Why Nicolas in Immortalis Enjoys the Ridiculous Nature of Authority
In the shadowed annals of Morrigan Deep, where eternal dusk cloaks the machinations of the immortal, Nicolas DeSilva stands as a figure both grotesque and commanding, presiding over Corax Asylum with the capricious glee of a jester wielding a scalpel. His delight in authority’s absurd underbelly is no mere quirk; it is the very rhythm of his existence, a sardonic symphony played on the frayed nerves of lesser beings. Nicolas does not merely inhabit power, he perverts it, turning the solemn machinery of rule into a carnival of the macabre.
Consider the asylum itself, that festering edifice of stone and suffering in Togaduine. Nicolas acquired his medical licence through a barter with Irkalla, trading six ravaged tributes for the dubious honour of Doctor of Psychiatry. Yet cure is anathema to him; sanity undermines his enterprise. He declares the sane insane, locks them away, and labours conscientiously to shatter their minds, thus proving his initial diagnosis impeccable. This circular tyranny, where judgement begets justification, exemplifies his relish for authority’s inherent farce. The Thesapien Medical Board, that toothless relic, rubber-stamps his predations, for who dares challenge the proprietor of Corax?
His interventions in the wider Deep amplify this penchant. Recall the hats dispatched to Khepriarth, laced with plague-bearing fleas, sparking a town-wide frenzy resolved by mass burial of the infected, wives included. Or the phantom pirate armada that lured Sapari’s ships into magnetic anchors, crunching hulls and scattering debris while wood vanished unnoticed. Rumours swirl, always of a grinning horse or a fool in plaid, yet proof eludes the lords who complain upward to Tepes, thence to Theaten, who casts their missives aside. Nicolas thrives in this void of accountability, where authority’s pomp collapses under its own weight.
Even Irkalla bends to his whims. Behmor, that indolent king, accepts the influx of Nicolas’s broken souls, redistributing them into torture or drudgery. The Ad Sex Speculum, those six vigilant mirrors in the Anubium, track the Immortalis ceaselessly, yet Nicolas cloaks his Evro’s reflection with impunity. He petitions for theatres in chapels, demands tightropes for the condemned, and receives compliance, for none court his tecthy moods.
At heart, Nicolas savours authority’s ridiculousness because it mirrors his fractured self. Split between Vero and Evro, rational and primal, he embodies the contradiction: a lord who lounges in filth, a doctor who peddles madness, a sovereign who sulks over trifles. His orange silks clash with black suits, top hats tower absurdly, and pocket watches tick discordant symphonies. In a world of feudal barons and ritualistic Electi, where lords lock doors during bee tests and harbour masters gift ferromagnetic anchors, Nicolas finds kinship. He is the Deep’s truest reflection, mocking the solemnity of power with gleeful, inexhaustible invention.
Yet beneath the farce lurks unyielding command. Corax endures as his realm, inmates strapped in oversized chairs or scalded in sewage baths, all under the pretence of psychiatry. Nicolas does not dismantle authority; he revels in its folly, wielding it as both sceptre and jest. In his hands, the ridiculous becomes the reign of terror, and the terror, a punchline for the ages.
Immortalis Book One August 2026