Eryngo woke slowly, and immediately noticed several things; one was that his cave felt somehow different, the air stale and far less pleasant and fresh and crisp than usual. The second was that he had been asleep for a very, very long time this time; he was stiff and his hair was ridiculously long; he had to wade through the stuff to find one of his magical pairs of scissors, which he used to hack at the long, soft expanses of hair until it hung to his hocks. The rest he quickly shoved aside, and he went to the little spring-fed pond in his underground chambers and bathed, frowning when he noticed how foul the water felt on his skin, but dismissed it, washing his mouth out after finishing his body and hair, and used a piece of razor sharp obsidian to shave the hair from his legs and armpits, and then re-dressed in a fresh loincloth.
Feeling clean and ready to face the world, he gathered a nice staff made of an ancient wood---luckily preserved by one of his powerful preservation spells—and a sack of golden coins which had been in circulation the last time he’d been awake, and set out. Immediately he encountered a problem; these tunnels were far, far different from what they had been, and he discovered why the air had been so stale; the cave entrance had caved in. With a snarl, irritated, the demon pulled upon his power and conjured a massive spike of ice, ruthlessly driving it through the earth until he made an exit to the surface. A wave of horrible dry heat washed down, and though the air was better than it had been in the caves, it still stunk of poison. He wrinkled his nose, but didn’t feel ill, and so didn’t worry, proceeding. His hooves made dull thunk-thunk sounds against the gravel and stone floor, and then a crunching sound as he stepped out onto dry sand and pebbles and dead grasses. He looked around, and stared; the earth was ruined here, trees skeletal and blackened, lake beds empty. It smelled awful, of death and poison, and he narrowed his eyes. There was…nothing. Nothing living.
He could smell none of the familiar scents, nothing alive and thriving. And it was hot. This was, the demon concluded with ever growing distaste and disgust, a horrible world to have woken to. He trekked along for a long time, panting heavily before long and fanning himself, fairing badly in the heat, and quickly resorted to using his powers to cool himself, trying to keep his body temperature, naturally in the low to mid eighties from raising too high, but it was an ultimately futile battle, seeing as how the heat of these wastelands was endless, and his powers were not. He eventually found a large outcropping of rocks and settled in the shade of them, panting heavily, and formed a dome of ice on top of himself, letting the sun slowly melt it, and catching the water in his mouth, cooling himself.
Ugh. This was hell. He kept his eyes closed when it melted entirely, leaving his pale—slowly burning—blue body glistening in the sun, his loincloth getting dirty where he was laying, and his hair a startling expanse of pale blue-green in the endless brown of the desert, his whole body a shock of color in the lifeless landscape. He was a rather astonishing figure in all, really, with his long pale blue-green hair and powder blue skin, his cloven hooves and long hair and the horns, and he was astonishingly out of place in the scorching heat of the wastelands.
