Why, then, would our foe rejoice? Could one rider bring such hope to an army so hopeless? The slopes of the Moesring ran red with Elf blood. Our warriors, armed with the finest axes and swords Nord craftsmen could forge, cut great swaths through the enemy ranks. Led by Ysgramor, we had driven the Elven scourge from Skyrim, and were intent on cleansing Solstheim of their kind as well. The Battle of the Moesring was to be the final stand between Nord and Elf on our fair island. For at that time the Elves were as damned and near death as ever they had been during the great skirmishes of Solstheim. It was not fear, not wonder, but an unabashed and unbridled joy, the kind of felicity felt by a damned man who has been granted a second chance at life. What troubled, nay, frightened us most at that moment was the call that rose from the Elven ranks. His spear and armor bore the radiant and terrible glow of unknown magicka, and so adorned this unknown rider seemed more wight than warrior. Elf we called him, for Elf he was, yet unlike any other of his kind we had ever seen before that day. Rom whence he came we did not know, but into the battle he rode, on a brilliant steed of pallid white. An account of the Battle of the Moesring as transcribed by Lokheim, chronicler to the chieftain Ingjaldr White-Eye

Tomb of the snow prince