Chester in Immortalis Contributes a Daily Nicolas Entry on Indulgence Without Limit

Another dawn breaks over this festering paradise we call home, and here I sit, quill in hand, compelled to etch my thoughts on him. Nicolas. The man who devours restraint as if it were a delicacy unworthy of the plate. Today, indulgence without limit , that is the sermon he preaches with every glance, every touch that lingers too long on fevered skin.

I watched him last night in the shadowed alcove of the old chapel, where the air hangs thick with incense and unspoken sins. He had her there, wrists bound in silk that bit just enough to draw crimson beads, her gasps echoing off stone walls like prayers gone profane. No moderation in his grasp. He takes, he claims, he unravels until there is nothing left but quivering surrender. “Why stop at the edge?” he murmured to her, voice a velvet blade. “The abyss tastes sweeter when you plunge without mercy.”

Indulgence without limit. It is his creed, carved into the marrow of those who orbit him. I have seen men break under it, women ascend to madness through it. Last week, it was the merchant’s daughter, lured by whispers of ecstasy unbound. By midnight, her cries were not of pain but of a hunger that mirrored his own. He fed it, relentlessly, until the room reeked of sweat and spent desires. No boundaries observed, no safewords honoured in that sacred fury. Only the raw pulse of want, amplified until it consumes.

And yet, there is method in his excess. Nicolas understands that true indulgence strips away the pretence of civility. It exposes the beast coiled within, forces it to roar. I confess, scribe though I am, I envy that abandon. In my ledgers, I tally sins with precision; he tallies them with teeth and tongue. Yesterday, he cornered me in the library, his breath hot against my ear. “Write this, Chester,” he commanded, fingers tracing the vein in my neck. “Tell them how freedom lies in the forbidden, how limits are chains forged by cowards.” I wrote, as he exacted his toll, each word born from the haze of his unrelenting demand.

In Immortalis, where shadows nurse grudges and pleasures twist into perils, Nicolas stands as the high priest of excess. He indulges without apology, without end, drawing us all into his vortex. Follow if you dare. Resist, and watch your world crumble untouched. But know this: once tasted, moderation is a poison you will spit out.

Immortalis Book One August 2026