Webster in Immortalis Publishes a Daily Nicolas Analysis on Structure
In the shadowed cloisters of Immortalis, where the air hangs thick with the scent of aged vellum and something far more primal, Webster has commenced his daily rite. Each dawn, as the first pallid light filters through cracked panes, he commits to parchment his meticulous dissection of Nicolas. Not the man, mind, for Nicolas transcends such frail nomenclature. No, Webster parses the structure, the very architecture of the eternal that courses beneath that flawless integument.
Today’s entry, the seventh in sequence, concerns the osseous framework. Nicolas’s bones, those unyielding pillars that have borne the weight of centuries, defy the crude mechanics of mortality. Webster notes how they elongate under duress, splintering and reforming in geometries no anatomist of old would credit. He sketches with a quill dipped in ink mingled with his own blood, for only such a medium captures the truth. The clavicles, he posits, serve not merely as scaffolds but as reservoirs, hollowed chambers where echoes of devoured souls resonate. A tap upon them yields harmonics that unsettle the listener’s marrow, a symphony of the ingested.
Webster’s hand, steady as the grave, traces the curvature of the ribcage. Twelve arches, yes, but the thirteenth lurks, vestigial until hunger awakens it. It unfurls like a lover’s claw, piercing flesh from within to claim fresh tribute. He recounts the night Nicolas demonstrated this, the chamber awash in crimson spray as the bone quested outward, seeking vein and ventricle. Structure, Webster emphasises, is not static. It hungers, adapts, devours.
Lower still, the pelvis. Webster lingers here, his script growing fevered. Forged in fires predating cathedrals, it cradles not progeny but oblivion. Its basin widens in ecstasy, accommodating the impossible, contracting to pulverise the unworthy. Nicolas’s form, in congress, reveals this truth: hips grinding with the precision of millstones, reducing lovers to paste even as they ascend. Webster has witnessed it, catalogued the remnants. The structure endures, polished by attrition.
Nor does he spare the extremities. The phalanges, elongated talons masquerading as digits, flex with prehensile cunning. They have cradled empires, throttled kings, and plumbed depths no mortal probe could brave. Webster measures their tensile strength against steel, finds it wanting. The joints, lubricated by ichor rather than synovial fluid, click with a sound like breaking glass underfoot.
Critics, those simpering academics from the outer world, dismiss Webster’s labours as delusion. They have not seen Nicolas unclothed, not beheld the lattice of veins that pulse with stolen vitality, nor the musculature that coils like serpents in repose. Webster publishes daily to refute them, each analysis a scalpel to their ignorance. Immortalis harbours no illusions; here, structure is sovereignty, and Nicolas its sovereign exemplar.
Tomorrow, the cranial vault. Webster anticipates revelations there, in the sutures that part like lips to whisper forgotten rites. Subscribe to these dispatches, if you dare. The postscript warns: comprehension invites transformation.
Immortalis Book One August 2026