Silas Ledgerly (☥𝐃𝐁)

Immortalis Book One: The Jester and The Immoless Act One Scene XII: The Immoless and The Jester The 1stDay of the 4th Moon, 1536 P.V. The Shipwreck Sombre, Sapari Allyra woke on her shipwreck. It was her shipwreck because no one else wanted it, and Allyra adored the sea. The shipwreck sat wedged on the rocks surrounding the Clachdhu Beacon. The interior was largely intact, and Allyra had provided furnishings for the galley, which she used as a torture chamber for uncooperative lords and vampires, and her cabin. She awoke on deck surrounded by bottles that she was not entirely convinced she had drunk from. The bottles were empty and rolling about by her feet. She looked up at the cloudy sky, but the air was not chilling and there were no signs of rain. Allyra could not remember how she got to the ship. Her baers often accompanied her, but their nobby was visibly absent as was the sounds of their loud voices. Both Banshee and BaerNedi talked far more loudly than necessary, especially after a drop of rum, whisky, ale, or all three. Equally, there was no indication of any resident vampire ready for torture. No screams, no threats, no complaining. The only noticeable sound was the sweet lull of the sea crashing around the ship and rocks. Allyra’s head thrummed as if she had drunk excessively, but a quick breath test on her hand proved she had not, and there was a dizziness about her that caused her eyes to wander in all directions, one on the mast, the other on the stern. She forced herself to stand and shuffled to the bulwark where she leaned on the wood and stared out towards the archipelago of Sihr. Her eyes closed and she imagined herself living alone, in peaceful solitude, self-sufficient, independent, and happy in the fort that rose from Sihr’s rocks and glistened between the crystal sky and its reflection in the mirrored surface of the sea. She had heard tales of the eccentric necromancer who lived on Sihr from the baers and her father, but she believed there was enough room for the both of them, even if the necromancer was a sadistic lunatic. She even envisaged dividing his palace down the middle with shared facilities where necessary. Occasionally she considered refitting The Sombre and living on board, docked at one of the islands adjacent to the necromancer’s home, and reasoned that he could not argue with that. Her impending death gave her free reign to imagine whatever she wished, since it was not likely to happen anyway. Nicolas sat on the mast watching. He had lowered his hood and crouched like a raven. Observing. Allyra drummed her fingers on the wood. She was used to her turns and blackouts, and used to waking up in strange places, so it did not phase her. In her mind Sihr whispered her name. Nicolas stepped off of the mast and floated down behind her, silently. His breath warmed her neck, but she did not turn or speak, just waited to see what her companion would do. As she waited her hand slid to the hilt of her dagger. Nicolas watched its subtle journey, ‘That won’t work on me, Immoless,’ he whispered. Allyra turned, but there was no one there. She closed her eyes tightly, opened them and blinked a few times, then removed her boots as softly as possible and took a slow walk about the deck. The two suns cast a deep amber kiss on the mast. A scuffle alerted her to one of the old kegs that she used as a seat. She crept over to it and flung open the lid. It was empty. An albatross circled above, then landed in the crow’s nest. Allyra sighed. ‘Why do you stare at Sihr?’ The voice asked. Allyra took a deep breath, hoping that her episodes were not worsening, then elected to answer. Either someone was listening, and she did not want them to think she was easily spooked, or she was going insane and it would be rude not to answer herself, ‘It’s my dream,’ she sighed, ‘I can escape the Electi there, and in my mind, I can live in peace. I can watch the tide and listen to the gulls. I can swim in the crisp waters and hide in my own turret. I could wake every morning knowing that I was safe, and the ocean would give me company.’ Breath warmed her neck again, ‘You would be lonely.’ She turned full circle but could see no one. ‘I have been lonely since I lost my mother. She was my best friend and the Electi killed her. Slit her throat in front of me. All she did was love my father. That is all. And now, it’s my turn. Which doesn’t matter as I’m already losing my mind. Perhaps death will be a relief.’ ‘That is a terrible thing to say!’ Allyra shuddered and put her head in her hands. Her eyes closed and she muttered to herself, ‘Voices in my head, voices in my head, voices in my head.’ She looked about her again and thought of Chester worrying about her disappearance. She thought of her father frantically combing through the house, and she thought of her death in the dungeons of a hungry demon. Her mind drifted in a hazy lake of confusion. Her body wandered back to the bulwark, and she stared at the furious sea below, fighting frantically against the immovable rocks. The mesmerism, Allyra’s ‘turns,’ always caused a deep melancholy; a hangover of sorts, which was all consuming. The melancholy, the dreams, and the dreary expectations of her personal sacrifice sickened her. Knowing that her own father stood as an Electi priest willing to throw her to the jaws of the Immortalis sickened her. Her man happy to share her around whilst indulging his libido with other women also sickened her, although she considered it unfair on Chester to complain. A single tear leaked from her left eye. ‘Why are you sad?’ The voice whispered again, closer than before. Allyra startled and turned, but no one was there, ‘I was in the tavern today, and there were families there. Sitting together, belonging to each other. My so-called family just want me to die. I had a plan but it’s stupid. Just a stupid idea.’ ‘What plan?’ Nicolas asked, blowing the hair on her neck. Allyra did not bother to turn, ‘It seemed so clever a few days ago, now it has melted into a complex mess.’ ‘How so?’ ‘Today has just been… Strange. I want it all to just be over with.’ ‘You WANT to die?’ Allyra sighed, ‘I don’t want to exist like this. I had so many dreams.’ ‘What dreams?’ The voice called from the mast. Allyra looked up. Only the albatross looked back at her, ‘Silly dreams. They change with the tide. I thought I might be an admiral of a fleet or a great warrior. I should like to learn music, or medicine, perhaps one day be a mother and grandmother. I always wanted to ride a wild beast, dive to the depths of the ocean, write my own book, go to a circus, drop into the lowest levels of the mines and swim in their cool waters, fight with a sword in hand, have an operational ship rather than a wreck, but all I have been learning is how to survive, and that’s thanks to my baers, not to the Electi. I have never been to a theatre, such things that people take for granted. And on days like today, I dream of sleeping at the bottom of the sea, but even those dreams have monsters.’ Allyra turned and headed back to the pile of kegs, and opened one, pulling out a small bottle of Ashurrel wine. She tore the cap off with her teeth and took a slug, then returned to the bulwark and perched the bottle on the handrail, ‘Cheers to the voices in my head.’ The voice did not answer. Allyra closed her eyes and slumped down with her back pressing into the wood. She inhaled the sea air slowly, not noticing the crafty hand that squirted some obnoxious green fluid from a pipette into her drink. ‘What was your plan, Immoless?’ The voice whispered again. Allyra jumped and opened her eyes, ‘I don’t call myself Immoless, not even in my most insane moments because I am not a true Immoless.’ ‘What was your plan?’ ‘It’s stupid.’ ‘Tell me anyway.’ ‘The plan was to use Irkallan contract law and force one or another of the Immortalis to protect me, whilst I seek, shall we say, my own path to freedom by ridding myself of my position as Immoless.’ Allyra stood up again and took a long drink from her bottle, ‘Like I said, stupid.’ Nicolas considered her plan, ‘It’s not half as stupid as the Electi sending two Immolesses to Corax at once, is it?’ ‘What?’ Allyra snapped. ‘Now, I know you’re not in my mind, Mr Voice. Do you know why? I did not know they had dispatched Lucia. Where are you? Come out or I will find you.’ She finished the bottle of intoxicated wine, as Allyra was not one to turn down alcohol, then searched the ship. First, she checked the mast and crow’s nest, where Bigglesworth’s fat albatross sat, then circled back and forth about the deck before descending into the galley and the lower quarters, opening every drawer, cupboard, and ottoman that she had lovingly placed in her private home. Finally, she went to her cabin. Allyra had decked her cabin out in purple textures, a double bed, and some bizarre wall tapestries that she had sewn herself which showcased pictures of tentacle laden sea monsters. Finding nothing and no one, she did another circuit of the ship shouting, ‘Hello?’ No one answered. She was not worried about The DarkBadb Brotherhood hearing as the waves drowned out any noise between the beacon and the ship, and the DarkBadb suffered from severe selective hearing problems anyway. She returned to her bottle only to find it full again. Allyra scratched her head. On the label in crude yellow pen the words ‘drink me’ beckoned ‘Don’t mind if I do!’ Allyra nodded, tipping the lot down her throat. Her brain fogged momentarily, and she went woozy, spinning slightly. Allyra steadied herself, then headed back to her cabin. She stripped off and climbed into her bed. Her eyes closed, and a sinking feeling soothed her troubled soul. No sooner had she started to drift off when the voice came again, and, as it spoke, the side of the bed next to her dipped. ‘I have a proposition for you, Madam.’ Allyra opened her eyes and glanced sideways. A man was laying next to her, quite comfortably, his hands rested behind his head and his feet crossed at the bottom of the bed. His cane hung on the bedpost, and his orange and green suit unashamedly bore a nice big hole in the crotch. ‘YOU!’ Allyra snapped. ‘Now, Madam Immoless, don’t start that aggression again, it’s unbecoming in someone of your sex!’ ‘You were at my house. Did you bring me here?’ ‘Do I look like I can fly?’ Nicolas asked. ‘No, but I was at home, with Ches. What did you do with Ches?’ ‘Nothing, we tossed a coin and Ches said I could take you.’ ‘What rubbish,’ Allyra snorted. ‘Anyway, Madam, I have a proposition for you and that’s what matters, not your personal problems with your men friends, which I don’t approve of by the way. No need to go around sharing yourself like a lemon tart, is there?’ Allyra leaned up on her elbow, ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion. I don’t even know you, and in my opinion what I do is none of your business!’ Nicolas mulled over Allyra’s comments, then decided that she was simply wrong. It was his business, ‘Madam, Confusius informed you of our impending nuptials, and our nuptials shall arise soon enough. Yes, they shall. You will fight it, of course, and as a gentleman I expect that of a lady, but I strongly suggest you do not fight hard enough to irritate my good selves as we shall return in kind any such transgressions.’ ‘I’m imagining strangely insane men now!’ Allyra muttered. Nicolas looked around the room, ‘Where, Madam? Worry not, I shall defend your honour gallantly.’ Allyra slowly put her hand out and poked Nicolas’s chest, ‘You’re real!’ As she spoke, Nicolas clasped her hand and pressed it against his firm body, ‘A declaration of love on your part, a touch, most welcome.’ ‘What?’ Allyra asked, ‘I was checking if you were real.’ ‘No, my love, you were checking out my fine body.’ ‘I can see your fine body through the inappropriate hole in your pants,’ Allyra replied. ‘Oh yes that, well you see there was this tribute and she was not being particularly nice to me, she was a little spiteful. You know the sort, and one thing led to another, and I had to get Chives to order a new suit. But fear not, I shall be selecting your wedding dress, not Chives. I gave him two days, by which I meant today, so tomorrow you will see me in all my finery.’ The drink, and Nicolas’s added secret sauce, caused Allyra’s eyes to blink and she lay supine. Nicolas moved close to her. Very close. ‘I have heard your plan, and I am willing to offer you a counterplan, come to Corax with me and be my bride. If you agree, I shall show you what a gracious lord I am and permit you to live!’ ‘You’re Nicolas DeSilva!’ Allyra cried out. Nicolas’s face lit up, and his whole being quivered with excitement, ‘Yes, see you’re not as slow as Confusius said. He thought you were a bit simple, said you struggle to open doors, but he did inform me that he relayed the message concerning our marriage quite clearly, and that you went down on him. That’s no way for a lady to behave, especially when she is already betrothed. He hinted you have a sex addiction as you got quite excited, Smythe concurs. I said, ‘Good for her, when is it my turn?’ Because one likes to sample the goods before buying them.’ Allyra frowned, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Nicolas put his arm around her and pulled her close to his body. Allyra attempted to resist, but her body was too weak from the alcohol, amongst other noxious substances, ‘I am a god, Madam. Your superior in every way, and I get lonely. We all do, so we decided to lower ourselves and marry you. That way, I shall be happy. I think we should consider tonight our first official, official date as opposed to just the official date as we have already had one of those.’ Allyra yawned, ‘Shouldn’t you ask me on a date or something? Isn’t that how these things go?’ ‘I don’t have to. I have saved you the time and effort of acting coy by deciding on your behalf. You are welcome. I have not been engaged before, so you must follow my lead on all matters. Now let us commence our date by taking sex off the table, as it is unseemly on a first date, even though you have been throwing your body at men all day, which will stop,’ Nicolas hesitated, then added, ‘unless you want sex???’ Nicolas looked down at Allyra, who had fallen asleep. ‘Immoless,’ he whispered. No answer came, ‘Immoless. Immoless. Immoless.’ Nicolas grew impatient and gave Allyra a swift kick in the shin. ‘What?’ She said, as her eyes blinked open. ‘Guess you can’t sleep either, must be the excitement of our wedding.’ ‘There is no wedding,’ Allyra replied, yawning again. Nicolas ignored her ladylike protests, ‘I have decided that I shall allow you, as an engagement present, to ask me any questions you see fit. To put your mind at ease.’ Allyra thought for a moment then asked, ‘Are my sisters still alive?’ Nicolas raised his eyebrows, ‘Why? Are you close?’ ‘Not really. I don’t think they like me anymore than the Electi do, except my father Tempus, of course. But are they alive?’ ‘Currently, yes.’ Nicolas replied, ‘But tradition dictates that they won’t be for much longer.’ ‘Tradition dictates you will also kill me, am I right?’ Nicolas nodded, ‘Yes, but that is no excuse for not marrying your fiancé.’ ‘I think it’s a bloody good excuse.’ Nicolas’s eyes reddened, ‘I am a god, you can’t speak to me like that, woman. You must learn your place. Shiverton raised concerns about your attitude problem, but he did say you tasted good.’ ‘So, you’re going to eat me?’ ‘Never say never, that’s what I say.’ Nicolas replied, ‘However, if you chose me to protect you then it would make matters easier, don’t you think?’ Nicolas did not wait for a response, instead he sat up, turned his back to Allyra, pulled a pocket watch out of his jacket, opened it, and started whispering at it, ‘I think we are getting somewhere, Webster!’ Allyra’s ears pricked up. Webster, according to some of the lords she had worried, was assumed to be Nicolas’s Evro, and a necessary part of the plan she had earlier considered foolish. ‘No, Webster,’ Nicolas continued, ‘I can’t lobotomise her, she hasn’t been dispatched and The Ledger would not approve… You know he wouldn’t approve… No, I can’t change his mind. And you need to make a stronger serum; she is all lucid and eavesdropping… Well work on it… I will tell you later… Later I said.’ Then he closed the watch, returned it to its home, and lay back down as if nothing had happened. ‘Who were you talking to?’ Allyra asked. ‘My voice of reason, Madam, he hides in my watch. Sometimes he hides in mirrors or in my laboratory, but the watch makes him portable.’ ‘Are you nuts or something?’ Nicolas’s eyes rolled backwards halfway into his head leaving only half an iris and a dot of a pupil in each socket. Blood dribbled from his lips, and he let out a long low growl before responding, ‘No, Madam, I am not nuts, I am a psychiatrist. I would know if I was nuts. Dr Smythe thinks you are nuts and he says he wants you referred to Dr Dick, you may know him as Riesigerschwanz, perhaps we could have couples’ therapy.’ ‘We aren’t a couple.’ ‘Will you sleep with me now? We decided that even though it is improper that you might consider it, remember?’ Nicolas asked, ignoring her latest modest comment. ‘No!’ Allyra groaned. ‘But you sleep with everyone else. Everyone but your husband, poor Nicolas.’ Allyra’s foggy mind slumped on the precipice of sleep, ‘We aren’t married.’ ‘You are confused again, that sort of behaviour lands you in the sea.’ Allyra’s eyes narrowed, ‘Have you been throwing me in the sea?’ ‘Me? No. Of course not. What a suggestion, why would I throw my bride into the sea? I can say with a doubt or without or without a doubt’s doubt that that should be not a no. In fact, as a psychiatrist, I propose that you have been sea sailing, a common ailment among single women desperately seeking a loving spouse.’ Allyra grunted, ‘I wake up in the sea, not in a boat.’ ‘You’re obviously not very good at sailing then, are you?’ Allyra rubbed her head and tried not to drift back to sleep, ‘I dream of sea monsters.’ Nicolas raised a hand, ‘One second Madam,’ and pulled a pencil and notepad from his jacket, ‘lucid dreaming, sleep-sailing, wants sex with sea monsters, blackouts, delusions, daydreams, and forgets her long-suffering spouse. Any other symptoms?’ ‘I don’t want to be assessed by you or your drunk doctors. I want to be left alone!’ ‘Argumentative, unreasonably hostile, suffering the ills of isolation. Have I missed anything?’ ‘I’m not answering you!’ ‘Silence which is not normal for her gender. Funny enough…’ Nicolas continued, ‘I diagnosed some wayward tributes as insane earlier today. Yes, one thought she was not a spider and the other desperately wanted her breasts clipped off. Sad times. Tell me, do I frighten you?’ ‘Not really.’ Allyra sighed, ‘I came to terms with my fate a long time ago. Doesn’t make me happy, but it is what must be.’ ‘Random bouts of melancholia,’ Nicolas added, ‘and a very poor response to potentially life threatening situations.’ ‘Are you threatening me?’ Allyra asked. Nicolas’s mouth opened and his eyebrows raised, ‘Madam, I am both hurt and offended. I have not harmed you in anyway. No, indeed. I am forced by virtue of my position and the laws of Irkalla to commit acts that seem so horrific, and it saddens me to do so, but such is the requirement for peace in the world. I sacrifice my feelings for the population. I am a philanthropist marred and soiled with a cruel reputation, not befitting of my own suffering.’ Allyra’s eyelids grew heavy, ‘None of what you say makes sense, Nicolas.’ ‘Master!’ Nicolas replied. ‘Master who?’ ‘No, Immoless, you must call me Master or Sir, a sign of respect for my station that is so substantially greater than yours.’ Allyra sighed, ‘How rude!’ ‘How rude, Master.’ Nicolas replied. ‘You’re forgiven,’ Allyra smiled, ‘are you truly as maligned as you say.’ ‘Terribly so,’ Nicolas said, his eyes widening. ‘So, you don’t murder your tributes?’ ‘Murder?’ Nicolas looked astonished, ‘No madam. Murder indeed. No, they are provided with rooms, beds, water, even affection, and remain forever under Corax’s roof.’ ‘Is that true?’ ‘Yes.’ Nicolas said, shaking his head. ‘But you said the Immolesses are killed according to tradition.’ ‘Alas, this is my brother’s burden to bear.’ Allyra held enough information to have a rudimentary, though often flawed, understanding of the Immortalis, ‘Theaten or Kane?’ Nicolas put his hand to his chin, ‘Robert.’ ‘Who is Robert?’ Allyra asked. ‘The one you call Theaten. He is definitely a Robert. He has Robert’s overbite. He prizes the Immolesses and takes care of them in a humane manner. He even washes them and provides hair. They like the hair. I suspect he gives them a lot more if you know what I mean. I do not. They are too skinny for my liking. Now accept my proposition and we shall return to Corax, and you won’t have to endure the hardships destined.’ ‘What hardships?’ ‘Hardships that will befall you if you do not co-operate. Those hardships. Come willingly now and I shall sign a contract offering my full protection.’ Allyra rubbed her eyes and yawned, ‘Sounds like a trick or a trap.’ ‘It is a kindness!’ Nicolas replied. Allyra did not answer. Nicolas looked down at her and watched as her eyes closed. She could fight the serum no more, ‘Don’t hurt me, Nicolas,’ she whispered. ‘Not tonight.’ Nicolas did not answer. He waited until she was sleeping, then wrapped his arms about her, hung his face over hers, and held her whispering, ‘I will never let you go,’ as a sneer spread over his delighted face. Nicolas remained hovering over Allyra in a rather unpleasant and creepy fashion until she started snoring, then he launched his romantic, contractual bombshell, ‘Immoless, I should like to propose an agreement of sorts. A truce. A contract built on the love you so obviously hide from my perceptive eyes. The Final Irkallan contract. As such, Allyra, will you marry me?’ Allyra was so entranced by his words, and in such a deep sleep, that she elected not to answer directly but allowed her silence to speak for her. Nicolas’s smirk widened, and his eyes rolled upward, ‘Qui tacet consentire videtur, she who is silent is seen to consent.’ Allyra let out a rather loud and highly unattractive snore. Nicolas’s eyes rolled back down, and his eyebrows danced with glee, ‘I appreciate the enthusiasm, Immoless. I appreciate it very much. And tomorrow you shall offer me the same proposal, whether in truth or in jest, and it shall stand.’ Nicolas’s irises glazed over, ‘Hear me, Immoless, you shall make the same proposal tomorrow.’ Allyra fidgeted against his body, inadvertently causing an arousal in Nicolas that was quite plain to see, especially given the tattered state of his trousers. Her lips parted and she whispered, ‘I shall propose tomorrow, Nic. Tomorrow. I’m tired tonight.’ ‘Then rest,’ Nicolas replied, almost as if he cared, ‘you have a long and rocky path ahead.’ ‘Like Lucien Nerison,’ Allyra whispered. Nicolas’s eyes narrowed, ‘What?’ Allyra pressed against his body, her hand drifted under his waistcoat and shirt, and pressed into his flesh, ‘Nicolas,’ she whispered, then drifted into a deeper sleep. Nicolas took out his notebook, and noted her new declaration of love, then took the opportunity to impress upon her sleeping mind some of his other fantastic ideas. immortalisverse.com #DarkFantasy #Horror #DarkRomance

Immortalis Book One: The Jester and The Immoless Movement 1: The Pledge, Breaking The Recurring System Act I: The Breadth of Corax Scene I: Prelude, The Plague The 31st Day of the 3rd Moon, 1536 P.V. (Post Vesperum – After the Dusk) Khepriarth, The Kingdom of Tepes At dawn, a shipment of top hats arrived in the rural village of Khepriarth in the mid-east of the Kingdom of Tepes, a land ruled by the higher vampire, Count Tepes, or, as Nicolas called him ‘Count Pompous.’ The hats, which arrived in a yellow and black plaid horse-drawn carriage, were labelled as a gift to ‘All the Gentlemen of the Village,’ and presented to the gentlemen of the village by Nicolai-Pauley the Cheese. Nicolas gave Pauley the name Pauley the Cheese because he always had cheese on his meat. It was a running and mildly insulting joke among the Nicolai. Of course, the people of Khepriarth did not know that Pauley was a Nicolai, or even what a Nicolai was, but the Corax Asylum logo on the carriage held the warning ‘Part of the DeSilva Group’ in enormous writing to inform everyone that Pauley was an associate of Nicolas’s. Pauley was revered throughout The Deep for his tenacity in rigging boar races and making a mint through the DeSilva Bureau of Dubious Turf Accountants. The people of The Deep applauded Pauley’s ingenuity in doping and disabling the boars, bribing the jockeys, and spreading dirty racing tips to anyone who would listen. As such, the gentlemen of Khepriarth saw the delivery as nothing less than an altruistic gift and opted not to look beyond that possibility because it suited their greedy natures and gentlemanly pride to receive the free goods. Unfortunately, there was a problem. The problem did not become apparent until after Pauley’s departure. The problem was that there were not enough hats to go around. This caused a public scene with one man arguing with another about what was considered gentlemanly. The mayor, Lord Fuckwad of Khepriarth, a stout, pious man, spoke up first explaining that gentlemanliness could only be defined by electoral elevation. He reasoned that the matter had already been decided when the citizens placed their confidence in any given public servant. This sweeping statement excited the farmers who pointed out that they had no time for public office since they already served the public by providing produce. The blacksmith rebutted the farmers, venting a speech about how their horses could not pull the carts without shoes, and the butchers jumped on the bandwagon reminding the farmers that all they did all day was herd animals around fields, whilst the butcheries were left with the visceral task of slaughtering and slicing the livestock. By the time the baker took the bread out of the oven, the whole town was in chaos with one man arguing with another in the cobbled marketplace. Very little work was getting done, and fights broke out. At length, a meeting was called at the town hall, and the ‘Bee Test’ applied to determine who was, and who was not, a gentleman. The bee test stipulated that only a true gentleman would remain seated, and gloved, in the event of a swarm of bees. That was Lord Fuckwad’s theory anyway. Unfortunately, neither the gentlemen nor the bees got the memo. The Lord of Khepriarth made matters worse by insisting on locking all of the doors. He then mislaid the keys. By the time the surviving gentlemen escaped the town hall, many of their women were already showing signs of the plague. It seemed that whatever material had been used to create the hats was saturated in a damp matrix housing fleas. Fleas that carried a bizarrely accelerated form of the bubonic plague. The men were quite displeased by the situation as they did not want to be infected. Neither did they want to endure sexual relations with women who were scratching and clawing at the black, puss-filled buboes that were already tearing through their skin and substantially lowering their market value. A decision was rapidly made to bury both the infected, and the hats, in a communal grave. The men did not wait until their wives had expired, but acted immediately, and, on this matter, they were all in agreement. The women of the village were quite vexed and a little too vocal about the whole situation, but once the soil was backfilled no one could hear the complaints and that suited everyone. Except the women. Some men were so concerned and overzealous that they opted to bury their wives, who showed no sign of sickness at all but did exhibit an unnecessary amount of verbal and prolonged protest, alive and healthy. Lord Fuckwad complained to Count Tepes, who managed the Kingdom of Tepes, and Tepes complained to the renowned Immortalis Theaten of D’Aten. No one knew who had sent the hats, but there were rumours, and Theaten believed those rumours to be true. He immediately dispatched a letter via raven to his beneficent and quite magnificent brother, Nicolas DeSilva of Corax Asylum in Togaduine. The letter read, ‘Dear Nicolas, Count Tepes has recently alerted me to an outbreak of plague in the village of Khepriarth. The plague, it seems, was spread by one Pauley the Cheese, an employee of the DeSilva Group. I have reason to believe that you not only created this disease but have the cure to it. I suggest that you resolve this matter with immediate effect. May I remind you that Khepriarth will be unable to supply tributes if all of the citizens of that village are dead. pp Klouthe, Ghoul of D’Aten Your brother, Theaten.’ Nicolas, who had had a horrific night, was less than pleased to receive the communication. The letter arrived in the evening and poor Nicolas was already quite worn out. In the early hours of the morning of the same day, Nicolas’s favourite green and orange silk lounge suit, one that he had adorned continuously for more than a century, had developed a nasty hole to match the nasty odour that it emitted. The hole arose during a rather difficult and displeasing encounter with one of the new tributes. Tributes, as you may recall, were thesapiens, mortals, bred in every town and village within a tributiary as sacrifices to appease and feed the appetites of the Immortalis. Nicolas’s new tribute, a redhead who went by the name of Stricta of Threnodyl, lacked the submissive nature expected of tributes. She also lacked any theoretical education in the subject of carnal knowledge. Nicolas had explicitly, and repeatedly, impressed upon the people of Threnodyl the need to impart such knowledge to please him, but the Tributiary of Threnodyl had a high staff turnover. This was largely on account of Nicolas waging fury on the tributiary’s constant failures in quality assurance, which forced Nicolas to make an example of the workers by removing the arms and legs of the frontline staff. Such antics resulted in a perpetual loop of failure and punishment, for which Nicolas took absolutely no responsibility. Stricta had been washed by Nicolai-Dr Shiverton Smythe, who was nursing a hangover and used acid instead of soap, putting the girl in a rather difficult mood. The mood declined further when Nicolas entered her cell and decided to dispense with any foreplay. He had a day of doing nothing in his office planned and did not have time to indulge newcomers. Smythe’s lack of judgement had seeped from the washroom to the cell, and he had neglected to chain Nicolas’s new conquest to the bedposts. Stricta not only struggled, but bit and slapped Nicolas. This did not impress him and put an awful dampener on his desire. During the struggle Nicolas attempted to force her legs apart with his knees, ripping the crotch of his favourite trousers. This put him in a worse mood. He decided to dispense with the romance and move straight to the correctional facilities. After knocking Stricta out cold with one hard wallop, he pulled a chain on the cell wall and a door jutted open in the stonework. Nicolas could not be bothered with the main stairs. He carried Stricta through a tight passageway, up some unstable wooden back stairs, and through a wooden door at the top of said stairs. This delightful secret passageway led straight into one of Nicolas’s torture chambers, or ‘Corrective Facilities’ as he liked to call them. Nicolas called them corrective facilities as they corrected tributes and inmates from being alive and moderately well thesapiens to being dead or severely injured thesapiens. This particular chamber, the riding room, was quite bare except for the exquisitely carved wooden rocking horse that sat in the middle of the room. The horse was painted black and had a steely, red-eyed gaze. Nicolas carried his unconscious prey to the creature and sat her on the horse’s saddle and then climbed on behind her. Nicolas used the chains that acted as the horse’s reins to bind Stricta to the cruel beast, shoved his frustrated hardness inside of her and recommenced his horny morning interlude. Stricta’s head flopped over the barbed wire mane, and Nicolas delighted in pressing her resting-bitch face into the barbs. Stricta woke with a shriek, and that was all Nicolas required to sate his need, that and the visuals of watching her struggle against the chains. Her pain gave him a wave of pleasure followed by a moment of what is generally called ‘post-nut regret.’ This wave of guilt came from the knowledge of Nicolas’s impending marriage to the third Immoless, a demonic priestess bred to slay him known as Allyra, but the regret passed almost as quickly as it arrived. Nicolas remained in position until the last few drops of desire had departed from his body and then cleaned himself on the screeching tribute’s filthy white dress. Once the cock-cleaning matter was concluded, Nicolas alighted from the steed leaving Stricta in position. He pressed a small red button on the side of the horse; this triggered the release of nine iron spikes that did not care for the woman sitting blocking their trajectory. The spikes, a little addition suggested by the inventor and scientist Nicolai-Webster, shot upwards, impaling Stricta’s newly explored regions and in doing so secured her body to the overall apparatus. Nicolas watched as his difficult tribute floundered and wailed, whilst bleeding all over his nice, grime covered floor. Stricta flapped about for an unnecessary long period, two maybe three minutes, forcing Nicolas to pull out his pocket watch. He flicked it open, looked at the time, and muttered, ‘I don’t have time for this!’ And he didn’t. A quick decision was made. Nicolas’s hands grasped Stricta’s neck, gripped, twisted, pulled, and steadily ripped her head from her body. He lifted the head, so that it faced him, looked into her still twitching eyes, and said, ‘You won’t be fighting back again, will you? No, you will not.’ The body remained on the horse and Nicolas tucked the head under his arm. He licked his lips, then exited by the chamber’s main door and danced down the stairs to the banqueting hall. Breakfast was concluding. The last horde of Nicolai were kneeling on the table ripping apart and eating a succulent and plump tribute who’s breasts had proven too delicious to avoid. The feast was made the merrier by each Nicolai making a concerted effort to force their own horny release with firm hands. Nicolas pulled a plate from the table, doing his best not to disturb his other good selves as they chewed and slapped the salami, and placed Stricta’s yummy head on the silverware, then called, ‘CHIVES! CHIVES!’ Chives, Nicolas’s ancient, weary manservant-come-ghoul hobbled in almost immediately and was forced to carry the scrumptious head to Nicolas’s office, right next door. Chives placed the snack on Nicolas’s desk, minding the heap of parchments that were strewn all over the surface, and pulled Nicolas’s chair out so his lordship could park his regal ass without the worry of having to make too much effort himself. Chives was about to leave when Nicolas shouted again, even though he was still in the room, ‘CHIVES!’ ‘Sir?’ ‘I need you to go to my milliner in Sapari and order me a new suit. Now listen, this century’s fashion is quite different to last century’s fashion. Plaid is the way to go. Yellow and black, and a touch of burgundy. A burgundy silk scarf to match. A black waistcoat, and a new top hat.’ Chives hovered momentarily. Nicolas hated Chives malingering so continued, ‘Go now, and don’t dally. I know you, playing up about that limp. Get one of the porters to take you in Nicolai-Nicky’s horse and trap.’ ‘Very good, Sir,’ Chives sighed. Nicolas waved him away. Once the door had shut Nicolas waited, then stood, wandered over to it, and opened it as wide as possible. He returned to his desk, sat bolt upright, focused his eyes on the wall and smiled. The smile was not a pleasant one. It was one Nicolas had mastered over time. His eyes narrowed and frowned, his lips parted enough to bear his yellowing teeth, and the corners of his mouth drifted into his cheeks, whilst his chin took a detour to his neck. Occasionally he dribbled blood laced with some gritty, yellow fluid. Nicolas remained in that position for the better part of the day to unnerve the inmates. Inmates were allowed to roam freely during the day, or scoot about in their hideously over-sized, rusty wheelchairs, or ‘Billy Boxes’ as Nicolas called them. There was no escaping Corax, so Nicolas was quite happy for the roaming to commence. It made him even happier when the inmates caught a glance of his psychotic grin and went scattering about the hall in panic. Chives returned at exactly the same time as Theaten’s raven, Malcolm, arrived. Unlike Nicolas, Theaten was no good at naming things. His ravens and the bong-eyed pet pugs he insisted on keeping around his palace all had stupid names; Norman, Malcolm, Cutalicious, and so forth. Nicolas was glad that Chives had returned as it was far too much bother for him to open the envelope himself. Chives unsealed the envelope, as Nicolas continued to grin at the dirty wall, and read the letter. Nicolas’s smile soon dropped. He grabbed a piece of parchment, spat on it, then dipped a quill in red ink, and penned the following response. ‘Robert, I am sorry to hear that you are unwell, don’t scratch them buboes, and I am glad you enjoyed the cheese. Give my regards to Count Pompous and tell him that some people consider shit stirring almost rude. Stacia will be ready for collection soon. The exalted and magnificent, Nicolas DeSilva PhD, PhD, PhD, MD, Lord and Master of Corax, who managed to write this letter himself.’ Nicolas whistled, screwed up the letter, dumped it in an envelope that was far too small for it, spat on it for good luck, and handed it to his own bird, the splendid raven, Ghorab. Ghorab flew straight to Castle D’Aten only to find Theaten also staring at the wall whilst sitting in his black and gold, minimalistic drawing room. Theaten was not staring to annoy the inmates as he did not have any inmates. He was staring because the vacuous space between his ears often went on strike. Ghorab dropped the letter in his lap triggering Theaten to arise from his thoughtlessness and call his unnecessarily tall and morose butler Klouthe. Klouthe arrived hastily and read the letter as slowly as possible. Twice. Theaten’s brow furrowed. His eyes wandered, then he spoke in a gruff voice trying not to dribble on account of his overbite, ‘I will need the carriage soon, Klouthe. A new Immoless skull awaits!’ immortalisverse.com #DarkFantasy #DarkRomance #Horror