Immortalis and the Croquet Games That Reveal Too Much

In the perpetual dusk of Morrigan Deep, where the two suns cling to the horizon like reluctant prisoners, the Immortalis indulge in games that serve as more than mere diversion. Croquet, with its mallets and wickets, its genteel pretensions borrowed from some forgotten thesapien civility, becomes a mirror to their fractured souls. These matches, played across the manicured lawns of castles or the barren stretches of asylums, strip away the veneer of nobility and expose the primal machinery beneath. One need only observe the clipped precision of Theaten’s swing or the erratic glee of Nicolas to see the truth: croquet is no pastime, but a ritual of revelation, where every stroke betrays the hunter’s instinct.

Consider Theaten, the Vero incarnate of refined savagery. His form cuts through the twilight air, mallet gripped with the same poise he employs when carving tribute flesh at the banquet table. Each ball he sends arching toward the hoop speaks of control, of a world bent to his aesthetic will. Yet watch closely as the game turns competitive, as Kane’s shadow looms from the forest edge. Theaten’s posture stiffens, his swings grow sharper, less forgiving. The hoop becomes a skull to be claimed, the mallet an extension of his machete. Croquet reveals him not as the noble lord, but as the fractured being who merges with his Evro only under duress, unleashing the beast he so carefully grooms.

Nicolas, by contrast, turns the lawn into his personal carnival. His top hat tilts at a mocking angle, plaid jacket flapping like a jester’s rags as he capers between wickets. The mallet in his gloved hand twirls with theatrical flair, each tap on the ball a punctuation to his monologue of madness. One moment he feigns chivalry, offering Allyra the first shot; the next, he unleashes a volley that scatters balls like fleeing rabbits. The game unmasks his multiplicity: Chester’s predatory grin flickers across his features, Webster’s calculated arc guides the shot, even the Long-Faced Demon elongates his shadow when frustration mounts. Croquet lays bare the chaos within, where every persona vies for dominance, turning a simple pursuit into a symphony of spite.

These games, innocuous to the untrained eye, expose the Immortalis’ core paradox. They are gods split asunder, Vero and Evro in eternal tension, playing at civility while the bloodlust simmers. The croquet pitch becomes Irkalla in miniature, wickets as the Ledger’s unyielding rules, mallets as the canes that enforce them. Allyra, with her serpentine grace, navigates this terrain not as prey, but as player, her every move a reminder that even the fractured can claim the board. Yet for Nicolas and Theaten, revelation cuts deepest: in the arc of a ball, they glimpse not victory, but the hollow truth of their dominion, a game where no one truly wins.

Immortalis Book One August 2026