Darwin raged against the locked door, scratching and yowling deep into the night hours as he lamented his terrible fortune and the tragedy of,

Oh Fuck it, He was ripshitting pissed. A demon had stolen his body, Stripped him of his chances at power, and had just put him out of his own home!

And He Was a Cat Now, he didn't even have the dignity of a human body. He was trapped in this wretched, loathsome sickly stray, that he'd saved from drowning at the hands of drunken fools for What?! Just to be trapped inside its useless flesh? He was a Sorceror, a Wizard. By Damnation, He was a god compared to this, and Now he'd been usurped by some Devil's Tricks?

He was Darwin St. Zachery Von Helmut! And he would not be denied A Thing in life, be it Power, Money, or his own Bleeding Castle to throw his enemies from.

He stayed in that mood for several more hours, till he'd scratched the door near bloody, or that one of the neighbors threw something in an attempt to shut up the screeching wild cat beyond their widow.

The devil cleared himself a small cake and sandwich, he always preferred dessert to be served first, spurs the appetite into swallowing more than its fair share.

He glanced about at what was to be his abode and scoffed. He wouldn't even let vermin live here, they'd find it beneath them. And that smell, now that he had a nose, he couldn't see any reason for it besides avoiding day-old corpses and swamp gas. Hardly worth dedicating an entire sense towards.

He stomped over to the bookshelf and started removing items. The Dishes first. He made those disappear into something he liked to call his "Waste Pocket." A little space that ground all the terrible things he ever came across down into itty bitty pieces of sand that he would use to plant his petunias in the garden. Once that chore was done he opened a different pocket and Excused the tea cart.

It sank back into the shadows where it came from and left a quiet muffled sound, like a heavy curtain closing. With that gone, he began reaching out and gathering the various tomes and scraps of paper scattered about the room.

"Ugh, Silvermane's Contusion, Out of date, Bernellies Wondrous Apparition?, Peppers Ghost was better. Oh, what's this? The Hangman's Divide, no wait, it's a misprint of the Gorgon's Rope technique. Shame. Ah, what is this? A copy of Huruginar's "Of the Spheres" Oh delightful. I'll keep this one." He placed the favorable notes to one side and the materials he deemed irrelevant or inconsequential to the fire. He found one of interest, examining the embossed title before deciding to throw it away.

"No one needs a Second Tome of Blood and Vital Passages, Although I will keep the Third Addition just in case I ever need to Curse something very badly. But Honestly, Why bother? I'm no Cadmus Atreides." He said, tossing a rather vile book of spellcraft into the fire. He picked up another one, lighter but depicting the shapes of women writhing in pain between its pages.

"Well, there goes the infamous Baneful Poet and all his most, ahem, Colorful ways inducing pain in women's feet. The bastard had a fixation on Pain and Sexuality. Disturbed is correct." As he tossed the book into the fire. He watched that one burn a moment to make sure it did. The author had a habit of sneaking in certain protective charms to prevent their destruction.

Fortunately, the Reprints did not, and the old tome went up in smoke as a proper bonfire should.

After clearing the floor and shelves of material, both favored and not. He had a tidy stack of books, about thirty or so high. Although if he was being honest, most of them were for laughs more than anything else, though there were a few items that captured his curiosity that he intended to go over later.

Next, He turned to the furniture in disgust. The Roman Leaning couch for starters. He stretched open the Waste Pocket as far as it would go and shoved the whole thing in.

The sounds of splintering wood and cloth filled the room for a moment as the pocket space chewed the thing alive. It took a minute to choke down, but eventually, all that was left was a small pile of loose splinters and scraps of frayed cloth, that failed to be devoted by the monstrous hole.

With that out of the way, he flopped back into the large chair by the fireplace. Bringing said Pockets so close to this Reality was often exhausting, and a perpetual gamble as to how much force it would take. He sat back and absorbed his new surroundings.

There were still places that needed to be patched, claw marks, scorch marks, a faint smell of cat pee. He grimaced, must have forgotten to grab a littler box when surveying candidates for his Familiar. Typical Ameture, All these delusions of power and grandeur, and you can't even be bothered to care for a singular cat. Typical, just Typical Warlock Behavior.

He tsked, what would he do. The Devil smiled to himself.

He reached into his pocket and removed the Warlocks money, well, His money now.

The First thing that came to mind, would be to move into a better house. He could well afford it, checking through the Warlock's memories confirmed he had a hidden stash under the floorboard, and another in the desk. The Devil glanced in its general direction, the hidden sum suited the proposed amounts.

And the next thing he would do is see a tailor.

These cast-off dredges were barely a step above bare skin. The shaved wool passing for finer fabrics was a fine trick, but it was wearing thin, far too thin, to be considered comfortable. And, he was pretty sure these were the poor sods' only clothes.

All the power in the world wouldn't have done him any good, dressed in rags looking like a starving vagabond. No wonder the man was wearing a cloak all the time. Probably ashamed of himself.

The Devil sighed, he was glad he'd recalled the Cats power of speech, he couldn't imagine the obscenities the beastie was screaming about right now. He listened for a second and shuddered.

No, somehow the scratching and screeching were worse. An unholy sound trying in vain to break down his door and claw his eyes out while he slept.

Thank God for small miracles, Like Subdue.

His will manifested in a heartbeat, and for all intents, reassembled a boot striking the animal in the back of the head. There was a brief sound outside, and then silence.

"Ah, silence at last." He wasn't sure if that would work, normally you'd need to see the target, but being connected to someone via a Familiar Contract works just as well.

He checked his watch again and yawned. Sleep now, He rested in the great armchair and nodded off. He would have many things to do tomorrow.

"Goodnight, Pussy cat." he taunted. Not caring if the irate feline could hear him or not.