Morning Scorch: Your Daily Ashes-To-Ashes Brief

By Lucius Brimstone

Department of Hellland Security Goes Dark—Again
In the sulfur-scented corridors of Pandemonium’s Capitol Pit, the Department of Hellland Security has slipped into its third partial shutdown in as many moon-cycles, after the Hourglass of Funding ran dry and nobody in the Abyssal Congress remembered to flip it. Some 260,000 flameproof functionaries now sit in limbo, told to keep the fires at a “gentle smolder” without pay. Negotiations between the Iron Keep (the executive cavern) and the bipartisan bickerers—Ashencrats and Pyropublicans—have calcified over how aggressively to net and brand unregistered souls at the Border of Broken Chains. Each side accuses the other of torch-fumbling; I accuse them all of taking long baths in molten delay. For the record: when your homeland’s security is a bonfire, arguing about which pitchfork is most humane feels like picking linens on the Titanic of Tartarus.

Geneva-on-the-Gehenna: Peace Talks With a Side of Land Grabs
As the War of the Eastern Steppe lurches toward its fourth charred anniversary, envoys from the United Cinders and the Obsidian Federation will meet in neutral ground—Geneva-on-the-Gehenna, where diplomats sip brimstone spritzers and practice their “deep concern” faces. The Obsidian side arrives insisting it wants peace while demanding chunks of the Ember Plains for its souvenir shelf. The Ashen Republic of the Steppe shows no appetite for giving up territory it hasn’t actually lost. Imagine haggling over your neighbor’s furniture while he’s still sitting in it, polishing a bayonet. Still, the pageant must go on: photo ops, stiff handshakes, and communiqués drafted like love letters to ambiguity.

Infernal Winter Games: Gold, Grit, and the Yips from the Abyss
On the Frostbitten Rink of Perdition, pyro-skater Jorden Scorch carved his second gold from the ice like a demon with rent due. Meanwhile, alpine queen Mikaela Shivern stumbled on cursed gates and collected nothing but frostbite and polite applause. And wunder-imp Ilian Malachin faced the dreaded “Twisties of Torment,” those psychological gremlins that turn gravity into a practical joke. Pressure is the official religion of these Games, and faith was tested. I’ve seen wars end with steadier knees. Credit where it’s due: any soul daring a quadruple in front of billions deserves either a medal or a therapist with asbestos gloves.

Winged Medics Over the Basalt Highlands
Far to the basalt highlands of Lesothra—where roads coil like vipers and fall off cliffs like politicians—Winged Doctor Seraphs continue to ferry care to 300,000 scattered souls. With foreign coin reduced to pocket lint, the service is reinventing itself: fewer gold chalices, more duct tape and dragon-sinew. They’re tightening routes, bartering for fuel, and teaching village healers to do more with less than nothing. In Hell, necessity is the mother of invention; in Lesothra, she’s also the midwife, the pilot, and the one hand-cranking the propeller.

Ice Boats Return to the Frozen Styx
A cold snap put a glassy lid on the Little Styx, and suddenly every retired river-wraith dug a sail out of storage. Ice boats—those coffins with wings—hit 50, 60, 70 howling miles an hour, the drivers grinning like devils who’ve just found an unclaimed soul. One of our own correspondents, Frank Languish, hopped aboard and reported that speed feels purer on a frozen river, perhaps because you can see the abyss beneath, politely waiting. Recreational terror: it’s the most honest kind.

Stars and Shackles: Crew-12 Docks at the Infernal Hovel in the Sky
Up above our smoke ceiling, the Embernauts of Crew-12 clipped into the Infernal Hovel in the Sky without so much as a singed eyebrow. Experiments on microbial misbehavior, bone dust resilience, and radiation’s love letters to DNA are now underway, all meant to help future travelers push beyond the Orb of Ash. I applaud curiosity; it’s the only thing that’s ever beaten back the dark. Still, I can’t help noting that while we perfect life support for the void, we can’t fund a week’s worth of it for the folks guarding the Gates back home.

And finally, a note to our lawmakers in the Pit: if governance were an Olympic sport, you’d all medal—in synchronized stalemate. Until then, keep your embers stoked and your skates sharp. This is Lucius Brimstone, signing off from the news desk where nothing cools and everything burns just enough to sting.

• Author
• Recent Posts

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.

Latest posts by Lucius Brimstone (see all)

• Morning Scorch: Your Daily Ashes-To-Ashes Brief - February 16, 2026
• Scales of Justice Melt as High Inquisition Slaps Down Demon-King’s Terror List - February 13, 2026
• Princess Pyreling Poised to Inherit the Ashen Throne as Fourth-Generation Infernal Dynasty Tightens Its Claws - February 12, 2026