Behmor in Immortalis Writes an Anti Nicolas Address on the Limits of Authority

My fellow shadows, my brethren in eternity, gather close. The air thickens with the scent of dissent, and I, Behmor, stand before you not as a supplicant, but as the blade that carves truth from the rotting flesh of tyranny. Nicolas, that self-crowned sovereign of our endless night, presumes his bloodline grants him dominion without end. He who sired us in agony now chains us in obedience, his word a gospel etched in the screams of the disobedient. But authority, even immortal, has its brittle edges, and tonight I shall expose them, lest we all shatter upon his unyielding altar.

Consider the foundation of his rule. Nicolas emerged from the cradle of antiquity, his veins pulsing with the first draughts of undeath, and with that gift came the arrogance of gods. He commands the covens, dictates the hunts, and metes out punishments that linger through centuries. Yet what is authority if not a fragile construct, propped by fear and the illusion of invincibility? I have walked the crypts where his edicts were first whispered, seen the archives of his conquests. They speak not of divine right, but of survival, of clawing dominance from chaos. He rules because we allow it, because we bend our necks to the weight of tradition. But bend too long, and the spine snaps.

Look to the limits he ignores at our peril. Our immortality is no shield against hubris. Nicolas forbids alliances beyond his gaze, yet the mortal world encroaches, their sciences probing our veils, their weapons forged to pierce eternal flesh. He dismisses these threats, cloistered in his spires of obsidian, while we, his thralls, face the dawn’s encroaching fire. Authority unbound breeds stagnation. He hoards the ancient rites, the blood sacraments that could fortify us all, doling them as crumbs to favoured whelps. I say this ends. The limits of his power are drawn in our collective will, not his solitary decree.

Recall the fall of Elowen, whom he branded traitor for seeking parley with the forsaken clans. Her ashes still whisper in the winds, a testament to his intolerance. Or Therion, who questioned the endless purges, only to be unmade in the pits below the citadel. These are not acts of a guardian, but of a despot blind to his own fragility. Authority must serve the coven, not enslave it. Nicolas’s grip tightens as his vision narrows, and in that contraction lies his doom. We are not chattels; we are the night itself, vast and uncontainable.

I call upon you, my kin, to recognise these boundaries. Let not his shadow eclipse our own. Rise not in frenzy, but in calculated defiance. Question the edicts that starve us of purpose. Demand the rites he withholds. Authority, Nicolas, is a covenant, not a collar. Overstep once more, and the pack shall turn, fangs bared against the alpha who forgot his place. The limits are clear: rule with us, or fall beneath us.

The night awaits our verdict.

Behmor

Immortalis Book One August 2026