Entry 2 - 35th Ostara

Today saw little by way of diversion. I practised for a while with Ulric’s fire arms - I must write in more detail on these incredible creations - and chose a surname for myself - “Bernsson”. Even as I write this I can see yesterday’s passage staring accusingly at me, but I am no hypocrite: my name had untapped potential, so to speak, as I lacked a surname, and this choice is purely political - I have great designs for Bern. Though for now I may have taken the town’s name, I fully intend that in retrospect it will have been considered to have taken mine.
 
Depending on when this is read, it is possible Bern needs no introduction, but in case it does, the facts are this: it is a small logging town situated some thirty miles north of Stormspell, though the impenetrable eastern arm of the Tuatha De range necessitates taking a journey of roughly twice that distance through the sensibly named town of Wall. Until early 255 it was ruled by the Langrock clan, a collection of largely unnoteworthy notables, but they provide an interesting case study, as the final three Langrocks each embody a different failing of leadership.
 
I am not aware of the early history of Bern or its leadership, but I can only assume that the Langrocks have been entrenched for several generations at least. Iain Langrock, the patriarch, was at first glance the most impressive of the family. He seemed to be a largely effective wielder of power, with a tight grip on his domain and lack of many overly powerful enemies. His great failing, in common with so many established dynasts, was his complacency towards his own household. Not having had to earn his office, and being blessed with good instincts, he failed to recognise his most important duty - ensuring he had an appropriate successor. To better understand the magnitude of this mistake, we must turn to his sons:
 
Brian, Iain’s heir, was a man who derived his meaning from pleasure, be that through hunting or through his many lovers, a few of whom were killed during our stay in the town. He considered Bern to be his by right; it did not occur to him that it could be any other way. Having never given any thought to how he would rule, if he had attained power, his natural instincts would lead him to turn a blind eye to any potential problem and take refuge in his frivolities. At the first sign of dissent, he would have panicked and attempted to emulate his father but, with no knowledge of how to wield authority, either would have been too kind or distributed punishment too arbitrarily, and thereby spelled his end. The blame for Brian's ineptitude can not be solely placed at his own feet, however: Iain’s responsibility for his realm does not end with his death. He should have taught the boy, given him responsibilities early, allowing him to succeed or fail on his own merits. Finally, if it became obvious that Brian was never going to be suitable for the job, he should have been removed without sentiment staying his hand. As it was, however, this did not matter: his other son’s inadequacies doomed the family well before their natural end.
 
Keane is the most fascinating of all. He had every opportunity to be a master of The Game: he had no love for his family, he had a sharp mind and he was a master of deceit. He too was a failure, however, for a reason shared by many magic-users who similarly play for power: he placed too much stock in individual potency. This may seem illogical to an uneducated reader: surely, you would say, the ability to win any contest through sheer force alone is only a benefit? Not so. If the only basis for your power is your own strength, it can be challenged by anyone who considers themselves stronger, and, crucially, this challenge will always be seen as legitimate. In Keane’s case, this is compounded by the source of his strength: he did not earn it, as many powerful wizards do, from nothing. It was instead granted, in a single ecstatic moment, by a wild fae entity. Keane had no opportunity to learn his limits, he simply enjoyed a scant few days of unopposed terror, before meeting a violent and sudden end at the hands of the first true opponent placed in is path. His personal potency, it turns out, was not great enough even to seize Bern, yet he threw away every civilised part of himself for it.
 
My companions occasionally mock me on the subject of Keane, and the distribution of daggers, but I maintain I made no mistake. I correctly identified his embittered soul, correctly noticed his latent cunning and desire for power. My only “sin” was being the second person to offer him a solution, and in the end it was only Keane who paid the price for his poor choice. In truth I did make an error of judgement here: it did not occur to me that another would already be working on Keane, and my hubris left me inattentive to the obvious signs. However, this is moot: I was able to survive the encounter and learn this lesson, so the episode must be considered an unqualified success.
 
Why, then, this interest in Bern? Aside from an academic study on the dangers of dynastic regimes, I am interested in Bern for another reason. I have played The Game up to this point purely for its own sake: I confess to drawing enormous pleasure from the triumph; the look in an opponent’s eye as they realise I am superior is one of the true pleasures in life. However, I have always played at a disadvantage until now: I was never playing for anything. In Bern, in shaping it, engineering its successes, and ultimately preparing it for the inevitable conflict with Stormspell, I have a real purpose. It is alo fertile ground, so to speak. In the aftermath of an absolutist regime such as the Langrocks’, there will be a flowering of new, ambitious people looking to exploit the power vacuum in whatever way they can, and I relish the thought of proving myself at their expense.
 
For now, though, Bern must wait; I travel towards Greenwood. Yesterday I found it hard to see past the dread that held me, but today I feel a little more hopeful. If I can hold on to my senses in that place, it should prove both illuminating and vital to my work; after all, what better way is there to understand civilisation than to immerse oneself fully in its opposite?