Why Nicolas in Immortalis Finds Entertainment in His Own Authority
In the shadowed corridors of Corax Asylum, where the clatter of mismatched clocks drowns out the whimpers of the confined, Nicolas DeSilva reigns supreme. He is no mere warden, no simple gaoler of the mad. He is the architect of madness itself, a figure who derives profound, almost visceral delight from the absolute dominion he wields over every soul unfortunate enough to cross his threshold. To understand why Nicolas finds such entertainment in his authority, one must peer into the fractured machinery of his existence, where control is not merely a tool but the very pulse of his being.
Nicolas’s asylum is a testament to his philosophy. He has traded tributes, those red-haired favourites he savours with particular relish, for a medical licence from Irkalla, a certification from the thesapiens’ own board that proclaims him Doctor of Psychiatry. Yet cure is anathema to him; it would ruin his enterprise. Instead, he declares the sane insane, imprisons them, and sets about proving his diagnosis through calculated cruelties. Rusty scalpels gleam on immaculate racks, whips and birches line the shelves, and bespoke horrors await in chambers above. Beds replace coffins in the crypt-level dungeons, equipped with straps and handcuffs for his nocturnal diversions. The ground floor bristles with cells, gurneys, and oversized wheelchairs strewn with tortured forms. Mirrors and clanging clocks line every corridor, ensuring no privacy, no respite from the cacophony of his design.
This is no accident. Nicolas thrives on the theatre of power. He rounds up inmates for speeches in the meeting hall, announcements of no consequence save to remind them of his sway. He tinkers with pocket watches, masters horology not for utility but for the mastery it represents. His writing fills bound parchments in red ink, works of genius he shares with no one, hoarded like the tributes he debauches before trading away. Boredom is his enemy, and authority his antidote. When Lucia escapes, he orchestrates her recapture not for her safety but for the reputation of his institution, the gossiping inmates be damned. He lets her flee through secret passages, only to hunt her in the hall of mirrors, where reality fractures and hope twists into despair.
His entertainment stems from the primal joy of subjugation. Immortalis appetites run high, but Nicolas elevates sadism to sacrament. He prefers psychological torment to the dull repetition of the physical; the hall of mirrors disorients, the void capacitor chair convulses, the nerve harp plucks agony from nerves. Yet it is the authority underpinning these acts that truly exhilarates him. He traded souls for his licence, ensuring no one questions his verdicts. The Thesapien Medical Board bows to Irkalla’s seal, and Irkalla bends to his will. Behmor accepts the influx of broken minds, knowing Nicolas will eventually tire and dispatch them downward.
Consider his glee in Lucia’s pursuit. He unlocks her cuffs, leaves the door ajar, watches her hope flicker. Porters retrieve her, but slowly, prolonging the farce. In the chapel, he interrupts her desperate ritual, mocking the Electi’s folly. Even as she drags herself away, blistered and broken, he grins, dragging her to his chambers for the pulley, the bite, the salt in her wounds. It is not mere cruelty; it is the exquisite control, the certainty that every scream, every plea, bends to his design. His reflection, Webster, scolds practicality, but Nicolas dances to his violin concerto, shrieks of electricity harmonising with inmate cries.
This authority entertains because it absolves him. No empathy burdens him; he feels none. The asylum’s reputation irks him only when it risks his licence, his power. He writes complaints to Behmor about floating chairs and escaped Immolesses, knowing they amuse more than alarm. Fashion becomes armour, his tallest top hat a crown none dare rival. He collects skulls for canes, bodies for trinkets, lives for sport. In a world of feudal barter and Irkallan contracts, his word imprisons, his whim tortures, his boredom slays.
Yet beneath the theatrics lies a void he fills with dominion. Split from his Evro, conversing with a severed head, he merges selves briefly, unleashing primal urges. Webster tempers him, rational and spectacled, but Nicolas indulges the chaos. He is entertained by authority because it is his godhood, his Ledger entry, his eternal dusk. In Corax, he is Primus reborn, creating imbalance for the thrill of redress. The Immoless challenge fades; Lucia’s ghost haunts no more. Nicolas rules, and in that rule, finds his endless, sardonic delight.
Immortalis Book One August 2026