A challenge, I sense! My generic Altmer Necromancer riding a Cliff Racer needs some fleshing out:
Growing up among the Skaal, Bjorn Full-Elf had always felt different. Why do I have pointy ears? Why am I three feet taller than the other Nords? Why do I speak different? Why is my skin golden? All of these questions remained unanswered, and thankfully so, because Bjorn had always felt a sort of vile rage dwelling withing him. One day, however, Bjorn Full-Elf's "father," Tymvaul, approached Bjorn on his fiftieth birthday.
"Bjorn," Tymvaul croaked, for he was in his late seventies, "I have something important to tell you..."
"What is it, father?" Bjorn Full-Elf asked.
"You are not my son!" Tymvaul shrieked, "You are an Altmer, damn it!" He then proceeded to rant and rave about how Bjorn had been found lying outside his lodge, how Bjorn had always been a burden, and how he never loved Bjorn, even when Bjorn had made him a spicy Mead for his thirtieth birthday.
"I always knew that I was different," Bjorn said, "but I never knew that by admitting so, I would gain such an intense hatred for humans like you!"
Feeling the heat of anger in his veins, Bjorn raised a hand towards his "father," who began trembling in fear. With an unearthly shout, Bjorn closed his hand, and Tymvaul exploded in a shower of organs, blood, and meat.
Rushing outside, Bjorn proceeded to raze the village, first killing the men, then the women, and finally the wolves, all while bathing in their blood as it drenched the pearly snow in its unearthly shade of crimson. Dancing in delight, covered in blood and guts, Bjorn recalled a tale that his "father" had once told him, and formulated a plan most devious. Bjorn pranced back into his father's lodge, with only one thing upon his mind: The Mantle of Woe.
Using his now unrestrained magicks, Bjorn blasted open the lock on Tymvaul's "secret" chest. Reaching inside, Bjorn's hand lightly grazed The Mantle of Woe. "Yessss," Bjorn hissed, feeling The Mantle's power, and its desire to be utilized to its maximum potential. Grasping The Mantle, Bjorn quickly slid into it, admiring the silky fabric that it was made of. The dark power of The Mantle coursed through Bjorn. "Now none shall stand in my way!" Bjorn declared. Looking inside of Tymvaul's chest, Bjorn noticed a journal, amonst the woodcuttings of busty Nordic women doing unspeakable things to each other. Disgusted with Tymvaul's base animal desires, Bjorn quickly snatched the journal, then pranced outside.
As Bjorn opened the door, he felt a strange heat upon him. The sensation, Bjorn decided, was not unlike a similar feeling he had had when he burned himself with candle. As he wandered further into the sunlight, the feeling intensified. "What could be doing this?" Bjorn was pondering, as he started to smell an odd odor that permeated throughout the air. Looking down, Bjorn noticed The Mantle glowing brightly. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!" Bjorn screamed, as The Mantle lit aflame. Reacting without thought, Bjorn rushed into the nearest building, the Chieftan's Lodge. Slamming the door shut, Bjorn quickly started to pat himself down, making sure that none of his body parts had been too seriously injured in the spontaneous combustion.
"The Mantle," Bjorn thought, "perhaps Tymvaul's journal will have further insight into this matter..."
Cracking open the journal, Bjorn leafed through the pages, all of which detailed Tymvaul's venture into Rimhull, and his research into The Mantle of Woe and its abilities concerning the undead. "Necromancy..." Bjorn let the word slide over his tongue. "Yesss," Bjorn muttered, "this is what I was meant to do..."
As he approached the Chieftan's Throne, Bjorn noticed the deceased Cliff Racer, hanging slightly askew from the ceiling. As he sat upon the throne, Bjorn wondered whether or not he could raise the dead, with his newfound magicka and The Mantle of Woe. "Perhap," Bjorn thought aloud, "perhaps it is time for me to acquire a mount."
Rising from the throne, Bjorn pranced over to the Cliff Racer. Larger than any normal Cliff Racer, this Cliff Racer's wingspan was easily three times Bjorn's eight foot tall frame, with a jaw of razor sharp teeth. "A fine mount, indeed."
Raising his hands, Bjorn fell into a deep trance of unspeakable magicks and evils, all derived from Tymvaul's book. Four sweaty hours later, as nightfall set upon Solstheim, Bjorn and his newly revived mount exited the Chieftan's Lodge. "Where to, boss?" The Cliff Racer squawked.
"Lets go raise some Oblivion, Cliff Racer." Bjorn laughed crazily, "for one day, I, Bjorn Cliff-Raiser, shall rule all of Tamriel!"
"Sure, boss, whatever you say," Cliff Racer squawked, "As long as I get to kill that Jiub bastard!"
There, how is that for an original bad guy?