Avoid Immortalis If You Dislike Absurd and Extreme Scenarios

Those who seek solace in the measured cadences of conventional horror, or the tidy resolutions of more restrained narratives, would do well to steer clear of Immortalis. This is no gentle descent into dread, no creeping unease built on subtle suggestion. It plunges headlong into the grotesque, the preposterous, the utterly unhinged, where the boundaries of sense and sanity dissolve into a carnival of calculated madness. From its opening salvos of plague-laden top hats that turn a village into a mass grave, to the labyrinthine horrors of Corax Asylum, where inmates are strapped to gurneys that tighten until breath fails, Immortalis revels in scenarios so extreme they border on the farcical, yet land with the weight of unyielding brutality.

Consider Nicolas DeSilva, the asylum’s proprietor, a figure who embodies the book’s penchant for the absurdly vicious. He trades tributes for a psychiatric license from Irkalla, not to heal, but to declare the sane insane, then methodically drive them to madness to validate his verdict. His chambers boast a gramophone topped with a rotting head, Demize the First, preserved by magick and used for company and mockery. Chairs levitate, clocks chime discordantly, and secret passages twist the asylum into a perpetual trap. One inmate escapes only to find six Nicolases sipping blood around a table, another six in the chapel. The hall of mirrors warps reality itself, reflections screaming from festering wounds, inmates stretched beyond anatomy. Nicolas prowls these corridors, bored by physical torture’s repetition, preferring the exquisite cruelty of psychological unraveling.

The extremes extend to the world’s very fabric. Irkalla, Hell’s six circles, governs through contracts etched in The Ledger, where souls are bartered like currency. Primus, the Darkness, splits his son Theaten into Vero and Evro, true self and primal beast, a duality echoed in all Immortalis. Nicolas himself fractures further, Webster his rational shadow in the mirrors, Chester his demonic Evro. Behmor, King of Irkalla, exists as both chubby bureaucrat and monstrous Tanis. These beings gorge on blood and flesh, their appetites insatiable, sexual urges amplified to grotesque heights. Tributes are bred, basted, and served at noble banquets, their longevity ensured by precise carving.

Absurdity amplifies the horror. Top hats spread plague fleas, magnetic anchors crush fleets, aardvarks gifted vampirism devour wish-seekers. Nicolas, ever the jester, declares himself detective, miner, lamplighter, each role ending in catastrophe. Cats grow legs for urban life, only to hunt thesapiens. Leeches demand equality, triffids overrun fields. The Dokeshi Carnival hides demonic clowns, its ghost train eyes watching eternally. Yet beneath the farce lies precision: every prank, every plague, every perversion serves a ledger-bound system where power imbalances are eternal, contracts unbreakable, and mercy a myth.

Immortalis demands tolerance for the unpalatable, the illogical, the nightmarishly inventive. If such scenarios repel you, if the blend of splatterpunk excess and cosmic cruelty offends, look elsewhere. For those who endure, it offers a mirror to the absurd machinery of control, where gods play with souls like toys, and the line between victim and victor blurs into oblivion.

Immortalis Book One August 2026