Nicolas’s Presence: Why It Commands Attention and Desire
Nicolas DeSilva occupies a space in the world of Morrigan Deep that no other being can claim. He is not merely an Immortalis, nor a mere proprietor of the infamous Corax Asylum. He is a force that disrupts, a figure that lingers in the mind long after his shadow has passed. His presence commands attention not through the refined menace of his brother Theaten, or the primal terror of Kane, but through a peculiar alchemy of absurdity, cruelty, and unyielding self-assurance. And desire? That follows inevitably, drawn from the same dark well that repels the weak-willed.
Consider the man himself. Tall, stoic, with shoulder-length auburn-brown hair perpetually tousled, a five o’clock shadow that defies grooming, and eyes that flicker from brown to green at his whim. He adorns himself in the most audacious attire: a black suit paired with a burgundy silk neck scarf, cufflinks to match, and a yellow-and-burgundy plaid jacket that stretches to his thighs, designed by his own hand as the greatest fashionista of The Deep. No top hat rivals his in height; those who dare face swift retribution, their heads destined for the asylum’s grim perimeter. This is no mere eccentricity. It is declaration. Nicolas does not blend into the eternal dusk of Morrigan Deep. He pierces it, demands it yield to his silhouette.
His asylum, Corax, embodies this command. A labyrinth of cells, torture chambers, and secret passages known only to him, it reeks of damp stone, rusting instruments, and the metallic tang of blood. Inmates, thesapiens, lower vampires, and tributes alike, strapped to beds or gurneys, endure whips, birches, and bespoke horrors like the nerve harp or void capacitor chair. Yet Nicolas insists it is state-of-the-art, a place of “corrective facilities.” He trades ravaged tributes to Irkalla for his psychiatric license, declares the sane insane, and breaks them to prove his diagnosis. Empathy is absent; only reputation matters. Patients gossip? He unleashes psychological torment in the hall of mirrors. Escapees roam? He dispatches ghouls like the ever-decaying Chives to retrieve them.
This is attention incarnate. Nicolas does not seek it quietly. He engineers chaos: top hats laced with plague fleas in Khepriarth, magnetic anchors sinking Sapari’s fleet, aardvarks vampirised to devour Neferaten’s sands. Rumours swirl, but proof eludes. He thrives in the ambiguity, the fear that precedes certainty. Even his alter egos—Webster, the slick-haired rationalist peering from mirrors; Demize, the rotting head cackling from the gramophone—amplify this. He converses with reflections, dances to screeching violins, and levitates chairs, all while his canines lengthen into fangs. Who could look away?
Desire enters through the fracture. Nicolas is sadism refined, a predator who savours the hunt. He lets Lucia, the second Immoless, escape her cell only to recapture her in the hall of mirrors, taunting her with “Run rabbit, run.” He spies on Allyra for weeks, morphs into a raven, gifts her Ghorab as messenger and spy. His touch promises agony laced with ecstasy: whips that draw blood, fangs that pierce as he claims his prey. Yet there is tenderness in the madness—the blood-soaked sheets he insists upon, the pocket watches he tinkers with while waiting for her return. Women fall, not to charm alone, but to the intoxicating peril. Clara the milkmaid, impaled on a rake during his “exorcism”; Scarlet the taxidermist, carrying her own head after his failed courtship. They resist, then succumb, drawn to the void he offers.
In a world of eternal dusk, where Theaten dines with ritual precision and Behmor governs from Irkalla’s shadows, Nicolas alone blazes. His presence is a carnival of cruelty, a ledger of lust and blood. Attention? He seizes it. Desire? He ignites it, knowing full well the flame consumes. For in Morrigan Deep, to command is to own, and Nicolas owns every gaze that dares meet his.
Immortalis Book One August 2026