Chapter Text
It's late in the morning, Blitzo just returning to Beetles Post with a fox over his shoulder, and summer in full flower, humidity thick and all the plants soaking it up to go fat and green. He skins it by the campfire, the fur soft and the same reddish orange of its glowing embers. He's finishing up pulling the pelt across a stretcher when the noisy clop of horses' hooves echoes from the east.
It gets steadily louder, drawing closer and closer. Blitzo’s heart lurches out of beat though he expects nothing more than the bolder trappers who rarely travel the dirt road that winds past the Post. He only talks with them to know what's in demand, and they never stop for long.
Until the draft horses, two of them, come fully into sight, hooked to a huge black carriage that lumbers behind them.
It looks ridiculous. The kind of thing Blitzo recognizes from when they'd went to the city as a kid, when he and Barbie were sent out to paste flyers on the brick buildings and tall iron lamp posts. Even the big fancy houses before someone would shout at them and they ran off laughing.
Oddly, there is no driver in the carriage's seat. The horses seem to lead themselves, and that has Blitzo quickly cleaning his knife off with a rag before sliding it into its sheath and approaching the fence line to better see it pass. Except the carriage slows right before Beetles' gate, rolling to a stop in the middle of the road. Both horses are shires, big and black as the carriage itself, breathing out of flaring nostrils and their coats shining wet. They have tufts of hair over their hooves, which is cute.
Something white flashes in the window.
Then the shire on the left shakes their head with a snort, and they change direction, slowly turning the carriage to enter Beetles itself. The carriage rocks as they pull it right through the gate and stop again in front of the main building.
Across the short distance, Blitzo can see the shiny leather and metal tack. The reins sparkle with golden embroidery. Expensive as fuck. The carriage is coated by a glossy paint, the light sliding off its door as it smoothly opens without a sound. Blitzo straightens from his lean against a fence post, and regrets that he's started letting his guard down enough that his gun belt is back in his cabin. He still has his rifle, set on the worktable near the campfire where he left it. He could snatch it up quick, before whoever is inside can stop him. Probably.
Out comes something even stranger. The tallest demon he can recall ever seeing, nearly the height of the shires, covered by dark gray feathers and darker skin around their bright clothes. Except for the pale patch of their face, where two eyes gleam a bright red as they look up at the Post for a long moment before right at Blitzo.
"Hello," they call. "Are you the proprietor?"
Blitzo blinks. He can't place the accent. Not a Wrath one, that's for damn sure.
He walks forward with no hurry, trying to ignore the intensity of the demon's gaze once he's close. They lack pupils. It's still like he can sense what their eyes focus on. He looks them up, way the fuck up, and down.
They wear clothes that cost more money than Blitzo’s ever spent on any of his own in his life. All his time with Verosika rubbing off on him must have left something besides spit and come, because he can tell the white of the demon's shirt is a silk finer than the cottons and linens he's used to seeing. There isn't any dust or stains, no patches or worn spots, and they fit them so well he can easily see the shape of their body. His body.
But his pants don't cover his lower legs and his bird like feet are shoeless.
"That'd be me," Blitzo replies, tipping his hat backward as much as he can with his horns to squint up at the stranger. He pulls down the bandana from his face. "What do you want?"
Despite being thin as a twig, like he's stretched by his overlong height, the demon's long legs meet at the curve of his hips where an odd little potbelly of a stomach pushes out under the black brocade of his vest. The demon doesn't say anything, dumbly staring down at him, then quickly removes his own flat, straw hat. More feathers, Blitzo notices, and then he's dipping forward, bobbing low in place.
Is he... is he fucking bowing?
"I seek somewhere to stay the night." The demon glances around, using his hat to wave it at Beetles in its entirety. It has a thick red ribbon tied in a bow for a band. "Is this such a place?"
"Uh." Blitzo thinks through five different ways to tell him to fuck off. He finds himself looking again at the horses, their beautiful coats gleaming in the sunlight. They look tired. "Yeah, you got it! Better than Hideaway, right in the middle of nature and shit, you'll fucking sleep like a baby."
The demon laughs and covers his beaked mouth with a turn of his dark hand. His fingers end in sharp, curved points. Not claws, but talons. Blitzo eyes them as the demon looks up at the Post to its sign. Blitzo painted it himself.
"'Beetles Post?'" the demon reads out loud.
"Because it looks like a beetle," Blitzo proudly points out. It's true. The black wood and the crisscross of the beams that form the peak of the roof make the picture of a giant stag beetle, horned mouth lifted and segmented arms outstretched.
"There is a missing E," says the demon.
"There's no D in Beetles."
"No, an E! E!" He draws out the letter high, and it makes him sound like he's squealing. Blitzo holds back a laugh.
"The B is right there, in the front. See?"
The demon opens his mouth then snaps it closed before slowly asking, "You are making fun, are you not?"
Blitzo grins. Maybe a little.
But the demon doesn't act offended and smiles as he shakes his head. The fluffier feathers on top of it lift up. He reaches up to smooth them down before covering them under his hat.
"How much a night?" he asks.
That is the question. This is Blitzo's first guest, as it were. Does he give a low price or a high one? If the demon says no, there goes the odds to have someone actually use the Post as intended. He needs the money.
"Twenty— twenty five a night," Blitzo says, changing his mind partway through.
"Oh, that's all?"
Fuck, he should have gone higher.
"Ten extra with meals," Blitzo adds.
"I would enjoy something to eat," he says, smile unchanging as he pulls a pouch from a vest pocket that shouldn't have been able to hold something that full. He passes the entire thing down, the bag heavy in Blitzo's hand. There are gold coins in it. Blitzo holds the bag tighter. His father used to have one. He never said who he got it from, only explained its value and smugly called the coin an appreciation.
Blitzo quickly counts. And keeps silently counting, the demon standing straight with his arms fixed at his sides and watching him as he does it, and chokes when he finally reaches the total.
"This is fourteen hundred!" he squeaks out. Then he coughs and challenges, "Which is forty nights."
"Yes, I would like to stay for a time," the demon says, without even arguing that a coin is worth more than a coin note. "If that is agreeable?"
He has to be an idiot. The lopsided bargain doesn't bother Blitzo. It's not like the demon won't have more pouches stowed away.
"Sure, that's agreeable. Shit, let me get your bags."
He walks past him to look into the carriage's open door and finds the inside stuffed thick with blankets. Does he run cold? It's hot as shit, and Blitzo is sweating just thinking of sweltering under all of it in the middle of summer.
One whole bench is taken up by books and hatboxes. On the floor, under a blanket dotted with silver thread sewn into angled shapes, he finds two leather cases. Hopping up onto the carriage's step, Blitzo lugs them out, though they aren't too heavy.
"Come on. Name's Blitzo. The O is silent,” he says, grunting as he pushes the Post's door open with his boot. It's stopped latching properly. He had been planning on fixing it at some point. Now he'll have to get to it sooner.
"Oh?" his new guest mutters, sounding confused, but then says, "It is a great pleasure to meet you." The demon is practically up his ass, right behind him as Blitzo goes to the only room really fit for occupancy and sets the cases on its wide, bare bed. "I am Stolas."
Blitzo turns around and nearly walks into Stolas' legs. He sidesteps him, putting extra distance so he doesn't have to crane his head all the way back to look up at him. And so he's not trapped between Stolas and the bed.
"Sure," Blitzo mindlessly agrees. Maybe it's from briefly leaning into the stuffiness of the carriage, but the back of his neck has gone hot and sticky, his bandana catching at his skin. "There are blankets in the bottom of that cabinet."
Not that Stolas needs any more of them.
Stolas moves toward said cabinet in the corner, hands clutched together behind his back. The odd bits and ends on the upper shelves hold things that Blitzo collects like empty snail shells or the bleached skull of a rattlesnake he had chopped the head off of before it could bite him when he'd been getting firewood, but the lower ones hold extra bedding. Stolas leans down to peer at them through the thick, bubbled glass doors.
"I'll take care of your horses," Blitzo says, already out of the room.
"There is a trunk on the rear boot as well," Stolas calls after him.
Blitzo stops himself from groaning, but back out he goes to drag the heavy thing up the porch stairs. Thinking of the money in the pouch makes its load a little lighter.
"The fuck did you pack in this? Rocks?" he grumbles after he shoves it down the hallway and into the room.
"Not quite," says Stolas. He points one long finger at the end of the bed. "You may put it over there."
Blitzo almost tells him to do it himself. Almost. Fourteen hundred gold coins have him hauling the trunk deeper into the room to drop it with a dull thud.
"Please be careful!" Stolas admonishes, brushing past him and popping open the trunk to check its contents. It doesn't even have a lock. Blitzo rolls his eyes but around Stolas' hands he can see inside are little cases and pouches, different glass shapes wrapped in dainty swatches of cloth, and a bundle of wax paper on top that Stolas carefully holds up. Blitzo smells nectar. Is that...
"Is that a fucking plant?"
Stolas unwraps the paper from it to expose a chunk of something pale green with a bulbous, spiny tip. It doesn't look like any plant he knows. It has a fucking eye, for one. The thing blinks twice at Blitzo.
"It's a cutting," Stolas murmurs, setting it on the low table under one of the room's windows. He rubs at its slightly wilted leaves, his other hand resting on his swollen stomach.
"All right," Blitzo says slowly, and edges out of the room. "Be outside if you need me."
Blitzo detours to his cabin to grab his gun belt and makes sure his revolver is loaded before running back to the shires, grinning as he looks up at their cute faces. The one on the left, a gelding, rolls a dark eye down at him. His soft lips twitch over Blitzo's palm when he offers him his hand.
"I bet you're hungry. Come with me, sweeties," he says, and gently tugs on their bridles to lead them around the eastern side of the Post and to the stable. They obediently follow. Buttermilk snorts in her stall, ears flicking and curious as they approach.
It takes some steering, but Blitzo gets them to walk the carriage beside the end of the stable, its pointy top corners too tall to fit under the stable's flat roof, before undoing the tack connecting the horses to the shafts. Then he leads them each into a stall of their own. He removes their bridles and harnesses, slings them over the doors and climbs on the dividers to take turns inspecting their mouths and brushing their thick coats free of dust and lather. Despite their state, there are few scratches or chafes on their skin. No brands anywhere on them, which is weird.
With his claws, he combs through their manes and even their tails because they let him, enjoying the softness of their hair. He checks their wide hooves before pitching fresh hay and grass, all the while telling them what good horses they are. They softly whicker at the same time.
He goes out to the well to draw them fresh water for their troughs. They drink loud, likely thirsty from their journey. He moves Buttermilk's salt lick between them so they can both reach it.
Blitzo pats the mare's warm flank, wondering how long they had been pulling the carriage. It's miles back where the crossroads that lead to either the town of Wrath or into the woods split, but further east is a long stretch of nothing until the green fields and muddy roads of Greed take over.
Stolas doesn't look like he's from Greed. There isn't a spot of mud on the carriage or either of the horses' burly legs. Their hooves are shod all around with metal.
Blitzo gives each shire an apple, and then has to get one for Buttermilk when she stares at him expectantly, before he peeks inside the carriage again. Still full of all those blankets. The curtains are patterned black lace, the benches red velvet, and the inner walls' rich, warm wood carved with swirling shapes painted gold. There's even a golden lantern attached to the frame up by the ceiling, though its glass is empty of any candle or burner. Like a little cage.
"Is there a source of water?" Stolas' voice comes from behind him. Blitzo startles, then acts like he was wiping off a streak of dirt that isn't there from the side of the carriage with his elbow.
"Styx is a long walk, but there's a well in the back."
Blitzo shows it to him, but Stolas only stands there and curiously surveys the round stone of the well and the roof built over it. Then he looks at Blitzo. Blitzo looks back.
"We would like some water."
We? He looks around. Who else is there?
"Then... have some." Blitzo points at the well. Stolas' furrowed brow abruptly smooths out and he nods.
"I will!" he nearly shouts for no reason Blitzo can tell. He yanks his bandana around his neck so it hangs looser, scratching at his chest as he watches Stolas walk up to the well, continue to stare at it as if he's never seen one, and then awkwardly pull on the rope. The empty bucket swings back and forth.
Does this dumbass not know how to use it?
Well, no shit, Blitzo thinks to himself. With that much money, and all his expensive shit, it's fucking obvious Stolas isn't the sort of demon used to doing the most simple tasks for himself, including drawing water. Amused, Blitzo watches him struggle as he unhitches the bucket and lets it fall down deep into the well. Then Stolas wiggles the rope back and forth with a talon. Heaving a sigh, Blitzo elbows Stolas' legs aside from where he's leaning over to look down into the well's darkness like he expects the bucket to float back up on its own.
"I got it," he says, and begins to wind the crank until the bucket is pulleyed from the well's depths, water dripping down its sides.
Stolas is a too close presence at his back as he draws it free and dumps the bucket's contents into the pail beside the well. He grandly gestures at it with both arms.
"Tada."
"Thank you, Blitzo," Stolas says politely, stooping low to pick it up. He carries it back to the Post, feathered tail waving as he goes.
Blitzo follows, suspicious, and watches as Stolas places it inside to then dip an amber glass bottle into the pail. He pours water into the plant cutting that he must have put in a ceramic pot while Blitzo was taking care of his horses. The earth is dark, sparkling in the dim light with flecks of something bright, and looks like nothing around Beetles. Did he have fucking dirt in that trunk too?
Well, Blitzo isn't going to judge the weird shit Stolas is apparently into that much when he's getting paid.
Stolas takes a drink for himself on the second bottle full, rubbing at his full belly, then his eyelids droop as he sits on the still unmade bed. He starts to remove his hat, only to drop his hand, leaving it on.
"How far is your post located from Wrath?" Stolas asks.
Blitzo slips his thumbs under his suspenders and shifts his weight.
"Less than an hour's ride north from it at full speed. That your destination? Took a wrong turn if it is."
"No," is all Stolas replies, crossing his legs then quickly uncrossing them. He runs his black, sharp fingers over the pale, soft looking velvet stretched around his thighs.
For a second, he thinks Stolas is staring at his dick, then realizes it's his holstered revolver that has his attention. Blitzo decides to not comment on it, and neither does Stolas. Who has no belts of any sort, or any weapons from what Blitzo can see. Not even a knife. Even most townies carry one.
"Want me to show you around?" Blitzo asks, thinking about Stolas trying to navigate the rest of the Post and the woods around it. The way he moves is a little funny. Awkward and yet somehow still graceful.
Stolas glances out the nearest window, something moving across his face as he eyes the surrounding trees that can be seen. He puts a hand on his stomach and shakes his head.
"I think not," he says. "I need to rest."
"Suit yourself." Blitzo shrugs and makes his exit. Lazy fucker.
He stops by the well to wash his hands before wandering back to the campfire. There's still the fox to carve up. He puts the bandana over his mouth again, knotting it tight behind his head. Not his first choice to eat, but he won't waste it, and Blitzo eats anything he has to. He doubts Stolas will complain, with that fat belly, and crouches to sink his knife into the fox's own. He's careful to avoid catching its insides with the knife's edge, reaching in to drag its still warm insides out and toss them into a slop bucket. He fucking hates the smell of burning organ, prefers to cart them deep into the woods for something to find and devour them if he's not going to use them for bait.
Blitzo tosses some logs onto the fire, stoking the embers with a poker until it begins to roll fresh smoke before tying the meat to the spit and leaving it to start roasting. A fly buzzes too close to his face, and he swipes a bloody hand at it.
Blitzo cleans up and heads to his cabin. Where to stash his money? Not like he gets regular visitors, Moxxie too scared after the one time Millie and him came out to Beetles, but Stolas' sudden arrival kind of spooked him. Keeping it on him is stupid, but his cabin is one small room with too obvious hiding places. Blitzo walks back outside and around its back, where barrels collect rainwater, and gets at one of the boards low on the wall. It pops off easy, a centipede waving its many legs as it runs from its disturbed hiding spot, and Blitzo stuffs the bag deep into the little hole before placing the board back over it.
Then he carries an empty milk crate over to set in front of it just in case.
He tends to the meat, rotating the spit, before getting his rifle. Emptying the chamber, Blitzo relaxes as he cleans first that gun then his revolver. It's been a while since he's had to use it. A different sort of hunting where the game is long dead. If Stolas doesn't know about them, he isn't going to scare him off by mentioning it.
The rockface toward the west is a steep incline that stretches halfway round the back half of Beetles, and Blitzo automatically scans its topline though there is nothing but tree trunks, boulders, and bushes up on it.
The smell of cooking meat must eventually creep into the Post, because Stolas wanders out, putting his hat back on as he joins Blitzo by the fire. After a pause, he picks the fallen log to settle down on with Blitzo sitting in the only campchair. He reaches into his shirt by its stiff and pointy collar, where he's taken off his tie, to touch at his shoulder. The top buttons are now undone and show the feathers grow longer under it.
"Hungry?" Blitzo prompts. He jerks the revolver to snap the cylinder back into its frame before holstering it. Stolas eyes it, nodding.
"I have not eaten a thing all day," he confesses and folds his own hands over one another in his lap. Blitzo frowns under his bandana.
"Why the fuck not?"
"I was much too nervous, to be honest."
Something twists down in Blitzo's gut at the thought of doing that by choice. What a privilege.
"Why's that?" Blitzo asks, forcing his tone light and unbothered.
"I have never been out this far west in the Rings," says Stolas. He's watching the fox's body move over the fire as Blitzo turns it again, the meat crisped darker by flame and glistening.
"West from where?"
"Pride."
Yeah, that makes a whole lot of sense. Stolas would belong in the biggest city in the Rings. The thick smog and the way the red lights lit themselves at nightfall, the neat stone of its streets and flat glass windows that housed giant towers of candy or strange machines Blitzo had never seen before. The trains that ran constantly, whistling and screeching their way in and out of the city's many railroads. They only stayed there one season, that he can recall. They were going to more, because his father had the city on their traveling circle. But they didn't.
When the meat's ready, Blitzo shifts the spit off the fire and slices off sections still hot enough to burn his fingers. He passes over a plate to Stolas once it cools a little, who murmurs a gratitude before his beak shreds into the tough meat. It's almost like watching a bird of prey eat.
"This is good!" he exclaims, sounding too excited.
"It's just meat," Blitzo says, squinting at him. Stolas does look a lot like an owl.
"Well, it is delightful meat."
Blitzo begins to eat himself, lifting his bandana to get a mouthful rather than removing it as he listens to Stolas hum a little as he tears into the next piece. It tastes like shit.
He doesn't think about anything at all.