The amber shaded liquid poured artfully into the clear glass, Dorian giving a proud smirk and tipping the large bottle of aged scotch upward. He nodded towards the wondering demon and respectfully busied himself on cleaning other glasses. The demon took his glass and swigged the scotch. Few men were chatting or staring emptily off into space all around Dorian's Gray Room, some laughing, others listening bored. The traveling demon looked around the room, observing each warlock carefully. Most looked young enough to attend the Academy of Unseen Arts, while others seemed to be regulars here. He sipped the last of his scotch and set down the glass, walking off into the room, his fingers gracefully buttoning up his suit jacket. All black, of course.

The demon stared longingly towards the regal fireplace, enjoying the look of each slithering flame. He loved the way fire moved, sloppy and destructive. It soothed him. Down in Hell, despite what every mortal believes, there isn't hoards of fire surrounding every wall or pit. Hell is actually destitute minus Pandemonium, the only location where fire breathes happily. The demon sighs as he recalls the familiarity and strange sort of comfort he secured of Hell. It was his home. He looked up again, eyeing the booming flames as if they were the ones who dragged him up from Hell and gave him a mission to watch mortals and witches.

His eye caught on a dark haired man from across the room, thick eyebrows and a nicely proportioned face. The demon stood in his place and narrowed his eyes at the young man. They held each other's eye until the black haired boy rose from his armchair, nodding off two other boy's and walking over to the demon. He cleared his throat and put on a friendly grin.

"Hi. I'm Nick. Nick Scratch." He introduced himself, offering his hand out for a firm handshake. The demon glanced towards his hand and then back up to his face, the smile unsettling. It looked unnatural against his other features. He shook his hand and pulled back quickly, not wanting to be held onto for too long. Nick pinched his lips to a line and furrowed his brows at the demon, scanning his face as if he had any flaws. This was starting to get awkward.

"I've never seen you here before. Are you new in town?" Nick asked, his fists settling in his pants pockets. The demon smiled at this Inquisition, "new in town". He was anything but.

"Something like that." The demon responded. Nick nodded and looked at him like he would rather be anywhere else, but also like this demon was the most interesting thing he's seen. The demon tilts his head and waits for Nick to piece together another forgettable sentence dedicated to their small talk.

"Uh, what's your name?" He asked the demon.

"Caliban."

Nick gulped, his face settling into one of realization and some sort of discomfort. He took a step back. This was the reaction Caliban got from most common warlocks and regular demon. They all knew who the boy made of clay was, the famous Prince of Hell. Caliban was known amongst many in Hell as one of ruthlessness, certainly not your average demon. No, he was far from that. Caliban was regal. An arrogant monarch with little to no remorse for anyone. He was sprouted from the very depths of Hell, it is all he has ever known, until now. Caliban is examining this so called free world, watching it's way of life and excitedly planning his total domination, learning it's weak spots. He was sent by his sponsor nonetheless, Beezlebub, along with the support of every other demon in Hell.

"Look, I don't know why you're here, pretty boy, but if you're trying to start any trouble..." Nick has stepped closer to the demon, who is taller, and is trying to use a cutting edge in his voice to intimidate Caliban.

Caliban grins, using a hand to nonchalantly comb back his free falling hair. He smiles wide, teeth and all, expressing how pathetic that "threat" was. Nick merely gets angrier, his eyebrows knitted close and eyes glazed over with a tough warlock exterior. Caliban frowns and steps closer, their faces a few inches apart. He scoffs looking the warlock up and down.

"Ah, what are you going to do? Kill me?" Caliban smiles white and shakes his head at Nick.

"Touch me again, and I'll grind every bone in your body to sand." Caliban daringly implies. He bites his bottom lip and huffs a sigh, staring around the room once more. His eye catches on a displayed set of paintings towards the back of the room. Caliban glances back over to a trembling Nick, his face still sour. He steps back, claps his shoulder like they're old pals reuniting. Nick flinches. The room has been unbothered by their conversation, continuing on with the whiskey sipping and mindless chatting by the grand fireplace. Caliban smiles again, feeling amatory towards this show of power, him having the upper hand. He loves seeing weak men before him.

"Well, Nick Scratch, I do believe I should go. We'll keep in touch." Caliban suggests coolly. Nick gulps and briefly side eyes the room, nodding at the arrogant Prince of Hell. Caliban smiles and walks off, using his fingers to comb back his hair one last time.

Caliban hated warlocks, but he did love a good portrait. He languidly strode toward the gallery, the vibrant patch of red catching his eye. The demon stops directly in front of a painting of two men, one pale and angelic, the other a withering charcoal colored man. He presumed this was Michael fighting Lucifer. Caliban huffed and shook his head. Lucifer may be the almighty, the Lord of Night, the whatever else he's called, but he really wasn't all that he's cracked up to be. Lucifer is rude, stubborn, arrogant, sarcastic, and harshly dramatic. It gets old. Caliban wonders over to another painting, one of a sorrowed wasteland. He didn't bother to scan the title, he could assume this was some eternal Hell for someone. The painting had streaks of gray and brown and was nearly a mountain looking out onto a barren field. It had some skulls for decoration, but held no excitement at all.

Caliban stepped over to a larger painting beside it, one with orange flames and tinges of crimson blood staining it. This made Caliban smile. The way each lock of fire was desperate to reach for more, the way he could nearly feel the heat radiating off of the portrait. Above the flames rests a man with curled hair, much like Caliban's. He stood proudly and used his bloody sword to bear his weight. The demon liked this portrait, staring at it some time longer before walking around a corner to see one lone painting. His face fell. Caliban heard stories of this very painting, the lesser demons always gossiping of some portal that led to a beautiful maiden, one who, once released, would take the throne of Hell for her own. Caliban felt dizzy.

He stepped closer to the portrait and, mere inches away, let out a breath, one he didn't know he was holding in. The portrait held such despair, such tragedy. Caliban's eyes glazed the expanse of the smug flames licking up at her flailing legs. She was falling. Plummeting. Her hands were absent, bright white with glowing orange tints of fire replaced them. The girl's face was tear streaked and heartbroken. Caliban felt his face twist at this sight, yet he couldn't look away. His eyes were magnets and the painting was metal. He carefully examined each delicate feature of this milky skinned girl, her ivory locks of hair and dark brows, the titanium sheet of white over her eyes, the stretch of her pale arm. He felt such pain, such longing to want to save her from whatever fate this was.

Caliban didn't like this. This feeling of pure sadness and panic. He felt itchy in his own skin. What was this painting doing to him? Why was he so affected by the strokes of color on a canvas? Caliban closed his eyes and shook his head, turning around hastily and smacking right into a body. His eyes flew open. A shorter, brown haired woman stood before him, a rude frown on her face.

"Excuse you." She stated. Caliban took a deep breath and calmed his nerves, reminding himself that he is the Prince of Hell, not some anxious boy who stares at portraits. The woman scoffs, stepping around him and standing in front of the pale girl's painting.

"Sabrina Morningstar." She says, her voice is nasal but not annoying. It's calm and composed, something Caliban should learn. He turned back around and stood behind her, walking to stand beside this stranger. He hesitantly gazed back towards the painting. Sabrina Morningstar, he thought. Her name was beautiful, as was she. Caliban tossed this name around his head like a ball, forcing his brain to memorize it. The woman reached out, her fingertips skimming over Sabrina's flailing arm.

"You know, she once was the Queen of Hell." The brunette said almost sadly. Caliban looks down at the woman, observing her emotions and tracing her face with his eyes. She was familiar.

"I was her regent, actually. Her trusted advisor," she trailed off, gazing hopelessly onto the painting's fragile features. "How could I let this happen?" She whispered, almost barely audible. Caliban confusedly glanced onto her, wondering what the hell she was saying. The woman sighed and looked back at him, clearing her throat and fixing her sagging posture.

"Do you know who I am, Caliban?" He startled at the sound of his name, now certainly questioning who she was and how she knew his name. He might be a Prince of Hell, but for random people to know who he is, that's new to him.

He wracked his mind for a mental image of this woman, thinking hard on who she might be. He furrowed his brows, pausing briefly to put the pieces together. Former regent of the Queen, that could only be one.

"Lilith." Caliban replied, breathy like it was a secret. He was surprised she was wondering the mortal world.

"What brings you here, Madam Satan?" He inquires, adjusting to face her and stand tall, proud. Lilith shrugs and waves her hand at him, brushing him off.

"Oh you know, the usual collecting souls and visiting old friends. Lucifer didn't want to get up this morning, so he sent me. If I'd known being Queen was running errands for the one and only Satan, I would have left a long while back." She huffs out a bratty sigh. Lilith's face was sour and pouting. Caliban nodded and surveyed the room quickly, trying to find a way to leave.

"Do you know the story behind this painting, Caliban?" Lilith asked, she crossed her arms and raised her brow at him. He shook his head. The Queen sighed and looked back to the portrait, opening her mouth to speak again.

"Sabrina was different from the other demons, different from the Morningstar name, different from everyone, really. She was always so headstrong. So considerate. See, when she was crowned, Sabrina trapped Lucifer into a flesh acharon. She didn't want to rule by his side, so she took matters into her own hands and took the throne. I was quite upset for a while, thinking I'd be the one in charge, but... She wasn't a bad ruler. Sabrina was just different. So anyways, time went by, all was evil to an extent, and then, of course, dear old daddy came back. We still aren't sure how, but Lucifer was full of rage, hate, you know, all the good stuff. Well," Lilith paused, sighed, then continued. "He demanded to have his throne back. Sabrina, of course, tried to reason her way out of this, but knowing Satan, she lost. He cast her out of Pandemonium and she is trapped somewhere only he knows. I was crowned his Queen, and now here we are."

Caliban looked back onto the painting with a defeated face, now more than ever wanting to break her free. Rid of her of the pain. And to think, he barely knew her. Lilith reached out again, her nails tracing the tear falling down Sabrina's cheek.

"Right, well, Caliban. I shouldnt linger. Souls await." Lilith takes a few steps back and tilts her head to puff a sad sigh at Sabrina's bittersweet painting. The two demonic beings exchanged awkward farewells, and Caliban was left to ponder and glance longingly onto the fine strokes of paint, framed by a regal, gold embellished frame. He stared at each small detail, admiring the astonishing handiwork present. She was beautiful. Caliban had been with his fair share of sex demons, creatures, hellish women, all the same in sharing carnal desires only. But this, this girl crafted from silky smooth paints and pigments stolen from the sun, the moon, and the stars... He was baffled and somewhat ashamed to admit that she was the first to place a flutter in his chest, rather than a burning flame of want.

Sabrina wasn't even standing in front of him like he was picturing. Caliban wished there was some way he could zip through time and take her side on the throne, steer her away from this treachery. He wanted to feel her, observe her facial features, her seemingly thin frame and petit build. He wanted to trace every inch of her pale skin and watch her shiver, blush, fluster, squirm. He wanted her to bend beneath him, yet Caliban didn't want to only embrace pure and passionate carnality with her. He wanted to savour her.

Caliban gulped, avoiding his possibly drooling gaze, and turned away from the portrait. This was utter hilarity, the Prince of Hell was fantasizing over a painting. He could have anything and everything he wanted, so he chose an inanimate object. Caliban shakes his head and reluctantly walks out of the gallery, clearly not as confident as when he'd first strolled in.

Fewer warlocks and men were crowding Dorian's Gray Room now, some time must have drained away whilst he was gazing whole-heartedly onto the portrait. He combed back his hair and felt his face settle into the usual frown with a bored look in his eye. Caliban wouldn't consider it a smolder, but he'd melted more than a few demons with this stare. The thought of it made him huff a chuckle to himself, a small smirk now enlightening his features. Dorian licked his lips and seductively waved the demon goodbye. With a cocky smile and a flirty wink, Caliban left the bartender with blushing cheeks and a gaping mouth. He loved easily having this affect on men and women and demons and witches and, well, everyone really.

"Do come back!" Dorian called after him in a shaky, loud voice. Smirking, Caliban walked up the stairs and out of the smoky den Dorian's Gray Room, confident he'd be back very, very soon.

-- the next day --

Caliban opened the large, thick doors to the familiar bar and, with a gleam, stepped inside. The atmosphere was hardly changed from yesterday's appeal. Today, only different faces differed from the last time he was here, a remaining handful of warlocks nearly placed in exactly the same spots. The Prince of Hell stepped evenly down the stairs and slowly raked a hand through his golden hair, observing the room from this eye level. Although, he was taller than almost everyone in Dorian's Gray Room.

"Ah, you again." Dorian cleared the air of any silence. Caliban turned his head and stepped towards the bar, smiley and composed. The man before him had a daring look in his eye, wiping each glass carelessly.

"Mm, hello to you, too." Caliban hummed, his voice rumbling like a dwelling thunderstorm.

"Come for a drink? Perhaps to meet an old friend?" Dorian tried his luck at making small talk. Caliban narrowed his eyes, remembering the hanous attempt that one dark haired warlock had made when talking to him... Nate? Noah? Something like that. Caliban shrugged off the name once the boy proved to be everything short of masculine and falsely bold. He wasn't worth the breathing space.

Caliban sighed, already getting bored with whatever this was. He wanted to see her.

"Along those lines, yes. Speaking of," Caliban nodded towards the same scotch he had requested yesterday, enjoying the memory of how the liquid of mahogany coated his throat with a burn and coated his tongue with a crisp, aged taste. It is truly a delicacy.

Dorian smiled like they had a secret only they knew, reaching for the glass bottle and pouring the demon the same amount. Caliban took the glass graciously from his host, saluting Dorian and chasing it down. He exhaled and closed his eyes at the delighted rumble in his throat. He really had to get some of this for his house in Hell. When he opened his eyes again, Dorian was tracing the line of his lips, watching him closely, eyes half lidded and full of desire. Caliban smirked and set the glass down, leaning away from the bar. He strutted towards the back of the Gray Room, certainly away from the moaning coming from some unknown location. He came here for one thing only.

Her, Sabrina.

He needed to see her again. All night in Hell, he laid face up in his kingly bed, thinking of her ivory skin. It was safe to say that he actually missed her, well, it. The painting. He keeps forgetting Sabrina is trapped and tucked far, far away. Most likely dead. What a bitter thought.

Caliban furrowed his brows and walked carefully into the dark gallery, the only light coming from the small bulbs supplied above each portrait. The demon walked along the hall of average portal paintings, turning the corner like he'd been here a thousand times. Once the light over Sabrina's portrait caught his eye, Caliban felt his whole body set at ease. He smiled briefly as he stepped up to the grand painting. Titanium, rose, charcoal, all were bewitching accents of this favored sight, one of glorious brushwork and captivating emotion portrayed with the scenery. Sabrina managed to hold such painful despair, yet lingering defiance upon her delicate face. No matter how long he stared into her dark eyes, Caliban gazed onto the portrait as if he'd seen it for the first time.

Hours had passed, hours upon hours upon hours, of standing and staring at one frame of art. Her beauty captured him, and now the demon felt he had a stone chained to his foot, causing him to stand still and just admire. It wasn't until a wondering couple of two giddy boys interrupted him that he finally snapped his head away.

The two looked young and froze when they all three made eye contact, the two boys (possibly young warlocks in the making) looking as if they'd been caught stealing. Caliban rolled his eyes and turned back around, exhaling while gazing back onto the painting. It was silent for a few seconds before one of the boys nervously spoke up, trying his best to sound assertive. Caliban wanted to laugh, but he suppressed the chuckle.

"Hey, we're kind of in the middle of something. I think you should go, unless you're into watching. Creep." That last word was a new one for Caliban. He huffed a laugh now, slowly turning around and stepping closer to the shorter boys, one with gelled back hair and the other with curls much like his own. Of course, the Prince of Hell was much taller than both of these young, sex hungry teens, so when he stepped close they both gulped. He smiled down at them, almost condescendingly. Okay, definitely condescendingly. He could hear their heart's beating faster and desperately wanted to snap them out of existence. Just, snap, and he could peacefully observe his portrait once again.

"Actually, I think I'm going to stay. You two aren't, though. So, why don't you go now, run along back to your 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' school and pretend like you actually matter. Which, in the long run," Caliban leaned in closer, looking them up and down. "You don't."

He practically spat in their faces. This is fun, he thought.

The demon leaned back again and smiled at them, like a proud teacher, or a deranged psychopath. Caliban then stepped back, waved at them, and waited for one of them to try and prove their ''manliness". A sad state of affairs, really, one that always ended in someone splatting into a snap of blood, all thanks to an impatient Caliban. He smirked at that thought, snapping his fingers and instantly killing both of these wastes of breath and life. He hated wannabes. All he wanted was to come and look upon the lush painting of Sabrina's tragic end, stare at her platinum locks of hair springing out as she falls, her dark, knitted eyebrows, her gasping mouth. Caliban sighed, nearly forgetting about the insignificance that was these two boys before him. Interrupting him.

"You know what, I didn't want to have to do this but-" and as soon as those words left the curly haired boy's lips, Caliban, almost bored with it, rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. The two warlock's necks cracked like knuckles. Finally, Caliban could be absorbed in the beauty of her portrait and embedded in silence. He stared at their lifeless bodies and shrugged, twisting around cheerfully and standing before her painting once again, a new smile on his face. And for a single moment, Caliban looked sinister.

-- four days later --

"No, you cannot come in here. Not after what happened before." Dorian was clear, snapping his words at the Prince of Hell, much like how he snapped those nameless boy's necks. He smirks at the thought. Dorian shoos at him, using his ownership of the property to defy the actual Prince of Hell. Caliban almost takes pity on him. Almost.

With a large hand clasped firmly around Dorian's throat, Caliban says, "Don't think for a second that I won't peal the skin off of you and hang it up like curtains in my bedroom. I need new drapes, anyways." Caliban states so casually it sounds as if he does it often. Dorian's lip trembles, his face fading into a pinkish shade of red, the long veins in his neck sticking out like like a broken bone. The demon feels the frown on his face, his glaring eyes and disgusted features. He lets go of Dorian and smoothes down the front of his suit jacket, walking off towards the gallery. Caliban combs a hand through his curled hair and cockily stalks away from the shaking bartender.

Curiously, hardly anyone is actually here today, all thanks to the "horrendous" double murder Caliban left behind the other day. He sighed at the thought, still annoyed with their presence even after their deaths.

He felt a low breath escape his lips as he caught sight of the ravishing painting before him. The demon hummed a noise of content, pleased to finally see her again. Caliban couldn't think straight without the thought of Sabrina's bittersweet look flooding his mind. She was all he could really focus on, but following the double murder incident, he couldn't return to Dorian's Gray Room. Once Caliban couldn't take it any longer, he finally teleported straight there, fed up and in need of seeing the beautiful Morningstar girl. Looking upon her was like a breath of crisp, smoky air. The tangles of her silky dress blowing around her, the flames licking desperately at her legs, everything about this painting was captivating. Entrancing. Mesmerizing. She was an utter work of art.

The Prince of Hell tilted his head up at her, curiously gazing at her eyes once again. They seemed to be his favorite feature on her, besides everything else. He thought long and hard, piecing together an idea comprised of hope and wonder.

Caliban stormed out of the gallery, feverantly turning corners and stomping out towards Dorian's spot behind the bar. The demon slammed his hand on the thick wood, stirring the few men gathered here today. Dorian startled and dropped a glass, the shatter dragging every warlocks attention to Caliban and Dorian. The demon looked at him with a smirk, one proud smirk.

"Dorian," he started, his voice oh so low. "Your paintings, some are portals, correct?"

Dorian gulped and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. Caliban could hear his heart beat steady itself. He watched the other man intently.

"Um, y-yes. Yes. Not all, but-" Dorian looked up at Caliban with a confused look, one where he was putting two and two together. His face relaxed and he shook his head vigorously. Dorian squatted down, beginning to gather the shattered pieces of glass littering his workspace.

"You cannot use her. I will NOT give you access to her. It's a suicide mission, anyways." Dorian muttered, nearly snarled. Caliban licked his bottom lip, obviously feeling a considerate amount of rage boiling in his limbs of clay. He did not like being told no. Caliban sighed and walked around the bar, hoisting Dorian up by his lavish collar, slamming the man's body onto the counter and hovering above him. The Prince of Hell chuckled down at him.

"It's funny how you think you actually have any say in the matter." Caliban patronizes the whimpering man below him, gripping into his collar, turning his knuckles as white as Sabrina's hair. Dorian coughed up a small trickle of blood, wheezing as well. Caliban was unaffected.

"Give me the spell, and I'll let you live." Caliban kept his threat simple, not wanting to go into specifics. Dorian's eyes flew open, his lips coated in his own blood and his face turning red, again. He looked like a monster. They both did. Dorian nodded violently, begging for his life without actually begging. Caliban smiled, letting him go and stepping back like he accidentally bumped into him and that's all. Dorian laid still for a moment before Caliban huffed and impatient sigh and harshly yanked his body up by the arm.

"Get up, let's go." Caliban spat.

The two walked slowly back into the gallery, few warlocks gaping at the action filled scene before them, but no one dared make a move. Caliban would fuck up anyone if they so much as blinked at him the wrong way. Dorian limped painfully beside him, his breathing ragged and unsteady, but Caliban could care less. All he needed was the words to use Sabrina's portrait as a portal. He needed to go in and save her. Dorian said it was a suicide mission, but if Caliban were to die by her side, then what a heavenly way to die. He smiled at the thought, finally seeing the beautiful woman running circles in his head. They both stood in front of the portrait, Dorian panting and Caliban anticipating the sight of her in the flesh.

"Now, tell me what I have to do. Don't lie." Caliban warned. Dorian nodded and coughed again, wiping at his mouth with a shaky hand. He opened his mouth to speak, looking directly at the Prince of Hell.

"You must cut your palm and use your blood to draw a circle in the middle. Press your hand to the painting and clear your mind. This should open the portal." Dorian weakly states. Caliban nods along and stares deeply at the painting, a small smile playing at his lips. He still cannot believe he's actually travelling into her dimension. Dorian grabs his arm, immediately pulling back when he glares at the beaten man.

"If you are unable to find her, you too will suffer her fate. Lost in her realm for eternity. And don't forget, to return to this world, cut your palm and circle your hand with blood twice." Dorian speaks. The demon nods and looks back to the painting, preparing for whatever this dimension will hold. Will it be fiery like Pandemonium? Will it be barren like Golgotha? Caliban breathes in and with a carefree smile, uses his powers to cut open his hand, a finger circling the edges. With one last flicker of a smile, the Prince of Hell arrogantly places his hand on the painting, shutting his eyes and draining all thought from his mind. At first there was a whirring sound, something like wind and rain, then the noise gathered into a generic teleportation sound someone would hear from a Back to the Future movie.

Caliban kept his eyes screwed shut, suddenly nervous and not enjoying it. This was as new as his sudden urge to come into this desolate plain of despair and forged betrayal. Caliban swallowed down his doubts and focused on finally being able to put his demonic status to good use, saving the one woman he's taken a somewhat obsessive fascination towards.

The tall Prince of Hell stepped cautiously into the unknown, braving for the remote instabilities this portal held caged behind each stroke of the brush.

xx