The Crimson Stylus

I crouched near the low basalt flue of the demon core, the Book of Life clamped firmly beneath my left flank. A vibrant cluster of crimson cinnabar needles had crystallized along the warm iron lip. Pressing the curved tip of my right claw against the base of the longest filament, I levered it free with a sharp, resonant snap. The mineral shard was dense and razor-sharp. Returning to my pedestal midway between the arches of Hell and Heaven, I tested its edge against a scrap of dark slate. A crisp, indelible scarlet furrow cut across the stone. My decrees require unwavering clarity; this stylus is primed.