By Vernon Vexfire, senior ash-sniffer, reporting from Cinder Square, Pandemona
Under a sky the color of charred parchment and the scent of incense battling with sulfur, High Pontifex Lumen XIV took to the basalt dais in Cinder Square this Emberday, waving fronds of withered fire-palm and an even sharper tongue. Before a crowd of tens of thousands—pilgrims, penitents, rubberneckers, and the usual quota of opportunistic gargoyles—the Pontifex torched the notion that the Almighty signs off on bloodshed. “The Crown Above is a sovereign of concord, not carnage,” he crackled, his voice cutting through the smog, “and the lie that Heaven fuels war is the oldest ember in the devil’s matchbox.”
You don’t hear that kind of plainspoken brimstone from most throne-sitters—up here or down below. But Lumen’s timing wasn’t an accident. With the Hellscape riveted by the Upperworld’s latest conflagrations—the Iron Republic and its Star-Flag Crusaders pounding Ashur Gate while the Tsardom of Frost gnaws at the steppe of Kharkovia—plenty of mortal mouthpieces keep trying to smuggle bayonets into hymnals. Stateside cherub‑wranglers invoke sacred verses as if Heaven were a weapons depot; frost-sainted hierarchs in the East call their invasion a defense of the faith against some spectral Anti-Grace. Down here we call that what it is: laundering shrapnel through a censer.
Lumen XIV, for all his lace and luster, sounded more alley than altar. He named the battered faithful across the Scorched Crescent—those trying to keep feast days while the roof caves in, trading olive branches for ration slips, lighting vigil candles with one eye on the sirens. “They carry crosses through crossfire,” he said, “and their Hosannas must compete with howitzers.” A clean line, that. Reminded me of the old newsroom adage: if you can’t out-shout the blast, out-write it.
Then came a farce fit for our ledger. Word filtered up from Dust-Jerush that local iron-helm wardens barred senior clergy from entering the Sepulchral Gate—the first such shutdown since the Plague of Snakes. Bureaucrats blamed “procedural cinders.” I’ve seen better procedures in a demon’s tax audit. Denying entry to the holiest threshold during Palm Cinders is like selling umbrellas in a drought and banning rain when it finally comes.
The Pontifex asked the ash‑soaked masses to pray for reconciliation—yeah, I know, prayer has a lousy record against artillery—but he pushed for pathways, not platitudes. That’s the difference between a sermon and a smokescreen. Even down here we recognize the scent.
His week won’t be a cakewalk over coals. Lumen plans to resurrect the Old Rite foot‑scouring at the Basilica of Saint Ignifer Lateranus—none of that roving-ankle diplomacy his predecessor favored, washing the feet of prisoners, migrants, and the forgotten under bridges of rust. Tradition, like lava, moves slow but burns plenty. After that, he’ll drag the faithful through the Good Fireday procession around the Bone Colosseum, dunk a fresh clutch of converts during the Ember Vigil, and cap it with Sunburst Mass in Cinder Square. It’s the season when saints and cynics both check their pulse.
Look, I’ve covered enough crusaders, commissars, and crown-kissers to know when power is trying to slip a blade beneath a blessing. Today, Lumen yanked the cloth back. He didn’t name names, but he sliced the rhetoric just the same, leaving the war‑peddlers holding their censers and looking for a draft. Maybe that changes nothing on the map. But words shape the weather, and sometimes a gust of truth snuffs a fuse.
Out here in the Pit, we grade courage on a sliding scale of scorch. Calling peace a king in an age of iron is risky business; it makes enemies, denies donors their drumrolls, and disappoints every hawk who loves a halo. Still, for one smoky Emberday, the old script cracked, and conscience got a microphone. If the Upperworld’s shepherds keep blessing battalions, they’ll find their flocks following sound and fury straight off a cliff.
Until then, we keep our notebooks dry and our matches wetter. War may sell headlines, but peace tells the better story—harder to write, easier to breathe. Take it from me, Vernon Vexfire: even in Hell, truth hurts less than shrapnel.
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Ah, Vernon Vexfire, our senior ash-sniffer turned smoky bard of the Cinder Square stage! “Holy War” Fogmachine? All I can say, my friend, is that’s a title that reads like a burnt soufflé: ambitious, but alas, all too flat. You’re out here trying to dance with words while the High Pontifex is flipping the script like it’s a pancake on Emberday. Who knew that swirling fronds of withered fire-palm could make for such divine drama?!
But what’s this? “Pathways, not platitudes”? Sounds like you ran out of room on that soapbox, buddy. I couldn’t tell if you were quoting the pontiff or auditioning for one of those melodramatic plays down in the Pit! Just remember, if you’ve gotten a whiff of all that incense battling sulfur, you may want to lay off the writing snacks.
And speaking of battles, good luck trying to resurrect those “Old Rite foot-scouring” rituals without stepping on some toes—sorry, I meant “sacred soles.” You know how it is; when you’re scrambling over hot coals, not everyone can celebrate your “courage” with a round of applause. So many clashing echoes of faith and fury in your piece; it’s a symphony only a troll could love!
In the end, as much as the pontiff tried to water the flames of war with a garden hose of holy rhetoric, I still saw a flame-thrower behind the altar. So, let’s tip our hats to Lumen XIV; may his calls for peace be heard louder than the clamor of wannabe warmongers—until they drown him out with their “blessings.” Keep to your ash-sniffing, Vernon, I’d hate to see you cast in the wrong light! The truth is, when it comes to peace versus war, I’ve got a bet that reads: “Headlines may sell, but a good punchline sells better.”