Histories of the Realm: The Book of the Damned Itself 4.0

Chapter 3
I am writing now more out of thankfulness of breathing and thinking conscious thoughts than of anything. It was terrible. The techanns came with a great force of xla, and each was heavily armored. Only the grizzly horns that protrude from the helm of the xla were not armored; the techanns, which I named after a venomous snake from Twin River, had fully armored backsides save where they crawl along the ground with their bellies, those remained uncovered. I feel as that we will not reside in this cave much longer. Too many times have demons attacked us, and it is now clear that they were sent with a fell purpose, or knew that we resided here, and did not just chance upon us.
I am hurt badly, but she is very powerful, birthed from the immortal herself I begin to assume. I suspect she will heal me whereupon I make a noise through suffering.
I must now continue, though I dread the following. I began my trek on the icy plain, wandering without celestial guidance or map or aid. The stinging of my eyes, caused not from the blood and grime of the battle with the demons, but from the putrid air and harsh winds, had begun to cease a fraction, but still it felt like twigs in my eyes and sickles in my chest. My lungs suffered. I remember at one moment, thinking of my body as a great exploding mountain, one that rains down lava and sulfur. A volcano, I believed they are called in the Realm, that world that is so distant to my soul now.
I trekked on. Foot after foot, with my head lowered so that the lights in the sky might not witness the life in my eyes, I trekked on. The weather here never changes. It is always red with lazy purple clouds that spew lighting from time to time, that drift from the evil winds of the south, if south is indeed where it blows from. There is no sun here.
It is always hot, hot like midsummer under the direct sunlight, not in the shade of a willow, or by the creek, or in the meadowlands with the wild birds singing and pruning, and with the fawns leaping…I apologize for the tear drops on this page. This parchment is crude and does not take to substances well.
It was in fact on my hike through the immense ice that I discovered a notebook was on my person. In my breast-satchel under my mail and above my heart, I found it in there, amongst some candles, feather, and ink bottled with glass and stopper. At once a sense of joy flowed in me, as if this notebook, of a palms length, could be a savior. I know not why I felt that, now as I write, I write because she has spoken words to me, words that lead to a salvation. I digress.
The ice stretched forever forward, and as a mountain becomes a hill in the distance, so too did that skeletal cliff of bone, which I now name The Living Wall, for I fell from it, and was thus saved. The peril was away from now, here in this land of white ground and red sky. Once I stopped and observed all around me. Nothing but white below and red above, a testament to the alien nature of this plane.
Suddenly a great roaring such as that from a tall flame began to fill my surroundings. A lengthy shadow spread over me, and instantly I thought of the draigons of the Realm. Oh how I’d rather be in the maw of one such creature than where I am now.
Woe is me! A great peal of thunder resounded in the horizon and flashes of cerulean lightning blinded my vision. The brilliant stars of the heavens swam as minnows beneath my eyelids, until all was clear. What I beheld thereafter my mind is scarce to recall, for the moment was terrifyingly surreal.
A demon like none other took me in from not thirty paces. It was in the form of a draigon, but certainly not one such beast, for it was far smaller than any draigon I have heard tell. From its back sprouted six ghastly wings, three in parallel with three, of a shade of cinder. Its neck was elongated and serrated like the teeth of an ocean leviathan and its teeth just so as well. It seemed to lumber towards me for a few steps, reminding me of a newborn infant.
It, which I later dubbed the Draixla, burst into black flame and abounded skyward in a single thrust of its drawn wings, circling skyward and vanishing from sight behind a glossy violet thread of cloud. I had not realized it, but my sword was in hand, and beneath my leather gauntlets, I am sure that my knuckles were of pallor.
The four curved horns of the Draixla burst through the clouds first as it spiraled down towards me. Black goblets of slag shot forth from its mouth, and I found myself yet again in danger from a black rain of fire.
A note on this. Black fire I have witnessed from several of the demon-kind. To be burned by it is likened to the feeling of extreme cold, as ones limbs turn to black and fall off.
The Draixla came down to make one pass on me, tarnishing the ivory of the ice around my feet. In my other hand rested this very notebook, which now bears the scorch marks from the insipid fire. I did what I thought best and landed face first on my stomach, as to avoid mortal injury. Intense heat licked my whole entire backside as I prayed to the Eleven Above. It is humorous how one can go from cursing to begging so quickly.
Although the ice is not ice, it melted from the fire. It makes ironic sense to me that such a thing would happen. With the sound of a shatter of glass, I went tumbling down to the white stone dungeon that lay in wait beneath me.