Behmor in Immortalis Issues an Anti Nicolas Commentary on Authority Misused

Listen well, shadows of the eternal night, for I, Behmor, speak from the cracked throne of forgotten truths. Nicolas struts through our blood-soaked halls, his authority a whip cracked over the backs of immortals who once bowed to reason, not to his petty cruelties. He claims dominion by right of fang and claw, yet what he wields is not power, but the perversion of it, a crown forged from the screams of those he pretends to rule.

Authority, true authority, rises from the covenant we forged in the cradle of undeath: a balance of strength and wisdom, where the elder guides without devouring the young. Nicolas? He feasts on both. Recall the purge of the Eastern covens, when he decreed their dissolution not for rebellion, but because their whispers questioned his endless appetites. Bodies piled like cordwood, their essence drained to slake his thirst for unchallenged rule. Misused authority, brothers and sisters of the night, is no authority at all; it is tyranny cloaked in velvet.

He preaches unity, does he not? Unity under his boot. The grand assemblies, those hollow spectacles where he dangles promises of glory while his enforcers prowl the fringes, silencing dissent with silver and sunlight. I have seen his gaze, cold as grave soil, fall upon the worthy who dare suggest reform. Lucius fell for it, his head severed in the council chamber mid-sentence, all for proposing we ration the mortal herds instead of glutting ourselves to exhaustion. Nicolas laughed then, a sound like breaking bones, and called it justice.

Look to the archives, if you can stomach them. Scrolls etched with his edicts: curfews on the fledglings, tithes of blood from every nest, loyalty oaths sworn on our progenitors’ ashes. He hoards the ancient rites, denying them to all but his favourites, twisting sacraments into chains. Authority misused breeds rot, and we, the immortals, feel it in our veins, a poison slower than stake or dawn, but no less fatal.

Rise against this farce. Let his throne crumble under the weight of its own lies. I, Behmor, call you to reclaim what was stolen: not his power, but ours, pure and untainted. Nicolas’s reign ends not in fire, but in the cold light of truth he fears most.

Immortalis Book One August 2026