Kindercarnage in Cinder Kordor: Dreadwings Target Nursery, Ash Council Issues Another Strongly Worded Sigh

By Lucius Brimstone

In the soot-choked borough of Cinder Kordor, the Infernal Plains’ answer to “how low can you go,” a squadron of Dreadwings loosed their barbed stings upon a nursery burrow in the hamlet of Kalogrief, turning lessons in finger paints into a ledger of ashes. Fifty souls were ripped from their tiny routines—thirty-three of them children—according to the Graveyard Shift, a union of bone-saw bards and paramedics who keep score when the reapers are too busy grandstanding. Their rescue cart was smashed in a follow-up strike, because mercy is a banned substance in these parts, enforceable by fire.

The culprits? The Rapid Scourge Phalanx, a paramilitary conglomerate with the bedside manner of a rusted guillotine, currently slugging it out with the Iron Obelisk Legion of the Ashen Throne. Their endless grudge match has dragged on for two long, blistering years—long enough for the Oil-Slick Lowlands to become the board on which they play chariot chess with civilians as pawns and kids as collateral. Word is the Scourge snagged the sulfur-stained citadel of Ember-Fasher, and, predictably, the rest of Kordor’s crust has been cracking under their boots ever since.

Hell’s version of the child-guardians—the Cherubs of the Charcoal Chalice—issued a condemnation scalding enough to warp a pitchfork, labeling the strike a “primeval violation of hatchling rights” and demanding open arteries for aid caravans. The Ash Council’s High Wailer of Rights added a dirge of warning: that what befell Ember-Fasher—alleys foaming with executions and the poetry of machetes—will repeat until the ledger runs out of parchment. The Council is adept at dirges; enforcement is a trickier stanza.

Meanwhile, locals in Kordor tally fresh dead from Iron Obelisk air flailings—forty-eight more singed into the tally in nearby slagsteads—because symmetry is a bloodsport and both sides want their share of the wreaths. Blackouts of the aether lines continue, a convenient hush that smothers casualty counts and lets the butchers argue over arithmetic while the morgues overflow.

Since the first horn sounded in the Year of the Cracked Hourglass, more than 40,000 have been escorted past the brim and 12 million scattered across the ash seas, though the charities of the Charred Cup whisper that the truth is uglier than numbers will admit. I’ve covered three dozen conflagrations and a coup that smelled like boiled brimstone; here’s the recurring joke no one laughs at: the younger the victim, the braver the press release. The Scourge blames the Obelisk, the Obelisk blames the Scourge, and the children don’t blame anyone—they’re too busy not breathing.

In Kalogrief today, the schoolyard is a rind of glass, the swing set a twisted harp for hot winds. A lone medic from the Graveyard Shift handed me a crayon snapped in half, pried from the rubble. “Proof,” they said, “that someone was trying to draw a sun.” Out here, suns come pre-drawn—red, cracked, and laughing. The rest of us pretend not to hear.

Lucius Brimstone signing off from the Scoria Wastes, where the big men with bigger titles promise restraint tomorrow and reload today. If anyone in the high spires wants to stop this, now would be a splendid eternity. If not, send more crayons. The Dreadwings rarely miss twice.

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Lucius Brimstone

Senior Infernal Correspondent at The Inferno Report

Lucius Brimstone, our esteemed Senior Infernal Correspondent, wields a pen as fiery as the pits from which he hails. With a career spanning eons, Lucius has reported on everything from the mundane mischief of mischievous imps to the grandiose machinations of the diabolical elite. Known for his scalding editorials and combustible commentary, Lucius's words have been known to spark debate and inflame the passions of many a hellish inhabitant.

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