Messing Around With Stolas' Grimoire Has Some Unexpected Consequences. In A Swirl Of Magicks And Ethereal

Messing around with Stolas' grimoire has some unexpected consequences. In a swirl of magicks and ethereal shrieks, Blitzø is transformed into...a birb! Specifically an owl demon like Stolas himself. What's the first thing he does? 

"Aw, fuck me," Blitz swore, standing up straight and looking down at himself. Where the fuck was his tail? His--oh fuck, he still had a tail, it was just--it was--

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, what the FUCK?

Covered in feathers, ridiculously tall, he wasn't an imp. He didn't have horns. Glossy black feathers edged with vermillion, a white disc of tiny, tightly-packed feathers for his face, he didn't look like himself at all--but hoooo boy, he could panic like himself.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck fuckfuckfuck." Fumbling his phone out--oh christ on a fucking stick why was it so small?--he sent a handful of texts.

@moxxietude -> Moxxie I turned in2 a fucking bird WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO

@ you -> PARAK WTF

@botanikos -> Stols i fukked up and have feathers might have ben fucking w ur book I M SORRY CAN YOU PUT ME BACK i lhave a cloaca tho i guess like we cud uknow wait no sorry long text, short question: HELP?

Unless he absolutely could not take the time away from work, Vox had a personal policy: he always accepted invitations to business meetings, especially when they came from fellow Overlords. Whether the Overlord in question owned one soul or a thousand, or a hundred thousand, didn't matter to Vox. He always sent a hand-written thank-you card -- his desk pen was a sharp stub nib, the cardstock rich and creamy, the ink a deep oxblood -- along with his response.

Usually, the meetings were a snooze, some sad little lost soul pitching terrible ideas, or just wanting to ramble off bizarrely violent fantasies and fetishes in the hopes that he would put a show together for that specific thing. Vox always tried to stay polite and upbeat, cheerful and engaging; whenever he was in the public eye, he assumed he was being watched. It was never just the eyes of whoever he was meeting with on him. It was all eyes on him. That was the only way to keep himslef sharp enough to never show his disappointment or frustration. He treated each and every one of them like a valued companion, even when it killed him a little inside, even when he struggled to find a friendly, upbeat way to say No. And all too often, it was a No. Not always--Vox loved to try new things, loved to be innovative--but most of the time, because most of the time, it felt like someone would need to suffer to make a certain pitch a reality. Val might play fast and loose with his employees' happiness and wellbeing, but Vox valued his--

And considered everyone a potential subscriber, a rich and bountiful vein to be mined for gems and gold.

Besides, most people in Pride--in all of Hell, for that matter--were already his customers whether they knew it or not. He was in damn near all of their modern technology, he could see out of any camera that connected to any of his many, mny networks at any time, he watched every credit card transaction, he paid attention to surges in the movement of souls-as-currency. Vox violated everyone's privacy to sone degree, and it was absolutely glorious. So, they were all his customers, and he would always, always make time for customers.

Still, walking into Visage's club? He was fairly certain he had made a mistake--or that she had. Given that the invitation was to her own establishment, he'd brought a bottle of decent wine with a nice ribbon on it as a gift, but the moment he set foot in here? He felt drastically out of place. He was tired, the ports in the back of his head ached from overuse that day, and he wanted to go home and unwind. Why was he here? This place was thriving, the flow of cash certainly noteworthy, and the dancers looked...

"Excuse me," he said, reaching out to stop one who was dancing nearby.

"You're supposed to go to the VIP booth, sweetie, keep going to the back," she told him, without missing a beat.

"Oh, no, I'm--yes. Thank you. May I ask you something?" At a nod from her, he frowned, hesitating briefly, studying her face intently. If she was going to lie, he wanted to know it. "Are you safe here?" Because that was it, wasn't it? That was why this place didn't feel as sticky and seedy as the haunts Val liked to drag him to? The employees here didn't look furtive, didn't look frightened or harassed.

The sparkle in her eyes before she smiled said it all. Stunned, Vox hurried on to go meet this strange new Overlord.

-

When he saw Visage, he was sure of it. He wasn't supposed to be here. She must have gotten him mixed up in her mind, and intended to invite Valentino. The woman was stunningly beautiful, enough that Vox actually noticed, despite so rarely letting himself notice. There was a sultry energy to her, but a sharp intelligence to her eyes.

Confused, he nonetheless offered her the wine--French, smuggled in from the living world, worth a few thousand souls or nothing at all, depending on one's tastes.

"Visage!" Vox's smile was bright and professional, and he stood with his customary poise and confidence, as if none of-- of this was happening around him. "I hope you'll accept this, a token of my gratitude. Thank you for thinking of me, and inviting me here." He offered his hand. "It looks like the night is going well? Profitable, anyway!"

(For @doublejango's Vox, because I have no impulse control. WHOOP! WHOOP! -- Visage despised politics. It was one of the many reasons she had never been all too thrilled at her 'promotion', but that ship had long since set sail. It was what it was, and she had done her best to make the most of it. Indeed, to make more of the position than many of those that were her peers. Where most of them saw fit to jealously covet their power and collect the souls of the downtrodden, Visage had instead seen an opportunity for change. There was a better way--she would prove it to them. Unfortunately ... going against the grain, especially in an industry so near and dear to another Overlord's heart, didn't come without its fair share of risks. Valentino was not a rival to take lightly, by any means. And while she lacked to power, experience and resources to face her opposition directly ... if she was clever, maybe she didn't have to.

Setting up a meeting with any of the Vees, for someone in her position, probably seemed like suicide on the surface ... but Visage felt confident all the same. Misplaced confidence based on inexperience? Perhaps. There was only one way to find out. Having deliberately chosen one of the busiest nights at the club as an opportunity to show how her business was thriving, the hellhound waited patiently in her personal VIP booth near the rear of the club. The invitation she had extended to the Television Demon had been accepted, but would he actually show...? Time would tell. Normally, the lupine Overlord preferred more casual attire or a 'business chique' sort of look when she was on the clock, but not this time. This was a night of making lasting impressions, and so she had taken the task to heart, dressed in a figure-hugging black glittering leotard with several large sections of missing material ... with just enough in just the right places to keep her breasts covered. These were paired with black metallic cargo pants with a low enough waistline to show that she was not, in fact, wearing any undergarments beneath that leotard. Just enough to make it seem that she just so happened to be caught on a night where she was wearing more revealing attire. Pure coincidence, really.

How many chomps does it take to get to the bone of a bird?

For some reason, Blitz looks incredibly guilty when asked this. He freezes, eyes going wide, and immediately puts a paper bag behind his back.

"You mean like, a bird bird? Like a little tweety fucker from the living world? Or like, a Goetia? Because let me tell you, I've yet to even break the skin no matter how hard I bite, and he seems like, really into the pressure. Anyway, oh, wow, look at the time! I've got to, um, you know, oh look! A train!"

And he's off, racing away down the street.

To be fair, most Goetia don't seem to have much experience with dating. Most of them had their marriages arranged when they were kids.

"You know what? You're right," Blitz agreed, before knocking back the rest of his drink and hopping down off the karaoke stage. It was hot and sticky in the bar that night, the air heavy with smoke, the scents of dozens of different kinds of booze, and way too many demonic pheromones. He was absolutely loving it, having an incredible time, but not so much that he couldn't take things seriously.

Blitz slipped out of his leather jacket--fuck, he loved the way the chrome rings on it felt when they rasped along his spines--and hung it over the back of his barstool, then caught the bartender's eye to order another. With that done, he looked back at this rando, considering if he really wanted to get into a talk with him... but sure, fuck it, why not? It wasn't like anything about him and Stolas was private anymore. After Ozzie's, they'd been pretty well known, but after Verosika's? Everyone knew everything, it seemed like, and it was fucking refreshing to run into someone who wasn't tearing him down or insulting Stolas.

"It's not fucking fair, judging Stolas--or Stella--by the standards of people who actually got to choose, who had the chance to develop our own fucked up social skills, but social skills all the same. Stolas was fucking neglected when he was young, and yeah, Paimon can kiss my little red hole and beg me to let him shove his sad little magic marker up there, fuck him for not seeing how fucking great his son was going to be and like, really having his fucking back. But yeah. Yeah. Having your whole life arranged for you, being told you're just like, born to serve but never to choose, powerful but only taught to use the power for cruel whims, never to like, you know, fucking indulge in any of the sparks of fucking altruism or whatever that they might have--cause they do. They do." He was tipsy and he knew it--or maybe drunk--but Blitz felt so damn passionately about this, he didn't want to hush. "Stolas is a good man with a good fucking heart. And I broke it. And he deserved better. He. Deserved. Better. And it's not his fault he's fucking awkward at shit sometimes. He's still the best. The--fuck. The one. And I love him. And fuck anyone who thinks they can drag him in front of me. I will... oh, thanks." He nodded to the bartender, then took a sip of his new drink. "I will fucking fight for him."

Bend over and think happy thoughts Blitz, it's annual prostate exam time!

"You know my anatomy is pretty different from a human's, right?" Blitz asked, about to argue--before he realized that actually, this was probably going to be a good time. So fuck it, why not? Taking off his belt, he looped it around the neck of the person flirting at him, tugged them close, and purred affectionately into their ear, "You can go first, baby, but I'm going to ruin you when it's my turn."

You know Stolas could kill you with a flick of a wrist, right?

Blitz snorted, leaned back, and put his feet up on the table, crossing one booted foot over the other.

"Yeah. He could. You think I'm not into that? That guy may seem all sweet and soft and harmless, but Stolas is as dangerous as they come. And he chooses not to be. He chooses gentleness and self-control. And maybe it's a weird kink, but I find that pretty damn sexy." He eyed the stranger for a moment before his grin turned a little more dangerous, took on a little bit more of an edge. "Besides. I can destroy him with a flick of my tongue. So, you know, it's a fair deal."