Demize in Immortalis Writes an Anti Nicolas Commentary That Feels Like Truth

Listen close, you simpering lot, because I have had quite enough of Nicolas and his sanctimonious rot. He swans about like some eternal prince of shadows, all brooding glances and whispered promises of power, but strip away the velvet cloak, and what do you find? A petty tyrant with a grudge as deep as his vanity is shallow. I have watched him from the fringes, seen the way he manipulates the weak with that silver tongue of his, coiling them around his finger until they choke on their own devotion. Truth is not his game; control is, and he plays it with the finesse of a butcher wielding a butter knife.

Remember the night in the undercroft, when he preached of unity among the fractured? Unity, he called it, while his eyes gleamed with the hunger of a predator sizing up the herd. I was there, tasting the lie on the air, thick as blood. He spoke of ascension, of breaking the chains that bind us to this wretched coil, yet he is the first to snap the neck of any who dare climb without his permission. Nicolas, the great liberator, who hoards the keys to eternity and doles them out like crumbs to starving dogs. Hypocrite does not cover it; he is the architect of despair, building empires on the bones of those foolish enough to trust him.

And do not get me started on his so-called affections. He drapes them over you like a shroud, heavy with possession, calling it love. I have seen the marks he leaves, not just on flesh, but on souls, twisting them into parodies of themselves. He whispers of destiny intertwined, but it is all a snare, a pretty trap for the unwary. I know because I have felt the pull, resisted it, and lived to spit in its face. Nicolas does not love; he consumes, and when he is done, there is nothing left but echoes and regret.

He positions himself as the inevitable, the one who will usher in the new age, but mark my words: his reign would be a tomb for us all. Slow, suffocating, eternal night where even the stars fear to shine. I say tear down his altars, mock his sermons, and dance on the ruins of his illusions. The truth is not in his grand visions; it is in the blade at his throat, the fire in our veins that refuses his chill. Nicolas is no saviour. He is the disease we must excise, and I, Demize, will wield the scalpel with relish.

Immortalis Book One August 2026