Why Nicolas Turns Every Interaction Into a Game
Nicolas DeSilva does not converse. He performs. Every exchange, every glance, every fleeting moment of human contact becomes a stage for his peculiar theatre of the absurd. A plague-infested hat delivery to Khepriarth, a fleet of magnetic anchors to wreck Sapari’s harbour, the deliberate release of an Immoless only to orchestrate her recapture, these are not mere pranks. They are meticulously scripted games, each designed to elicit chaos, complaint, and ultimately, his own amusement. But beneath the flamboyant excess lies a compulsion rooted in the very fabric of his being.
Consider the man himself. Born of Primus and Boaca Baer, Nicolas embodies the warrior blood of the Baers and the demonic tutelage of Irkalla. Ripped from his mother’s arms at twelve, he emerged warped, a creature of perpetual instability. Rumours persist that this primal separation fractured something essential within him, rendering empathy an alien concept. He feels no concern for the well-being of others, only irritation when they fail to perform as expected. The asylum, Corax, stands as his grandest canvas, a labyrinth where inmates exist not as patients but as pieces in his endless diversions. He declares sanity or madness at whim, not to heal but to justify the straps, the birches, the underfloor heating that blisters bare feet.
Games serve multiple cruelties. First, they combat boredom, that gnawing void which plagues his immortal ennui. Nicolas masters horology, fashions grotesque suits, composes screeching violin concertos, yet nothing sustains his interest without the thrill of pursuit. A tribute unchained offers hope, a fleeting illusion of escape, only for the inevitable recapture to affirm his supremacy. The Long-Faced Demon emerges in these moments, skull elongating, eyes narrowing, a manifestation of lust, hunger, and rage. Lucia’s hall-of-mirrors torment exemplifies this: mirrors shift, reflections distort into flayed horrors, and Nicolas steps through glass to growl, “Run rabbit.” Her blisters, her whimpers, fuel him more than blood alone.
Control is the second imperative. Nicolas abhors unpredictability in others, though he embodies it. His chambers gleam with immaculate order, barred windows draped in plaid, gramophone opposite the mirror where Webster resides. Yet the asylum reeks of deliberate filth, corridors lined with clanging clocks and staring mirrors to disorient. He builds secret passages, rotates builders to ensure no one maps the full structure. Interactions become games because they impose structure on the chaos of free will. When Lucia pleads, he twists her pleas into futility; when Theaten complains, he sends a raven demanding a chapel theatre. Even Behmor endures endless missives, from floating chairs to escaped Immolesses, each a petty provocation demanding response.
The theatricality stems from his fractured psyche. Webster, the rational reflection, designs inhibitors for horses and scalpels for skulls; Demize, the rotting head on the gramophone, mocks with cackling glee. Nicolas converses with them openly, voices echoing through cells, as inmates cower. This multiplicity demands performance, turning every encounter into a soliloquy. The orange-green silk suit, the levitating chair, the skull-topped cane, all props in his grand farce. He writes letters of complaint to Behmor, exaggerates crises, because reality without audience bores him to savagery.
Yet the deepest root lies in isolation. No friends, no true equals, only servants like the decaying Chives or beasts like Kane. Women reject him swiftly, mesmerism or no, for his sadism repels. Allyra’s anomaly fascinates: she resists, endures, even loves the monster. But trust eludes him; separation breeds paranoia. He spies as raven, gifts Ghorab for tracking, lest she slip his grasp. Games ensure engagement, prevent abandonment, for in Nicolas’s world, interaction is ownership, and ownership is survival.
Thus every word, every gesture becomes a gambit. A hat scatters fleas, a raven spies, a tribute flees only to be recaptured. Nicolas plays not for victory, but for the illusion of control in a fractured existence.
Immortalis Book One August 2026