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A Manifestation for Perfection

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“And you said your name was Capella, correct?” Isador held the wooden door for a lovely young lady in her late teens wearing quite the extravagant gown, which really complimented how pale and perfect her arms were.

“Ah, yes. Maribella Capella. It’s quite the coincidence to see you again. I’ve trodden upon your presence at my auntie’s flower shop for quite a few times now,” she smiled sweetly, her face shining in the candlelit bar, which was the only light in the night.

“Speaking of the flower shop, I bought some for you,” Isador bought out perky yellow daffodils he held behind his back and presented it to her grandly. She took the flowers gratefully and sniffed them delicately.

Capella beamed, “Why, thank you, my dear Thaddeus! These even matched my dress!” Isador responded with a wink, making her blush deeply. “What a great surprise to see! How about I pay for the drinks tonight? My family is quite well off, being a Cadillian merchant. I’m the middle daughter as well.”

“No, thank you, dear. I can certainly afford it on my own,” he pretended to pull out a coin from behind her ear. She giggled and they both made their way to a rickety old table in the corner of the bar.

He pulled out a dark wooden chair for Capella. She blushed again and sat down daintily, her long pale yellow dress crinkling with the movement. She fixed the yellow ribbon in her brown hair and smiled.

He sat down and they began flirting back and forth, with Capella’s words much animated than Isador’s. They ordered drink after drink, until the end of the night, Capella was flushed and practically slurring. She was giggling at almost everything Isador said, regardless of what he said. She was hiccupping violently and trying to rid her hiccups with even more liquor.

“My dear, perhaps it would be best for the both of us to take a leave from this bar. There is a nice little inn next door that we can both use for one night. I’ll return you to your merchant father tomorrow morning, but for now, let us both rest for one night. I can pay for the inn, don’t worry darling,” Isador asked, with concern dancing in his eyes.

“Hic. Of course, darling. Hic. That is perhaps the best thing I heard all day, besides when you said my name,” she flirted back. He lifted her little purse up along with his own satchel. Isador helped her up along with leaving some coins behind him.

They walked along the moonlit sidewalk, the stars twinkling and the occasional hiccups echoing down the empty street. She pointed to an empty alley, “Ooh! Hic. That’s quite spooky. I would -hic- rather dislike being a little kitty who stranded himself here!”

Isador shook his head with adoration in his eyes. He gently helped her into the nearby inn, asking for an empty room on the highest floor for one night.

“Ooh,” Capella hiccuped, yet again, “This little inn is quite charming. I heard that the top floor all have fire places, so that means a loooot of chimneys!” She burst out giggling, almost dropping the flowers he gave her.

He smiled at her, “I hope that rumour is true. It is quite chilly tonight.”

“It’s not! I’m very hot. You’re quite the cold-blooded fellow aren’t you, dear,” she poked his arm.

He paid for the room and recieved the cold metal key in return and a “Have a good night sir,” from the receptionist.

They slowly made their way to the fourth floor of the inn, which was the highest. Climbing the stairs with a drunk teenage girl was proving quite exhausting. By the time he reached his destination, he was slightly exerted.

He unlocked the door to their room and they both made their way into the cozy little room. Isador dropped both of their bags on the chair near a sofa and helped her get onto the sofa near the fireplace.

He chuckled. Well this makes my job much easier now that we have a fireplace.

Isador lit the fireplace and went into the kitchen to prepare a drink. He poured some of the substance Prince Ivan had gave him into a glass of cold water. When he came back, Capella was poking through his satchel, reading a letter from Prince Ivan himself.

“Your real name isn’t Thaddeus, is it, Isador,” she said, all signs of drunkeness gone. She looked completely sober except for the blush on her cheeks.

Without  losing his calm, he decided to abandon his poison and instead smashed the glass over her head. Blood ran in rivets down her beautiful face and stained her gown. Before she could even manage to muster a single word, he had wrapped his cold hands around Capella’s neck. Her eyes rolled into her head, right after registering shock, and her face blued. She feebly tried to raise her flawless arms to swipe his strong arms away, but his hands were squeezing her neck to the point where Capella’s weak movements did nothing. Before a full two minutes had passed, he had made sure she wasn’t alive before unwrapping his hands from her neck. He then undressed her body roughly.

He took out a strong metal dagger from his satchel and used it to cleanly slice her arms off and stemming the blood flow from them. He then wiped up any signs of blood from the floor with his handkerchief and carried a much lighter Capella to the fireplace. Isador tossed her body coldy into the fire, along with his bloodstained handkerchief.

He then wrapped up her disembodied arms in a piece of fabric from Capella’s gown before burning the rest of the fabric. His expression didn’t change once from the impassive cold look once, in contrast to the bursting with happiness and coyness expression he had earlier.

For the rest of the night, instead of sleeping, he watched a seventeen year old’s mutiliated body burn and rise up into the chimney.

In the morning, he had cleaned up any kind of evidence and kept Capella’s little coin purse before taking his leave, also making sure the receptionist at the inn was a different one so he wouldn’t invoke any suspicions.

Isador flipped up his thin hood before entering the alley which Capella had pointed to yesterday, meeting another dark and heavily clothed stranger in the shadow of the alley.

“Prince Ivan,” Isador spoke with emotionless calm. “Who is next?”

“Ah, you see,” the dark stranger spoke, lifting his cloak down to expose his dark hair framing his pale face, “Olarima’s red light distict has quite a, let’s say, interesting prostitute. Her name is Helewise Carew and I heard she has quite a reputation for having the best legs out of her colleagues for a twenty seven year old.” He handed a picture to Isador of Carew.

Prince Ivan’s dark purple and grey eyes darkened as he spoke the next line, “I am sending you in a carriage at the sun’s highest peak today. Do not miss it,” he spoke with utmost clarity. “I bought a property for you up in the borders of Nortrech, and had lent a carriage for you until you finish. You can thank me by doing what I tell you. ”

“Your new alias is Percival. Keep it until I see you next. I have urgent matters to attend to and it is time for us both to take our leave. I bid you farewell until next time we meet, Isador.”

Before Isador could get any more sentences, he still had one more urgent request for Ivan, but made the mistake of grabbing his shoulder roughly as Ivan turned his back.

His eyes turned black as he whipped around quickly, “DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME!” He screamed and his eyes narrowed to slits.
Isador stepped back quickly, raising his hands.

“What is it,” Ivan hissed, dangerously unhinged.

Isador easily composed himself, “I request that you stop addressing me Isador in your letters. Address me by the current alias and if you have trouble, sir, getting mail to my location, I am sure you can pull some strings.”

Prince Ivan scoffed, all his poise from earlier in their conversation lacking in this new side of him, “It’s your problem to deal with, not mine, Percival.”

He briskly walked away, visibly fuming, trying to rid himself of the disgusting feeling. He was purely violated.

Isador gritted his teeth and left in the opposite direction, deciding to treat himself to a nice lunch before departing to Olarima with the contents Capella’s coin purse.

Then he left for Olarima before the sun was beginning to set.

 

 

Isador parted a couple bushes and headed for the red light district.

He followed the street advertisements until he came across a very shady office where presumably his next target was.

Helewise Carew. Age 27.

Inside the office, a pudgy middle aged man with a rather bushy and oily mustache sat at the counter, reading a lewd book that certainly was a violation of privacy for women. His legs were kicked up onto the counter and he was smoking an old cigar. The office smelled of disgusting body fluids, drugs, and some lemon scented cleaning wipes. Isador wrinkled his nose.

“Hello, may I request Helewise Carew for tonight?” he spoke, not bothering to ring the rather unsanitary bell sitting on the counter.

“The whole night?” the man sat up, his teeth were yellow and disgusting. Isadorsubtly moved backwards before .

“Yes.”

“Alright, I’ll call her up, I presume you have the money required to see one of my most popular girls?”

“I do,” Isador handed over some extra coins that Prince Ivan helped him put his hands on.

The greasy man rang the bell for Carew, who sauntered up to the counter minutes later.
She was extraordinarily beautiful, who had the longest and palest legs Isador had ever seen. She was full of sexual energy, but her eyes were dead and closed off, much like his own. Her long arms were crossed around her exposed chest. She only bothered to drape herself in small scandalous fabrics, which was most she was most probably forced to. She was wearing a rather unique necklace, a sharp fang that curved to the left. Carew didn’t even bother smiling at her newest client, instead her wavy ponytail held by a piece of dark fabric, bounced with the movement of her head gesturing him to a room.

“Do you mind if we take this somewhere else?” he asked.

She looked at her manager, who shrugged and went back to looking at his disgraceful book.

Carew looked back at Isador and joined him at the entrance.

“Hello, I’m Percival, darling,” he spoke on his way out of the office, looking for a love hotel.

“Helewise Carew. You must already know that. How far are we going?”

“I’m looking for a hotel that will suit our needs.”

She scoffed, “Of course.”

They reached a rather tall hotel, which he then asked for the highest room with one bed. The receptionist gave him his key in return for his gold.

As they walked up the 6th flight of stairs it was only then that they started small talk.

“Why the highest floor?” she asked.

“You can see the stars much better.”

She rolled her eyes, “You have a darker reason. I’m sure of it. No one has ever taken the time to actually make sure how I felt.”

He shook his head, “I want to make sure you feel alright. Things like this only feel good when the affection is mutual.”

She smiled wryly as they reached their door. Isador unlocked the door with the cold metal key. He felt serious deja vu going on. This was going to end quickly, he was sure of it.

Carew flopped down on the bed, emotionless as him, but the only difference was that she didn’t even try to convince herself to feel or paste on a smile for a client that was paying a fortune for her comfort. She began to undress herself until Isador stopped her.

“Are you alright? I already told you I want you to feel okay with doing this,” he placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to find her eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“Your eyes say otherwise.”

Suddenly, she completely let down her guard. He was right. This certainly was faster than he had anticipated. She was sobbing and blubbering. Carew would let down her guard for anyone who wanted to speak to her as a human being.

It was pathetic.

He reached for his dagger in his satchel and laid down with her, Carew’s back facing him.

“It’s going to be alright. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” he said reassuringly as he bought the cold dagger to her neck.

 

 

He received the next six victims by letter mail from Ivan, whom the inn receptionist handed him. Inside were instructions, names, portraits, and extra currency for him.

Isador drove his carriage to the outskirts of Cadille, looking for a rather dingy bar to determine whether or not he could find his next target there.

He found Gretel Grant, a young nineteen wench, at Dragon’s Keep and persuaded her money to spend a night with him, where he promised to her face to not to do anything undesirable. She had greedily accepted the offer without batting an eye. He separated her torso from her arms and her head from her neck. He dumped her body into his carriage.

 

 

The next day he headed into a beautiful church on a Sunday and bumped into Fiona Lieur as Arthur Cranwell. He pretended he was a lost young man who needed some guidance on his future, immediately grabbing the attention of Lieur who helped him with religious advice. On the way to church on the third day of speaking to her, he “bumped” into her again, pushed her into an alley and did her away quickly. He scooped out her heart and beheaded her and dumped her body into his carriage. Isador forgot to clean up.

He grabbed her heart and Grant’s and mailed them with the royal guard’s stamp of privacy on them to Ivan as a form of silent irony and spite. Isador was a rather big fan of morbid humor. 

He grew increasingly careless. He jumped into a Cadillian resident widowed by a Nortrech noble’s window in the middle of the night, growing impatient and quickly sliced her stomach open, beheading her and sat in the middle of the ground and skinned her beautiful pale skin starting from her stomach. Her skin looked almost like it was bathing in moonlight. It was that pale.

He stemmed Kateryn le Strange’s blood threw in his carriage along with her fleshless mutilated body. He didn’t need those. Isador just left the body behind. No one would care if a widow was dead anyways. He held the strangely heavy skin in his hand and rolled it up. It was quite gory, but it hardly mattered. He was going to create life like a god. He had strong magic in him.

Stealthily sneaking into someone’s home was incredibly easy, rather than charming them or putting up an act for them.

He delivered the body parts with a stamp of privacy on them again before jumping into a small bedroom window the next night belonging to Natalie Obelyn who was a sister of a Cadillian Guard. It wasn’t like it mattered to Isador.

He hovered over her sleeping figure, her red hair daintily covering her pale face. She had little candy-like yellow hair ornaments that decorated her lovely red hair. Her eyes were shut and she was breathing softly, the movement of her body moving her thin blanket up and down. Her figure shone of bright liveliness and purity.

He wanted to snap her in two. 

Isador brought out his cold dagger, his shadow looming over her small feminine figure.

Abruptly, she gasped and grabbed his wrist and sat up violently, pushing him away and backing up into the wall, completely wide awake.

His heart stopped. Divine Dragons, why was she awake!?

She screamed loudly and tried fighting back, a little stronger than he normally thought girls were, but her subdued her all the same, tipping her head back and slitting her throat. Her neighbors had to hear that.

She whimpered and fell forward, blood spewing everywhere, staining the wooden walls of her room.

She died moments later. Her pale blue eyes were still and wide open with shock. He gouged them out of her sockets and placed them in a little bag in his satchel. He grabbed her body and opened the window back up.

When he jumped back out the window holding her corpse, he saw a woman with plain brown hair about in her early thirties’ step out of a bush and pointed a sharp sword at him.

“Stop. I know what you did."

He stared at her.

"How can you not have any conscience of what you've done?! She was a sweet girl, always smiling. She was waiting for her brother to come back from Cadille, you monster!"

"I need to make the most perfect human being of all," he responded simply.

She sputtered, confused and unknowing of what to say.

He moved up to her slowly, and her hand shook.

Just as he knew, she couldn’t actually do it. She tried to cut his face but she missed and scraped his left eye, leaving behind a bloody scratch where he was sure there was going to be a scar. He stabbed her and dumped the body into his carriage, with her last emotion, shock, etched onto her pudgy face, along with all the other rotting bodies, and left before the other suspicious residents decided to take action as well.

He didn't bother cleaning up.

 

 

He rode his carriage into the borders of Nortrech, after bandaging up his eye, where he began to search a school with women of early twenties. He immediately found his next victim, Alys Sirry within short time in a library, who was studying literature in the corner of the candlelit room. She walked past a shelf after picking up a leather bound book and almost immediately a rowdy boy who sat in the next aisle slapped the back of her perky rump, and she just kept walking, head lowered.

This one is going to be easy, he thought.

He snuck poison into her meal the next day and she ran to the restroom, vomiting and crying, where he disembodied her torso and threw the remaining body parts into a large bag and hefted them into his carriage once more.

He wondered why Ivan chose such weak victims for specimens. It was getting boring.

 

He lost track of time. He killed the people who were suspicious of him killing Sirry the scholar, because even if no one saw her death, a new person showing up and disappearing a day after her death was still suspicious.

Isador constantly rode along the borders of Nortrech. The corpses were starting to smell. By this point, his carriage were starting to attract a little more than a couple side-glances and cautious sniffs. People were beginning to ask him to see what was inside his carriage and asking him to clean out the garbage in his cart.

He tied magic charms to keep the corpses fresh and to hide the smell around the carriage. It was that easy to shake off these petty humans' suspicions, even more so to keep them away from him. 

As a safety precaution, he also tied a sleeping charm to the center of the carriage in case someone tried to pilfer something or investigate.

His hair was growing considerably longer. Isador was looking for the property Ivan had bought him a month earlier to buy to leave his corpses in and burn them later on.

Around the most eastern part of Nortrech, he finally found the intricately decorated blue and dark pink tent, quite showy in his opinion, standing on a small piece of property.

To his pleasant surprise and convenience, the tent had two separate rooms, were both already furnished, and completely untouched since Prince Ivan had someone to construct it.

Best of all, in his favor, there was an underground basement that was hidden in one side of the room that was underneath a small dresser.

It was perfect for hiding his corpses.

This girl had the whitest hair he had ever seen. It was rather strangely beautiful, but people on the streets passing a young fourteen beggar girl just ostracized her for her hair color and threw rocks at her, teasing her for her differences. A thin pale scar stretched down the right side of her face, and she looked everlastingly sad but calculating. Her hair was cut roughly, almost like she chopped it off herself, which made sense, and she had slight wisps of bangs in the middle of her forehead. Her hair barely reached the bottom of her chin.

Isador placed a pair of glasses on his nose and decided to approach her. He was anticipating creating life, and he was almost ready.

He walked up to her and kindly placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She immediately backed away, bumping head into the wall where she was sitting probably for hours and hours on end. Her little basket of money was practically empty except for 3 gold coins.

“Let me treat you to some dinner. I miss having a daughter and you look similar to her,” he said kindly

She looked up suspiciously, but hopefully all the same.

“And how do I know that you won’t try to get rid of me? To take everything I have left.”

“I don’t want to. Trust me, please,” he said, seemingly pleading with her.

She sat up straighter.

“I'd much rather you not,” she said softly. She was incredibly pale and skinny.

This was the first emotion he felt throughout months of killing that he felt something other than disgust.

He pitied her.

He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

They both never bothered to learn each other’s names, but he bought her new clothes and gave her two meals a day, sometimes a bunch of berries in the mornings.

He had grown an emotional attachment for her. She grew happier and healthier. He lost track of time again, but in a good way. They were happy for a short time until her hair almost reached her shoulders.

But he needed to do something. He still wanted to create a form of life that was regarded as flawless.

He had a manifestation for perfection. 

How could he forget something like this?

She was just a stupid girl.

Focus.

One last day.

You only get once chance.

 

On the next day, Isador decided to finish his job. He hid the dozens of corpses in his basement from his carriage.

Nortrech grew on him as well. He felt more things everyday due to doing something other than mindless killing.

On that day, he invited the beggar girl on the streets of Nortrech wearing the clean clothes he bought for her only weeks ago to come into his cheap house where he had cooked food for her.

She walked in, smiling carefreely.

“Count to ten, I have a surprise for you,” she said beaming.

He turned around and counted to ten on his fingers.

When he turned back around, she was waving a piece of paper around freely.

“I drew a picture of us together!” she yelped.

It was a messy scribble of art, but he immediately got angry. This was the frustrating kind of suffocating anger. He hated that she kept making it harder for him to take what he needed. 

Why was she making this more difficult?

“Thank you,” he said stoically.

“Now turn around, you. I have a surprise for you too,” he said.

As soon as she turned around he poured poison into her food.

“Turn back around!” he forced fake cheer into his voice.

He presented her with a large blueberry chocolate cake that he made with Cadille’s recipe. She gasped and immediately grabbed the cake happily.

“Thank you! I suppose I don’t know your name, but we can talk after we eat!”

She sliced the cake with a plastic knife that Isador handed her, but as soon as she was about to take a  bite of cake, he pushed the cake out of her hands impulsively.

He immediately questioned his conscience.

I need to do this. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

She stared at him, worried, but asked him anyway.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Nope,” he smiled, “Sorry, that part had a piece of blueberry I wanted.”

“Then you eat it first!” she laughed, waving the piece of cake in front of him.

“No, no. You eat it first. I made it for you after all.”

“At the same time then!” she smiled.

“I think you deserve the honor of eating the cake first,” he was beginning to panick. Why was she suddenly so insistent on eating this after he ate?

Did she...

Did she suspect something?

Her eyes began to search his face, being careful with her every movement.

Her expression held extreme wariness, poorly concealed.

He knew it. She was beginning to figure it out.

She smiled, all the suspicion gone from her face. The little girl placed her fork down back on the table.

“Can I see the rest of your house? I want to explore and then celebrate with cake afterwards! I just want to see an actual house, since I was kicked out of mine since I was little.”

She was surprisingly manipulative and clever.

He reached into his bag slowly and placed a hand on his dagger.

“Sure.”

She stood up and walked into the next room, not facing away from him.

She had to have figured it out by now.

He stood up rigidly and made his way across the room to her, bringing out his dagger, and she willingly stood there and let him stab her chest.

He was shocked. This was another new emotion.

Isador just inferred that she accepted it because she gave up. She decided there was nowhere else she could go where someone could genuinely love her anymore.

He dragged her body into his basement where plenty of other girls were rotting.

He thought she was still alive, because he heard a small gasp from her.

I guess I didn’t bring the dagger close enough to her heart, he thought.

He stabbed her again, deeper, and beheaded her with a clean cut across her neck.

 

He received the darkest spells from Ivan by mail a week after he told him the specimens were taken and began to craft a perfect form of humanity.

First, he sewed all their body parts together until they began to resemble a human and removed all the memories from the beggar girl’s brain with incantations and paper charms. First, Capella’s arms. Carew’s legs. Grant’s young torso. Lieur’s heart. The widow’s Obelyn’s eyes. Sirry the scholar’s lower body. le Strange's pale and smooth skin. He did his best to conceal the scar on the beggar’s girl face. For now, the bloody puppet was a fleshy, misshapen and horribly ugly figure with white hair. The beggar girl's lips were pulled back into a sinister grin, and that he knew he had to fix. It was disgusting.

He used magic to bring life to a souless flesh puppet, until the stitches were gone, and the girl resembled a human even more, and became more flawless and beautiful along the way. He bought a light blue blouse and white trousers and shoved them onto her limp body. 

All he could do now was to wait and give it time for the brain to adjust to the body. 

It had opened its eyes week later.

The girl had sat up rigidly and gasped.

He had placed her in a light blue bedroom, surrounded with artistic draperies of all different types of colors hung around the walls.

It was time to put on his act again.

“Who...” she said, her voice melodic and composed.

He placed another hand on her shoulder, very similarly to how he treated the beggar girl.

“Hello, Branwen.”