[Hider=Alcott III]A young noble by the name of Alcott the third had hardly had a hair on his chest when he first bore witness to the efficiency of a wild, northern Berserkir in action. He’d lived in comfort in a village along the coast, a day’s journey from Northpass proper, so far removed from Stags’ Rest he hardly expected he’d meet a merchant, let alone an attacker. All the same, he did. He splayed his innards, in fact, with a cowardly, quivering ambush sprung from around a shady corner with a dainty dagger through the throat. The northerner had already liquidated his kin of strong men in a matter of minutes, leaving his mother and sisters intact only by merit of the fact they’d been in even deeper hiding.

Hours later, when he was removing the corpse from his grounds, he looted the berserkirs belongings and sought comfort in what he mistakenly assumed was a flask of mead. Instead, he had a vision, felt the wind raise him to the heavens as a chorus of passages from The Book offered him praise. He ordered the sun to bow before him and watched as it did just so. He found strength he’d not had previously, freeing the very stones of his path from their place with not more than his own fingers, equating it to the might that The Monarch himself must wield. And as he felt his divinity give way to responsibility, he forfeited his station in exchange for a position within the church of The Monarch, gaining a foothold as one of the prince-priests, desperate to find his way back to godhood.

Assigned a conflict-ridden region of the southern border, he took the liberty of beginning a habit of experimentation, instructing the peasantry to ingest various permutations of an alchemical cocktail of his own design in his best attempt to recreate the godmaking brew of the berserker. And so he spends his days, scheming and scribbling his findings, dreaming of godhood of one fashion or another. He lavishes in the authority he wields over the paupers in his purview, as he orders them to die day by day at the hands of the Haris Alkhalyfa, taking their knowledge of his experiments to their graves. As he inches closer to the formula for divinity, he is filled with glee. In anticipation of his coming ascension, he intends to seize the throne for himself, and therefore takes every opportunity to swear his unerring allegiance to the Young Stag, demonstrating his false devotion with empty reassurances as he races to finish his task before Harold the second can properly seize power.[/Hider]

[B]TL;DR:[/B] this dude named Alcott drinks a berserkirs hallucinogens that put him in his berserkir state, assumes that it provided godhood on par with The Monarch's and, not satisfied with a mere taste of power, proceeds to abuse his station as a prince-priest to experiment on the impoverished soldiers in his care with ambitions of seizing the throne himself. It'd possibly result in something like a primitive version of nazi meth.