You are Pelinal, the Whitestrake. That you took that name was strange; it is an elvish name, and you are a scourge upon that race, and not a man given to irony. In the elvish tongue, Pelinal means 'Glorious knight', and to the mer you are neither. You were granted to Alessia by Kyne as a symbol, a diamond that was soaked red with the blood of elves, a diamond whose faucets could unsector and form into a man arrayed in armor from the future time.
You walked into the jungles of Cyrodil already killing. When you first met Alessia, you entered her camp full of rebels holding a sword and a mace, both encrusted with the red viscera of elven faces.
"These were their eastern chieftains," you told her. "No longer full of their talking."
Though you are the enemy of all elvenkind, you prefer to call the elves into pre-arranged open combat and duels rather than to war against them as Alessia's rebellion does. You have defeated many of their leaders in duels, such as 'Haromir of Copper and Tea', who's neck-vein you bit out while screaming praise to Reman, an emperor who would not yet be born for hundreds of years, and whose name nobody knew yet.
Now, you have returned home to heartbreaking news. There was a soldier you loved dearly and with whom you often shared a tent at night, a man named Huna who was once a slave tasked with collecting grain for the Ayleid. You personally freed him of his bonds, and trained him into a hoplite. Now, his body is cold and lifeless upon a slab, one of the arrows of 'Celethelel the Singer' buried in his breast where once his heart had beat.
At first, you feel a great yawing emptiness within you, a void, a space where something once was that will never again be filled. Then, from within that space pours a flood of anger, a deluge of emotion that grips you and refuses to let go. You feel a murderous madness overtake you as you rise and take up your mace, turning towards the distant image of the profane elven city of Narlemae on the horizon.