Why Nicolas in Immortalis Uses Humour to Undermine Seriousness
In the shadowed annals of Morrigan Deep, where eternal dusk cloaks the deeds of the Immortalis, Nicolas DeSilva stands apart as the jester of torment. His asylum, Corax, is no mere prison but a theatre of the grotesque, where laughter pierces the screams like a rusty scalpel. Nicolas wields humour not as relief but as a blade, slicing through the gravity of suffering to expose its absurdity. This is no accident of character; it is the precise mechanism by which he dismantles seriousness, rendering horror palatable, control invisible, and dominance absolute.
Consider the plague hats dispatched to Khepriarth. A shipment of finery, labelled gifts for gentlemen, unleashes fleas upon the village. Chaos erupts: men bicker over insufficient hats, a bee test locks the sane in peril, and wives are buried alive amid complaints silenced by soil. The Lord of Khepriarth complains to Tepes, Tepes to Theaten, yet no one claims the act. Rumours swirl, but Nicolas? He merely waits, patient as a predator in plaid. The humour lies in the banality: top hats as vectors of death, gentlemanly decorum as prelude to mass grave. Seriousness crumbles; what remains is farce, and in farce, Nicolas reigns unseen.
His own domain amplifies this. Corax teems with mirrors that warp reality, clocks that chime discord, and cells where beds invite restraint over rest. Patients roam, but none escape the design. Nicolas trades tributes for his psychiatric licence, declares sanity insanity, and cures through torment. A levitating chair spins him mid-complaint; he crawls cell to cell lamenting its insolence. Lucia flees only to wander his hall of mirrors, where reflections scream from wounds that fester eternally. He lets her hope bloom, then snuffs it with a sneer: “Run rabbit.” The jape undercuts terror, turns pursuit to playground chase. Victims hesitate, mesmerised by the mockery, and in that pause, he strikes.
Even his Evro, Webster, serves the jest. Rational where Nicolas capers, Webster crafts inhibitors for horses, spectacles that blur, floors that blister. Yet Nicolas attributes the asylum’s underfloor heating to him, as if sadism needs an alibi. Their dialogues fracture the narrative: one demands focus, the other dances to off-key violins. Serious intent dissolves in bickering; the audience, inmates or reader, laughs uneasily. Humour exposes the artifice of power, but Nicolas rebuilds it stronger, his grin the final punctuation.
Sapari’s woes exemplify the pattern. A grinning horse heralds false pirates; magnetic anchors crunch hulls. Wood vanishes, harbour masters cycle through incompetence. Rumours point to Nicolas, but proof eludes. He denies with flair: no spikes needed, no fins desired. The absurdity lingers, villagers bury suspicions with their dead. Serious investigation yields to whispered jests, and Nicolas profits unseen.
This humour is no mere quirk. It undermines the solemnity of rule, the weight of law, the finality of death. In Irkalla’s mirrors, he spies; in Corax’s cells, he cavorts. Victims grasp at logic, find only levity, and falter. The Immortalis thrive on imbalance, but Nicolas perfects it through ridicule. Seriousness demands dignity; his jests strip it bare, leaving only submission. To laugh at Corax is to accept its lord, for in the jester’s court, mirth is the sharpest chain.
Immortalis Book One August 2026