Warrior: "HAH! I should have guessed the so-called Spinster of Hell would be some kind of dandy. This will be easier than mowing a patch of pansies."
Tarante: "Oh, how charming. Another filthy mortal who would rather earn acclaim from taking the heads of daemons than try taking a bath for once. I know your type well, child of man."
In the dark, opulent mansion lit by the warm glow of a hanging chandelier, a dirtied human in sparse armor brandishing a sword approaches Tarante, a spider-like demon cloaked in a thick robe. While the human has a battle-hungry look in his eyes, the demon seems to look down on him with the kind of concern gaze reserved for a dying housefly buzzing on the floor of your bedroom.
Tarante: "This current age of mortals breeds your ilk all too frequently-- Men who believe that they are abstaining from luxury out of a stoic sense of masculine superiority, when in truth they simply deprive themselves of common decency."
Warrior: "ACKH-!! What the hell-!?"
Tarante: "Your unkempt hair, contemptible manners, and malodorous presentation belies not the incarnate idol of prime human form you envision for yourself, but a shaking, quivering fear of being perceived as even the slightest bit feminized. Fear not, my dear guest-- Though your existence is most pitiful, it is one that I have extensive experience in rectifying..."
Warrior: "w-Wait! STOP!! C-Cease this at once!"
Tarante: "No thanks are necessary (though it would be polite), seeing as I will be helping myself to your ability to take arms against my fiendish kinfolk as payment."
Suddenly ensnared in Tarante's magic spiderwebs, the human is restrained, the demon's six arms tugging and pulling at him, threads pulling apart his old clothing, weaving into the fabrics to reconstruct them into expensive high-class garments. As his clothing changes, so too does his body, his face elongating into an equine snout, his feet turning to hooves, the corsetry around his waist squeezing his old gut into a slimmer silhouette as his pecs become extremely accentuated.
Tarante: "There you are, my dear. Who could have ever guessed such a ruffian came to become an elegant stallion gentleman such as yourself?"
(ex) Warrior: "hhrgh... grh... ff... ffff...!"
Tarante: "Oh my, what forces you to hold your tongue so? Could it be that you intend to use some unsavory language towards my self, your dear benefactor? Ah yes, I do presume mankind has yet to produce more readily available garments that would fit your new physique. Not to worry, I will always be at your service to clothe your fanciful self-- Coats, cloaks, chaps, corsetry, all shall be generously provided by yours truly. You need not even ask!"
Warrior: "..."
Tarante: "You may thank me now."
Warrior: "th-Thank you, my fffffriend..."
Tarante: "Very good."
The demon's curse complete, the filthy mortal exorcist is now a proud, devilish bicorn-- a handsome dark stallion with two protruding horns arcing from his scalp, dressed in the finest regalia whether he wants to be or not. He struggles and grimaces where he stands, but seems to be unable to fight any longer, as the count forces words of gratitude from his clenched jaw. While he seems to be suffering a humiliating defeat, the long bulge in his trousers seems to imply he's enjoying this more than he lets on.
Count Tarante is not a stranger to would-be demon hunters strolling into his opulent mansion hoping to score an easy kill on a demonic aristocrat. Even so, the thrill of getting to weaponize his tailoring talent never does get old for him, reshaping ruffians into monstrous gentleman! #tftuesday