Nicolas in Immortalis Delivers a Daily Nicolas Speech on Order
My darlings, my pretties, my little broken things scattered across the eternal night. Gather close now, for it is time again. Time for the daily decree, the ritual rasp of my voice carving truth into your fragile skulls. Today, we speak of Order. Not the limp pretence peddled by priests and politicians, those snivelling architects of illusion, but true Order. The kind forged in bone and blood, the kind that brooks no chaos, no whim, no fleeting rebellion from the meat-puppets who dare to call themselves alive.
Order begins with the collar. Picture it, that supple leather biting into the throat, a reminder that freedom is the lie the weak tell themselves before the whip falls. In Immortalis, we do not ask for submission; we demand it, we extract it, drop by crimson drop. I have seen empires crumble under the weight of their own disorder, kings reduced to whimpering husks because they forgot the first law: one rules, all obey. Chaos is the natural state, the squirming maggot-heart of existence, but Order? Order is the blade that pins it writhing to the table.
Let me tell you of Elena, that exquisite fool who thought her screams could shatter the structure. She came to me wild-eyed, hair a tangle of midnight defiance, body a canvas of untamed curves begging for the master’s mark. “Nicolas,” she spat, “you cannot chain what was born free.” Oh, how I laughed, that low rumble that makes the candles gutter. I showed her Order then, with silk restraints that bit deeper than iron, with commands that stripped her illusions layer by layer. By dawn, she knelt, collared and glistening, her chaos transmuted to perfect, shuddering compliance. Order is not cruelty, my loves; it is clarity. It is the rope that hauls you from the abyss.
Consider the halls of the Citadel, where shadows pool like spilled ink and the air hums with the symphony of restrained agony. Here, every archway aligns to my will, every stone laid in precise geometry. No vine dares creep unbidden, no rat scurries without purpose. I walk these corridors, and lesser things part before me, their eyes downcast, their breaths measured. This is Order: the universe bent to a single spine. You, out there in your squalid freedoms, scrabbling in the dirt of democracy and desire, you envy it. You crave the yoke, even as you rail against it.
Daily I rise, and daily I impose it. Breakfast is served at the chime, precisely seven strokes on the silver bell, the slaves’ feet pattering in unison across marble floors. Deviation? A lash, a lock, a lesson in the dungeon’s embrace. Love, they call it in your world, this fumbling dance of equals. Here, it is possession absolute. I own her body, her moans, her very marrow. She thanks me for it, lips bruised and parted, whispering “Master” like a prayer to the void.
Order demands sacrifice. The heretics, those who whisper of equality, of choice, they fuel the pyres. Watch them burn, my pretties, their flesh crisping in harmonious flames, a bonfire ballet that warms the soul. From their ash rises structure anew, purer, unyielding. I have flayed the disobedient, sewn their skins into tapestries of warning, no, into banners of instruction. Each stitch a sermon: stray, and suffer; submit, and soar.
In the bedchamber, Order reaches its zenith. She is bound, spread-eagled on silken sheets stained with the ink of old ecstasies, her pulse a metronome to my rhythm. I enter her not with haste, but with calculation, each thrust a reinforcement of hierarchy. Pain precedes pleasure, always, the cane’s kiss blooming red across her thighs before my fingers delve. She arches, she begs, she breaks, and in breaking, she is remade. This is the intimacy of immortals: dominion without end, surrender without surcease.
You listen now, don’t you? Fingers trembling on whatever pathetic device pipes my words into your night. You imagine yourself in her place, collared by my hand, ordered by my gaze. Good. Let that hunger gnaw. Order is coming for you, inevitable as the grave’s grin. Flee your disorderly lives, your half-hearted hungers, and seek the Citadel. Kneel at my feet, offer your chaos, and I shall grant you purpose.
Until tomorrow, my ordered ones. Sleep soundly in your chains.
Immortalis Book One August 2026