Dantalion reached out a tentacle to beat the small, screeching animal standing next to his head on the tile floor. With the protrusion on its head now beat in, it hiccuped, swallowed its otherworldly screaming, and tottered off on its spindly legs to wake the next unfortunate servant.
His tentacles sluiced noisily as he reluctantly stood himself up on them. A dull pain coursed through him as he smacked his head on the wall of the stall he had slept in, but it was still dwarfed by the stiffness in his muscles. He had many, many different muscles, and all of them felt knotted. Even the sulfur-fueled fires of this hell did not warm the men's bathroom in the basement dungeon. But at least it was peaceful there- Dantalion had never met a "men," and apparently none of the residents of Hunson Abadeer's castle-prison fit the bill, because no one had ever joined him in that bathroom.
He slapped his his way up the rough dungeon wall to the burning-hot kitchens at the base of the castle. Through the window, he could see that the day's insanity was just beginning to ensue. Demons of all shapes and sizes, some that he recognized and some that he didn't, were sprayed helter-skelter by the even-more-demonic forces of destruction that haunted the Nightosphere. Sighing, he washed his tentacles in a smelly, but sanitary, hot-springs that surfaced right inside the swinging kitchen door. It was the only time of the day he had a chance to do so, so he savored it. Using each tentacle to grab a different ingredient out of the fridge, he made the demon-king a quadruple-decker sandwich, placed it carefully on a plate, and arranged a large pickle alongside it. The king may be imprisoned, but he had no shortage of wealth, and certainly ate like the king he was. Dantalion's beak watered at the explosion of delectable food inside that fridge, but he didn't dare sup from it, for fear of incurring the monarch's considerable wrath.
After placing it in front of the king's bedroom door, it was time for the dirty work. He descended down the stairs again to the lowly parts of the castle-prison, which the king never visited. The rest of his day would be spent cleaning the bathrooms devoted to the servants, civilians, and prisoners. He was never given soap. He had to dip his tentacles into the toilet water, scrub the toilet clean, and then dip them again in the toilet water to rinse them off. Dantalion had been picked up for the job because it was assumed that the suckers he possessed would be an asset. He couldn't complain; at least he now had a place to sleep.
Every day, with his beak in the sooty filth, he would dream. He subsisted on the stories overheard during his recent, but now irretrievable, childhood. In the taverns of the Nightosphere, where he had unsuccessfully begged and more-successfully pick-pocketed, the old men would tell tales of distant worlds, where the sky was blue and the creatures were heroic. He wasn't sure what blue was, but the sound of the word reminded him of the hollow near the canal where he had slept. His imagination had been perennially filled with heroes, and monsters, and daring deeds.
Today he rehearsed a story that was one of his favorites, about a creature who had stolen an amulet from a Princess, and after overcoming obstacles, became well-respected in the kingdom. Something about the story felt different today. Even more than before, it reminded him of his days before he had been recruited into this role at the castle. It reminded him of the little twinge of joy he had felt as a street urchin after a successful steal- the proud knowledge that tonight, if he was vigilant, he'd be able to buy something to ingest.
A spark of an idea connected in his brain: he could do it again. He lived right in the heart of the only wealth the Nightosphere had. Who would suspect it of him?
Suddenly, his life as it was seemed unbearable. He could not clean another toilet. He could not even finish cleaning this one. He had to immediately meet his destiny.
He slapped his way back up to the castle, crept wetly up the stairs to the tallest tower, and pressed his body against the sooty wall to listen. He heard no footsteps, no conversation. By this time, Hunson Abadeer should be seated firmly in his throne room, fielding the millions of visitors he got each day.
Dantalion stuck the point of a tentacle into the lock, using his finely-tuned muscles to rearrange the pins and allow him access to the demon-king's private chambers. He had stood before this door every day of his employment, but he had never taken a peek inside.
Closing the door behind him, he quickly scanned the portrait-smattered room for anything that would hold his magic amulet, his ticket to his destiny. He spotted an armoire and creaked open the doors, revealing a jewelry cabinet. He quickly used all of his arms to rifle through the riches it contained.
He felt the shaking before he heard the footsteps. Someone giant was stomping down the outside hallway, closer and closer. There was only one creature that that could be. He quickly hung strings of jewels from each of his arms, and looked for a means of escape. A satanic scream of rage emanated from the hallway, rising in pitch as the demon-kind advanced on him.
No windows. No doors. Only a two-dimensional swirling circle, hanging in space. Feeling like a hero, he took a chance. He dived into it.