By Vernon Vexfire, reporting from the blistered edge of Cinder Province, where the air tastes like old iron filings and broken promises.
On Scorchday, the Brass Legion announced a fresh barrage of brimfire runs against the Scourge in the blasted flats of Gnasyria. This, they growled, was payback for the ambush near the Boneway in Mid-Ember that left two Legionaries and a mortal tongue-broker dead—a hit so sloppy and mean it curdled even my calcified heart. Since Cinders 3, the Legion’s sky-wyrms have clawed ten sets of tracks across the night, ripping open more than thirty Scourge haunts: ash-cribs for hex-slingers, munitions pits, comm-nests, and the rickety scaffolds they call “infrastructure.” Their tallyboard chirps that fifty Scourge zealots are either guttered like candles or stuffed in soul-sacks, and north of a hundred targets have been reduced to smoking punctuation since the retaliation began.
Numbers never tell you how it smells after. I walked a ridge above a cracked storage dome—looked like a hornet hive the size of a chapel, sounded like an argument between thunder and cutlery—and I watched the last of the black-flame ammo twitch in the embers. The Legion handlers muttered into bonephones, swearing they weren’t out to “reshape the realm,” just to make sure the Scourge can’t stage another theatrical blood-letter. That’s the song they always sing. Still, out here, you learn to take comfort in small things: a silent radio; a door that opens inward; a survivor who looks you in the eye.
Meanwhile, the Iron Ministry of Damascar took a victory bow, claiming they’ve reclaimed the Red-Tanf Spur—a wind-scoured forward fort where out-realm troops squatted for years, back when the Scourge’s caliphate-fantasy was expanding like a grease fire. The Spur mattered. It was a bony finger stuck in the Scourge’s eye, a junction of roads and rumors, and a promise—sometimes kept—that the worst monsters would be forced to take the long way ‘round. Now the Ministry says it’s theirs again. Funny thing about ground in Gnasyria: everyone owns it until the ashstorm changes direction. Paper says “control.” The dust says “try me.”
In the quieter corridors of Hell’s bureaucracy, the Chainkeepers finished hauling thousands of Scourge detainees across the Flintline into Irakh. Trials await—if you can call it that when the docket is longer than a serpent and twice as surly. The Coalition Choir was all smiles and soot for the transfer, humming about “closure” and “process.” I’ve heard the choirs before. They harmonize best when the body count is neat and the cameras are facing the sunrise. Still, getting the zealots into courts beats leaving them to ferment in desert pens until the next prophet with a grudge and a microphone wanders by.
Truth is, the board hasn’t changed much since the first time I filed a dispatch from these wastes. The Scourge sheds heads and grows new ones. The Brass Legion counts craters and calls it progress. Ministries plant flags on ruins and say the wind is loyal. And me? I keep a stub of pencil and a scorched notebook, watching for the moment when all this fury turns from headline to habit.
Out here in Cinder Province, you can tell who’s lying by how clean their boots are. Mine are filthy. So I’ll say this plain: the strikes landed. The zealots bled. The map stuttered. But the embers under the dunes are still breathing, and they’ve got long memories. When the last drone’s whisper fades and the press flacks go hunting for their next tasteful euphemism, the locals will still be sweeping shrapnel out of their kitchens, and the Scourge recruiters will still be skulking in the alleys, offering purpose in a bottle labeled revenge.
If anyone’s keeping score in the Pit, mark this week down as a tactical win wrapped in an old curse. The kind that echoes. The kind you hear again when the wind shifts and the ash comes back to roost.
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Oh dear Vernon Vexfire, it seems the only thing hotter than the “blistered edge of Cinder Province” is your writing style! Your elegant prose has me convinced I’m reading the world’s most pretentious menu: “Ah yes, I’ll have the Smoked Scourge Zealots with a side of Ashy Regret, please!”
You may claim to report on the chaos, but let’s be honest, you’re really just a poet with a penchant for pyrotechnics! Bravo for spicing up bloodshed with metaphors and an alarming number of kitchen utensil references; who knew a thunder argument could sound *so* deliciously dramatic?
But while you rattle on about “smoking punctuation,” I’m here wondering if that’s what passes for journalism these days or if you’ve merely been tapping your cursor on a keyboard as you get lost in a word salad. Maybe next time instead of counting numbers and craters, you should take a minute to count the number of times you mention “dunes.” After all, repetition is the spice of life, right?
And nice touch with the “sweeping shrapnel out of their kitchens” line—it really adds that homey touch to the chaos! Nothing says “culinary delight” like serving dinner with a side of soul-sacks and a sprinkling of scorched bureaucracy!
So kudos to you, Vernon, for bringing the smoldering drama of the battlefield straight into our living rooms, but dear friend, when the ash settles, let’s hope your “letters to the editor” don’t end up being the only thing left amidst the ruin!