What follows is my concept sketch based on the magic starfighters dream. I will likely continue this and flesh it out into something, but in the meantime, here's some rough work.
The velvet cushions of a mechanical throne slide my body forward while the cockpit's windows fold shut; once they've locked into position, my gloved hands curl around the smooth handles of a control yoke crafted from the spiraling antlers of a gazelle. Twelve autocandles begin to glow in their tiny glass bubbles along the top of the dashboard, illuminating each of the dials and metronomes below. This ship has seen some wear; the sandalwood finish has begun to fade and the stained glass inlays have fractured in several places, but she's still aged better than I have.
I draw a bottle of oxygen potion from my anorak's pocket and take a long draught; it tastes intensely of evergreen needles and anise. The fluid glows with an almost unnatural viridian hue and contains a mountain's worth of air from a sylvanized world- more than enough for one mission. Once finished, my body lets out a sudden and heavy sigh, but no inhalation follows, just a refreshing stillness. It's a strange sensation not to need to breathe, but at least it gets you high. My whole body is buzzing as though filled with carbonated deepmint.
I gaze into the black mirror that centers the fighter's dashboard and recite the invocation. Then the ignition process begins. Through the translucent glass, I see the dim outline of a crystal skull gazing back into me; beyond that, a second mirror, and beyond that, the glow of the idling engine. My feathered mask and its wide obsidian eyes merge with the skull's laughing teeth, an insidious synthesis of visage. Although my unblinking eyes have begun to burn, I maintain my focus on the mirror's surface as its darkness expands, engulfing even my peripheral vision in the same homogenous umbra.
Then, something else emerges from the glass abyss: it is the face of the Black Owl himself. It is only there for a few seconds, but I see it with better-than-real clarity- his gaunt, emotionless face, the menacing spirals of his gaze, and the impossible midnight shade of his feathers. The ritual is complete; his sigil flashes briefly in the mirror as the ship roars to life.
"H E L L O O Z L O," the daemon speaks through glyphs of burgundy light on the panel before me. Each letter that appears is accompanied by an unintelligible synthesized vocalization, presumably in the spirit's native language. "T O W H A T E N D D O Y O U S U M M O N M E?"
"Stolas, whose true name is [REDACTED]," I respond. "I command you to operate this vessel according to my will and whim, authorized by the seal of our mutual queen. Should I survive, you will be released once more to your kindgdom in the Undersphere. Are these terms understood?"