Immortalis and the Use of Objects as Extensions of Power
In the shadowed hierarchies of Morrigan Deep, where dominion is measured not in crowns but in the subtle chains of influence, the Immortalis wield objects as natural prolongations of their will. These are not mere tools, but incarnations of intent, forged from the same merciless logic that governs their fractured existences. Consider Nicolas DeSilva, that perpetual jester of Corax Asylum, whose pocket watch serves as both chronometer and portal to Webster, his rational shadow. The device ticks with mechanical precision, yet unlocks reflections where counsel is dispensed, commands issued, and realities bent. It is no accident that time, that most elusive of tyrants, bends to his gloved grasp; the watch enforces sequence, denies escape, and mirrors the inescapable rhythm of his appetites.
The cane, topped with a thesapien skull, extends this tyranny into the physical realm. Nicolas twirls it with theatrical flourish, summoning ravens, igniting flames, or simply marking his passage through the asylum’s damp corridors. The skull grins perpetually, a grotesque emblem of conquest, reminding inmates that mortality yields to his caprice. One need only recall its casual deployment against Lucia, tapping her forehead to shatter her illusions, or its role in the bear trap farce with Kane, where sadism masquerades as sport. Objects like these do not merely assist; they amplify the Immortalis capacity for capricious rule, turning whims into wounds.
Even the gramophone, that rickety contraption in Nicolas’s chambers, embodies this extension. Demize’s rotting head spins atop it, preserved by magick, offering barbed commentary amid the screeching violins Nicolas records himself. The device is no passive relic; it animates the dead, sustains conversation where solitude might otherwise prevail, and broadcasts torment through the asylum’s veins. When Nicolas cranks it, suffering harmonises with melody, clocks chime in discord, and the walls themselves seem to pulse with his amusement. Such innovations, courtesy of Webster’s ingenuity, transform the mundane into mechanisms of psychological siege.
The mirrors of the Ad Sex Speculum, housed in Irkalla’s Anubium, elevate this principle to systemic grandeur. Six panes, each attuned to an Immortalis facet, surveil and traverse realms, collapsing distance into dominance. Nicolas exploits them ruthlessly, stepping through glass to materialise behind prey or consult Webster’s counsel. They are the ultimate prosthesis of power, rendering The Deep transparent, its inhabitants stalked by unblinking eyes. Yet even these are dwarfed by The Rationum itself, The Ledger inscribed in Irkalla’s second circle, where identities are etched, laws decreed, and fates apportioned. Primus wielded it to classify Theaten as Immortalis; Nicolas bends it to declare insanity, binding souls to his asylum’s ledger of horrors.
Theaten, by contrast, extends power through subtler artefacts, his candelabras positioned with aesthetic tyranny, shadows falling precisely to his command. Chairs and drapes become instruments of unease, their misalignment a deliberate affront to guests like Ducissa Anne. Yet his dominion pales beside Nicolas’s arsenal: the rusty scalpels on surgical racks, the birches and whips lining dungeon shelves, the gurneys strewn with soiled restraints. These are not ornaments but extensions of sadism, each calibrated for maximum torment without premature cessation. The brazen bull, the iron maiden, the nerve harp—all Webster’s designs, yet wielded by Nicolas as effortlessly as breath.
In this calculus of cruelty, objects cease to be inert; they pulse with the Immortalis essence, proxies for appetites too vast for flesh alone. They surveil the surveilled, torment the tormented, and bind the unbound, ensuring that even in The Deep’s eternal dusk, no shadow escapes their reach. The Immortalis do not merely possess power; they distribute it across the world they have wrought, each trinket a testament to dominion’s inexorable design.
Immortalis Book One August 2026