Why Nicolas in Immortalis Builds Worlds That Feel Theatrical
In the perpetual dusk of Morrigan Deep, where the two suns hang low and unyielding on the horizon, few figures command the stage quite like Nicolas DeSilva. His domain, Corax Asylum, stands not merely as a prison or a torture chamber, but as a grand theatre of the grotesque, every corridor a proscenium arch, every scream a cue for the next act. One might ask why a being of such raw power, son of Primus himself and half Baer warrior, chooses to orchestrate his cruelties with the flourish of a ringmaster. The answer lies in the very marrow of his fractured existence: Nicolas builds worlds that feel theatrical because theatre is the only realm where he can both dominate and dazzle, where control masquerades as spectacle, and where his isolation finds an audience.
Consider the asylum itself, that sprawling edifice of damp stone and secret passages in Togaduine. Nicolas did not inherit it; he seized it from Ducissa Elena, tricking her into a perpetual trance before a chandelier conveniently claimed her head. From there, he transformed it into a labyrinth of mirrors and clanging clocks, where inmates wander corridors lined with their own distorted reflections, every tick a reminder of inescapable time. Beds replace coffins in the crypt-dungeons, not for comfort, but for straps and handcuffs that render the restrained more amenable to his nocturnal whims. Surgical racks gleam with rust, whips hang beside trephines, and the ground floor boasts a banqueting suite and library reserved solely for Nicolas, spaces of mock civility amid the mire.
This is no haphazard horror. Nicolas employs rotating teams of builders, each modifying the last’s work, ensuring only he knows the full map of hidden doors and false walls. Privacy evaporates; inmates never know where his petty tortures will spring from next. He rounds them up for meaningless speeches in the meeting hall, forces them into oversized wheelchairs or soiled gurneys, and blasts his screeching violin concertos through diaphragm amplifiers until the asylum harmonises in shrieks. Even the washrooms spew sewage from open-plan walls, inmates cut beforehand to ensure optimal treatment. Every element serves the performance, turning suffering into symphony.
Nicolas’s theatrics extend beyond Corax. He sends plague-flecked hats to Khepriarth, sparking mob burials of the living; engineers magnetic anchors to wreck Sapari’s fleet; releases vampiric aardvarks to pit Neferaten’s sands. Rumours swirl, but no one claims responsibility. He declares himself detective in Threnodyl, freeing murderers with machetes; safety officer in Thanata, dynamiting mines for light; lamplighter in Ashurrel, gaslighting the populace. Each role a costume, each town a stage for his absurd authority. He protests for legs for leeches, trains apisvespa mortifera hybrids, and turns his chapel into a theatre for serial killers’ plays. Life, to Nicolas, demands an audience, and he is both playwright and star.
Why this compulsion? Nicolas, Immortalis son of Primus and Boaca Baer, wields power to fracture souls and rewrite ledgers. Yet isolation gnaws at him. Raised briefly as a Baer warrior before Primus ripped him to Irkalla for demonic tutelage, rumour holds the separation bred peculiarity, even insanity. He has no true friends, only a rotting head for company, a ghoul who shuffles in decay, and alters like Webster, his rational reflection. His Evro, Chester, roams as a silver-chained seducer, but even that is him. The asylum’s filth suits his hygiene aversion, its mirrors reflect his vanity, its clocks tick his horological obsession. He writes ceaselessly, binds parchments in red ink, but shares nothing, hating intrusion.
Theatricality fills the void. In spectacles, he is seen, admired, feared. The hats sow chaos in Khepriarth, bees test gentlemen in town halls; chairs levitate, hats tower taller than rivals’. He dances with canes topped by skulls, spins gramophones with Demize’s head, dresses in orange silk or plaid monstrosities. Run rabbit games grant escape illusions before recapture; tributes endure nerve harps and void chairs. Even Irkalla bends: Behmor endures explosive letters, ignored ravens. Nicolas craves reaction, for in performance, he is god, not the fractured son who gorged on blood and flesh, split by Primus into Vero and Evro.
His worlds feel theatrical because they are. Corax is his Colosseum, inmates gladiators in his arena. The Deep his proscenium, villages unwitting actors. Theatricality sustains him, turning sadism into symphony, isolation into applause. Nicolas builds not for survival, but for the spotlight’s glare, where even a monster finds adoration.
Immortalis Book One August 2026