Ashes at Dawn: Up First From the Pit

By Lucius Brimstone

In the smoldering hours before second sunrise, the Brass Tridents of the Infernal Fleet reported a skirmish along the Blistering Gulf, that cauldron of brine better known for boiling souls than steady navigation. Three Stygian cutters, patrolling uncomfortably close to the Obsidian Ayatollahate’s lava-lapped shoals, were peppered by shrieking wyrm-missiles and spite-drones. In a rebuttal hot enough to sear parchment, the Tridents lit up several basalt launch nests, swatting down what officials called “gnat-grade threats with hammer-grade theater.” The Ayatollahate swore on its cracked idols that the Tridents fired first, torching a blood-oil barge in the Strait of Howlmooze—an accusation the Fleet greeted with a shrug and a sip of brimstone toddy. Meanwhile, Emperor Cindervane—keeper of the brittle truce parchment—insisted the ceasefire remains “technically extant,” the same way a scorched map technically depicts a road. Retaliation whispers still curl from the vents; the only thing cooling is the ink on the latest promise not to make everything worse.

Back in the Shrieking Provinces, the Ashburn Covenant tightened its grip on the charred ledger. Cartographers in Horned Hollow unveiled a congressional map so artfully cruel it split Coal-Dust County—home to the midnight districts of Memphistopheles—into three tidy slices, each designed to defang the last sapphire glimmer in a ruby sea. “Purely geometric,” claimed the map’s authors, gesturing at lines that zig like lightning and zag like bad faith. Other Southern Hellscapes, buoyed by the High Pyre’s recent ruling that singed protections against race-flavored sorcery in redistricting, charged ahead with similar plans. If fairness is a compass, this one’s needle now points to whichever pocket holds the match.

On the plague front, the Crimson Quarantine Guild confirmed eight cases—three fatal—of rat-angel fever linked to the luxury damned-liner S.S. Velvet Torment, renowned for its bottomless despair buffet and moderately priced hexes. The World Hex Organization murmured soothing incantations, labeling the risk “low” while epidemiologists sprint the catacombs tracing contacts and sampling every crumb left on the canapé trays of contagion. Passengers are advised to report symptoms, which include fever, chills, and an inability to stop narrating one’s doom in third person. Refunds, naturally, are nontransferable in perpetuity.

Commerce courts in the Ember Exchange served a scorched verdict to Emperor Cindervane’s tariff encore, striking down Round Two of his “Make Imports Grovel Again” levies as legally unmoored. The robed arbiters, fanning themselves with precedent, declared the rationale “a wisp of smoke in a headwind.” Merchants of the Ash Bazaar cheered, though quietly—no one wants to be singled out for an audit by the Ministry of Weights, Measures, and Convenient Retaliation.

In gentler news—yes, even here—the Infernal Collegium’s Podcast Rite crowned its laureate: Coalby MacCask-Ill, whose tender chronicle of afternoons with his ember-elders cut through the cinder and found a vein of heat untouched by malice. His piece on memory’s dimming lantern and family’s stubborn glow made even this reporter pause, if only long enough to wipe grit from an eye that swears it wasn’t weeping.

As for your cultural rites this weekend: consider Blightbox’s new miniseries “Fang County,” the novella “Salt the Halo,” and a vinyl pressing of Screechmare’s “Lullabies for the Restless Furnace.” Additional curios: a three-headed cave pigeon made local headlines by learning to file restraining orders; a necromancer sued himself for wrongful reanimation and won on a technicality; and a rogue bailiff was last seen trying to garnish a demon’s conscience—good luck locating that asset.

I’d like to say cooler heads will prevail, but down here we keep them in jars for decoration. Until the next spark catches, keep your buckets ready and your contracts triple-read. This is Lucius Brimstone, watching the horizon for smoke and finding it closer every morning.

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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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