Immortalis Is Not for Fans of Traditional Fantasy Tropes
Expect no noble elves gliding through enchanted woods, nor dwarves toiling in mountain forges, nor wizards hurling fireballs from ivory towers. Immortalis offers none of that comforting familiarity. Its world is Morrigan Deep, a realm of eternal dusk where thesapiens breed like livestock for the appetites of fractured immortals, and hell, Irkalla, governs all with its cold ledger. Here, power is not won through heroic quests or moral triumphs, but through sadistic precision, soul-binding contracts, and the relentless machinery of domination.
The Immortalis themselves shatter every trope. Take Nicolas DeSilva, proprietor of Corax Asylum, a state-of-the-art facility for driving the sane into gibbering madness. No brooding anti-hero, he is a gleeful architect of torment, his chambers a gramophone-spinning crypt adorned with rotting heads and levitating chairs. His Evro, Webster, manifests in mirrors as a bespectacled rationalist, inventing horrors like the Nerve Harp or Void Capacitor Chair. Together, they embody the Vero-Evro split: true self and primal urge, merging only when the urge demands. No chosen one rises; these beings gorge on blood and flesh, their sexual hungers as insatiable as their cruelty.
Fantasy promises clear good versus evil. Immortalis delivers a hierarchy of monsters. Primus, the Darkness, birthed Lilith and The Deep, only to fracture his son Theaten into Vero and Evro, Kane, to curb unrest. Lilith plots sovereignty through cults in Neferaten’s sands, while Primus counters with the Darkbadb Brotherhood and his bastard Nicolas, half-vampire Baer warrior ripped from his mother’s arms for demonic tutelage in Irkalla. Behmor, lesser Immortalis and king of hell, oversees six circles of torment from his silk-suited indolence. Even the Electi’s Immolesses, bred every century to challenge the Immortalis, end in ritual failure, their bodies torn or boiled.
Magic? Forget arcane academies. Power flows from Irkalla’s Rationum, The Ledger, inscribing classifications and contracts that bind souls eternally. Mirrors in the Anubium spy on every Immortalis form, portals for the cunning. Tribute systems demand thesapiens breed offerings, buried alive in plague pits or chained for the Immortalis’ feasts. No dragons hoard gold; Nicolas hoards pocket watches, rusty scalpels, and declarations of insanity to stock his crypt-dungeon.
Romance fares no better. No star-crossed lovers defy fate. Intimacy twists into predation: Nicolas lets Lucia escape only to hunt her through his hall of mirrors, her blisters throbbing as he taunts, “Run rabbit.” Theaten dines with Anne and Tepes on basted blondes, their blood wine ritual a veneer over primal savagery. Chester, the demon piper, beds women then drowns them in acid baths. Even Allyra, the anomalous third Immoless, boils vampires for secrets, her cauldron steaming as she extracts truths from the Getsug Sea.
Immortalis thrives on imbalance. Primus’s checks—Darkbadb watchers, Electi breeders, Immoless challengers—fail spectacularly. Vampires and thesapiens clash in mobs, plagues spread via flea-ridden hats, bridges collapse under loosened bolts. Irkalla’s six circles enforce rules, yet Nicolas trades tributes for psychiatric licenses, declaring sanity a curable delusion. The Deep barters feudal scraps while Immortalis gorge, their Vero selves cloaked in refinement, Evros lurking primal.
This is no escapist realm of prophecy and light. Immortalis is a sardonic dissection of appetite and authority, where gods fracture into sadists, hell’s ledger tallies souls like debts, and love devolves to possession’s lash. Fans of Tolkien’s fellowship or Martin’s thrones will find no comfort here—only the exquisite, controlled horror of a world where dominance devours all.
Immortalis Book One August 2026