahzidal himself.
Although he remained a warrior, whom the mage had somewhat come to underestimate during his years of study with the Mer, but…
Something else was felt in him.
Something more powerful, akin to what he had seen from the priests of the High Elves.
As if someone had enveloped him in their power like a beloved son.
And in that power, echoes of the Storm and the Winds could be felt.
“So, you now call yourself Ahzidal, our best sorcerer?” said Ysgramor, towering over him in his dark armor.
Casually noting the axe glowing with incredible magical power behind the chieftain’s back, Ahzidal also noted the quality of the warrior’s armor.
Like any Atmoran, he could recognize a masterpiece of Atmoran smiths, who knew how to work with dark steel, or as the elves called it — ebony.
“I swore an oath before the gods.
Before the hawk, the wolf, the serpent, the moth, the owl, the whale, the bear, the fox, and even the dragon!” the mage proclaimed loudly, impressing the warriors around him.
After all, few would dare to make such an oath.
“I have learned the wisdom of the elves, mastered their sorcery.
And I will use it to defeat the accursed elves with their own weapons.
Therefore, I offer you, my chieftain, King of Atmora…” Ahzidal could not fail to recognize the crown of Atmora on Ysgramor’s head.
“…my services!
I will enchant the weapons of your righteous warriors with fire, ice, and heavenly lightning!
And then they will pierce any sorcery of our enemies!” “I believe you, Ahzidal,” the man, whose beard had grayed over the years, nodded slightly.
“You lost your wife and son at the hands of the vile elves.
You would not dare become a slave to these dishonorable creatures!
I accept your offer!
Show me how your magic works!
We have a few suits of armor from those elves who smugly came to us, thinking we didn’t know of their treacherous betrayal.” “And the elves themselves?” the man bared his teeth bloodthirstily, having endured enough condescending treatment from the long-ears during his travels and studies.
“Killed, unfortunately,” the king replied, closing his eyes.
“Had I known you were coming, I would have left you a couple for righteous vengeance.” “That’s alright, my chieftain.
I will find more…
They will all, every last one of them, die.
Just like our wives and children in Saarthal!” the mage proclaimed loudly, immediately hearing the supportive roar of the warriors who had begun to gather around.
The elves said they were just relieving their boredom by teaching a man who would soon die.
They saw no threat to themselves in it, no matter what kind of elf it was.
Well…
Using the example of the snow elves, he would show them all that they were wrong to underestimate him.
Wrong to teach him their knowledge.
At his name, every single elf would tremble with fear and curse the stupidity of their kin who had taught him, Ahzidal, their wisdom.
And in the end, that fateful moment would come when they — the humans — would hold elves in slavery.
The picture he had seen in many places in the south would change, and he had avoided such a fate only because of his own magical abilities, which his elf teachers respected above all else.
The Bitter Destroyer had entered the game.