Ten years of ridicule. Ten years of imprisonment. Ten years of exile.
The children threw rocks and the women spat upon me as the menfolk dragged me into Whiterun's prison. They branded me a danger to their pitiful existence... used words like "madman" and "insane." Could a madman escape the prisons undetected? Could a lunatic establish a laboratory right under their noses? Could a psychopath create a mighty army from the common skeever?
My days as an apprentice alchemist in Winterhold were no better. Those egotistical braggarts couldn't compete with my abilities. Where they fell short, I'd constantly excel. Did they appreciate my genius? Did they relish my contributions? No. My instructors beat me and said I was irresponsible, and the Arch Mage cast me into the streets like a common beggar.
As my enemy grows complacent and weak, as they forget Hamelyn and his utter brilliance, I build my army. I use every bit of knowledge at my disposal to forge their demise. Thanks to Sabjorn's unwitting assistance, my legion grows stronger every day. The irony that the same ingredients used to make his vile drink could be used to feed my offspring isn't lost upon me.
Oh, they will pay. Their ignorance of impending annihilation amuses me. I will bury Whiterun and watch Winterhold burn. And when they experience the fury I've unleashed upon them, when my progeny are gnawing the flesh from their bones, they will come begging and groveling at my feet. But there will be no mercy, no quarter and no leniency. And I will laugh and I will dance and I will rejoice over their mangled, broken corpses. The time for recompense has arrived.
Ten years of pain. Ten years of misery. Ten years of death.