Féla Daniels

Friday, October 13, 2000

Féla Daniels moves slowly along the park sidewalk, slender hands settled deep into the pockets of her imeccable leather pants. Sienna eyes roam slowly, one moving independently of its twin. After a few moments of "browsing" the mob about her, full lips curl in a rather sadistic smirk. Shoulders shift to keep from brushing against passersby, and her suede jacket rustles lightly with the movement, but Féla ignores it, keeping her gaze locked on her chosen victim.

The young man walks before her a few yards, oblivious to her presence in the small crowd. He is tall, as are all her amusements, and his Armani suit is an attractive shade of midnight blue. Féla's smirk deepens as she surveys him from the top of his head—the black locks cut close to his skull—to the soles of his feet—Gucci shoes . . how quaint.

Slender fingers flex slightly within leather confines, brushing against the change and random bits of paper or metal that inhabit the deep corners of one's pockets.

After about half a block of walking—and tremendous patience on her part—the man slows and glances about his surroundings before lowering onto the bench to wait for the hourly bus.

Slowing her pace, she follows him, settling slowly on the other side. Left eye swivels to look at him and she forces a smile onto her lips, nodding a polite greeting. She then watches as he studies her from behind the lenses of fashionable glasses settled on his straight nose.

Taking a mental inventory—not the first, and certainly not the last—she reviews her appearance, seeing herself as he does. Straight black-brown hair, just past the shoulders, frames an oval face, and full lips are perpetually curved in a soft smile. Tall form is elegantly, and simply, clothed in all black. Hip-length suede jacket lightly hugs her torso, left unbuttoned in the warmth of the fall night. Cotton shirt is just long enough to reach the waist of her pants, which are fitted about the hips and left loose down the legs.

Though her appearance may be intimidating, she tries to present herself as more helpless than she really is. Another moment more, and he smiles back, obviously reassured.

"Nice night, isn't it?" She truly dislikes being polite with the vermin, but one must make exceptions now and again.

He murmurs a soft reply and looks up to her once more, shyly. "Yes, it is. Barely even need a jacket."

Another soft, almost simpering smile settles on her lips, and she shifts a bit closer. "First day this fall we've been able to open the windows in the office."

"Same over at the firm." His smile deepens slightly as he leans a bit closer, body language speaking of malleability and the need for someone, anyone, to pay attention to him. Not only will he be a wonderful experiment, but it seems he is a business rival. The night is good.

A true smile curves her lips, the inherent "innocence" of her features dimming the cruelty of the expression, and she holds out a hand to him. "Féla Daniels—nice to meet you."

"Timothy Smith—a pleasure." He shifts a bit closer, lightly pushing his glasses back up his nose. Smith, hm. . . More of a rival than she had thought.

Ten minutes more of small talk and exchanged pleasantries, and an offer for coffee, and he is in her snares. Standing, she holds out her left hand—keeping her right hand with its six fingers out of sight—and tugs him upright with a smile. "This way, hun. I have some of the best-tasting coffee around; come, to my studio." She looks into his eyes when she speaks this last bit, stressing "come" as she casts Dominate.

He follows eagerly enough, and she smirks inwardly at his childlike enthusiasm. A few more moments, and they are at the studio. Without giving him the chance to remark upon the state of the studio she works in (for business, and "pleasure")—the outside showing signs of wear—she unlocks the intricate security system and leads him in, unable to keep the image of herself leading a dog or other such stupid beast into her lair.

Locks click and the room is impenetrable from inside and out, though he surely doesn't know this. Féla moves past the reception desk and waiting area, past the row of doors leading to examination rooms, and through the door at the end of the hallway that leads to her sound-proofed (for good reason) personal quarters. She leads him to her innocent-looking couch. Smiling soothingly to him, she moves to the kitchen area and begins finding the mugs she's stored in the cupboards. More small talk is exchanged as the coffee brews, and she sits next to him on the couch. Her eyes gleam softly as she watches him become more and more relaxed. It is time.

The coffee pot beeps, and she stands, moving to fill the mugs, speaking over her shoulder as she does so. "Cream or sugar?"

At his murmur of assent to both, she hides a smirk, filling the mug with first coffee, sugar, cream, and then a powder of her own making that would dull pain and effectively drug him, seeming to slow time.

Taking both mugs to the couch, she hands him the drugged one with a smile and a flourish. She sips hers, watching him as, finally, he drains the mug, sighing blissfully at the flavor.

As he begins handing the mug back to her, he pauses and blinks a few times, his free hand lifting to rub his temple lightly. In the few moments before he turns back to look at her, she casts Vicissitude to revert her eyes back to their natural gold.

Féla allows him just enough time to realize he's been drugged before setting the mugs on a nearby table. Turning to face him fully, lips part in a cruel smirk and her fangs glint in the soft lighting.

She shifts closer, slender tongue making a brief appearance to dampen her lips. One hand lifts, gently pushing his head to the side. She only takes a little of his blood, wanting to savor it as he becomes more and more afraid, the tang of his fright giving the vitae a little "oomph."

A rare laugh burbles from her throat as measles begin appearing over all his visible skin, and his cheeks flush with fever. Fingers dip into the recesses of her bubblegum-vinyl couch (easy to clean) and tug out the straps.

Moving quickly, she straps him to the cushions, preparing herself mentally. This is her favorite part. Slowly, she begins casting Bonecraft, starting at his toes. She moves in close again, draining him just a bit more. Another cruel laugh escapes as he begins whimpering, the bones in his toes stretching the skin as they grow.

As the pain killers in the drugs begin to wear off, his whimpering grows. Bit by bit, the bones in his feet begin expanding. His whimpers start to turn into moans and feeble cries of pain. She laughs all that much harder.

When at last he begins to struggle, she stops the casting, takes a bit more blood, and leaves him with the knowledge of her precipitous return.

Taking his liscense (and hence, his address) from his wallet, she begins walking the short distance to Geneva's apartment. After knocking on the door, Féla slips in, calling for Geneva, her voice fairly ringing with triumph and joy from her night's work. She even winks at her partner in describing his mewls of pain and the way he struggled so feebly against his bonds. Stupid pig. As if he can escape from her.

The trip is uneventful until Geneva catches sight of the house—four rambling floors, surely something for Féla's partner in crime to drool over. The car begins swerving erratically and, though Féla doesn't know how to drive, she struggles to grab the wheel and regain control, laughing at the delight on Geneva's face. Féla's laughing only grows as Geneva tries to jump out of the car and run up the few steps to the house. Quickly, Féla grabs her and holds her still long enough to remind her they need to be quiet. Still laughing, though muffled, Féla gets out of the car and heads around back of the house to disarm the security system. Giving Geneva a thumbs-up sign out of impish delight, Féla smirks characteristically and demands Geneva drive her back to her office. Geneva looks about ready to foam at the mouth.

Once back at the office, Féla wanders sedately over to her special couch, gazing down at her writhing victim. He mewls in terror at the mere sight of her, which makes her laugh once more.

Another taste of his blood and the casting continues, moving to his ankles. The tang of sweat fills the air about them, and she chuckles softly once more, her smile so wondrously cruel.

His writhing grows as the last vestiges of the pain killers wear off completely. Finally, to her ultimate joy, the kine screams in pain, the fibia and tibula in his lower legs expanding to stretch his muscles and skin. Even better is the hysteria and desperation in his tones, as the pain causes his back to arch and muscles to strain with the instinct to flee. No such luck.

Next are his femurs, straining and popping, causing his body to twist into various contortions of pain. The volume of the screams increases, much to her delight. (This is why her personal quarters are sound-proofed!) Another pint of blood is taken, his body becoming weaker; but he is still held taut as his pelvic and the base of his spine begin to change.

To distract him, the tips of his fingers up to his palm and the many bones of his wrist begin to expand as well, nearly breaking the skin. More blood is taken, but she pauses well before he falls unconscious—he is to experience the pain totally and utterly, without surcease.

Tonight's pet is driven to whimpering and mewling once more, the sounds joyful to Féla's ears. That feral gaze locks on his face, watching the emotions play over his features in dispassionate curiosity. Once again his back arches, the bones of spine and rubs pushing outward. Radius and ulna in his forearm are next, one arm after the other.

She's perfected her craft so that no organs will be pierced and very little internal bleeding will occur—after all, she is exsanguinating him. He nearly loses consciousness in the pain as the humorus of one upperarm then the other stretches the puny bicep and tricep muscles.

To distract him, Féla takes one of his hands in hers and slowly exerts her strength in squeezing, moving the pain to a localized region. Tears stream down his cheeks, and she lets a disgusted smirk flit over her features. The animal. This one had seemed strong, but is now showing his true weakness. Aren't any kine strong? She starts to finish him off, but decides to keep on going—shoulders and collarbone subsequently stretching and writhing visibly under his skin.

Another moment as she looks into his eyes, reaching behind her to get her tools, the blades gleaming in the light. Free hand lifts, removing his glasses; the stench of his fear so tanalizing she can hardly bear it. Right hand grasps her favorite scalpel, six fingers carefully curling about the handle.

With nimble strokes she begins cutting about his eye, working the veined mass out of its socket, accompanied by his terrorized screams. Blood drizzles down his cheeks, caught by a cloth—bad enough touching the vermin's flesh to drink from him. She certainly isn't going to lick it off him, is certainly not going honor him with that, give him that pleasure.

First eye is popped from his skull, bits of liquid and a few veins clinging, spanning the distance between eye and socket, dangling as soon as she cuts them free. The casting continues up to his very skull, letting it grow inward to press into the matter of his brain, slowly obliterating the gray mass. As his howling grows, she smirks once more, second eye joining the first on the cloth, blood and bits of gore lovingly wiped free.

They are set on the table next to the coffee mugs, the sockets daubbed with the clean-up cloth. While his skull grows inward, Féla's lips return to their spot on his neck, and she begins drinking the last of his blood that hasn't been drunk or leaked out . . satiating her thirst at last. His screams cease abruptly, with a gurgle, before she is even done.

After she cleans him up properly and settles the eyes into jars, the drying blood is washed off with precise and deft movements. She carefully lifts him, like a pack slung over her shoulder. From her studio, she heads through the streets in pitch blackness—it must be awfully late, then . . how time flies. Golden gaze drifts, searching for the perfect place to leave his body. Appropriate apartment building is found, and she props his body like a ragdoll in the corner where the building meets the stoop.

Moving to a place entirely out of view should someone look for her, but yet in a spot where she can watch and wait for someone to find her masterpiece, she steps into a shadowed corner, arms crossing over her chest.

She continues to watch as the kine is found, and as the police are called. Before they arrive, however, Féla looks to the horizon. Seeing a glow, her head is lifted, nostrils flaring to breathe in the acrid scent of smoke. Geneva must be in a state of ecstacy. A rare, truly amused smile curves her lips and she fades into the crowd, watching still in amusement.

Careful not to jostle anyone, let alone brush against the people, she listens to the various conversations. Rumers have already sprung up as to the latest murder by the "Silent Slayer." It takes much of her willpower not to laugh in the swine's faces, not to explain how it really happened, but she contains hesrelf—barely. She does wonder, though, how the incompetent mob would react if she were to tell them she is the reason the cadaver is . . as he is.

They wouldn't believe her, of course. Féla is their pet lawyer and doctor, incapable of doing wrong in their eyes. Cattle just waiting to be slaughtered. For if she were less picky than she is, the entire city could be a smorgäsbord for her to feast upon. (At least she admits she is picky.)

She starts to continue this line of thought, but stops in her tracks, eyes darting quickly about, ears "perked." Yes, there it is again. Some vapid teenager babbling something. But about what? Féla realizes it's important, but not why. . . Soon, though.

She begins moving once more, heading towards the voice, distinguishing it from the rest. A teenaged boy, gangly and rather mean-looking, is surrounded by a group of onlookers, spouting to them like a priest from a forgotten religion.

"Can't you see how much of a genius this man is? He is obviously of high intelligence and creativity, culling the heard and making this area all the better for it! His methods are inconsequential. I believe we should all seek to emulate him—take natural selection a step further!"

Most are obviously repulsed, though there are a few more who seem to be "converts" to this simpleton's idea. Just what she needs—a gang of hero-worshippers stuck on the idea that she is an idol of some sort. And to immediately assume she is a man . . couldn't they see the finesse with which the eyes were removed? Such skill only comes from women.

Then again, the boy may have an idea. Perhaps Féla will have a talk with Geneva about him the next time they meet up. With an attitude like his, he shows promise. Yes, it certainly is an idea to consider carefully.

A faint nod to herself and she slips away from the group, heading away from the entire scene, listening half-heartedly to the gossip from her night's work. At least he seems to understand and admire her work, the time she spent making her masterpieces just perfect for public display. She allows a look of pride to soften her features, fingers slipping back into her pockets. Shoulders shift once more, and she takes a slow breath, still smelling the stench of smoke int he air, chuckling inwardly as she pictures Geneva's glee, her rapture at the mere size of the . . house. She even snorts softly, struggling to keep the laughter inside. Head dips, and she walks along the streets, circling and taking back alleys to return to her studio.

Féla has two tattoos—the first is a silver Celestial Dragon swallowing its own tail done with hints of green; the second is Celtic knotwork wrapping about her waist. She is a sensualist when it comes to clothing, and wears primarily leather, velvet, suede, or silk, all in dresses, skirts, suits, or shirts. Most of the colors she wears are darker, though sometimes she can be found in a ligher, more flashy outfit that Geneva talks her into wearing. Footwear usually consists of some typ eof boots, generally going to her knees when wearing a skirt or dress. She prefers to carry a wallet of some type, rather than a purse, thinking of them as an encumbrance. Anything else is kept in the pockets of her pants or favored suede jacket.