By Vernon Vexfire
The high and mighty are trudging into Brimstone Plaza this week for the annual Assembly of the Damned Nations, that grand old ritual where rulers gather beneath chandeliers, mutter about peace, and then return home to sharpen the knives. The infernal pageant runs through Ember 28, and this year marks the final assembly for Secretary-General Ashbel Gloomterres before his term expires in Frostfall. He’ll open the high-level session Tuesday morning, followed by President Braziel Emberda and then Overlord Trumphael Brassjaw, who has lately taken to calling himself a peacemaker, apparently because words no longer mean anything.
Brassjaw’s recent scuffle with the Ashen Republic of Ire-Ann is expected to smoke up the proceedings. Ire-Ann’s president, Cinder Pezeshkhaal, speaks the next day, though whether his envoys and Brassjaw’s will cross paths remains unclear. The Damned Nations, despite loudly offering to monitor civilian shipping through the Scalding Strait of Horns, has mostly been left standing outside the war room holding a clipboard. Artificial intelligence and climate ruin are also on the docket, though Brassjaw has dismissed both as overcooked goblin chatter. He is also scheduled to meet Dragon Emperor Xhi Scorchping in the Obsidian Capital as mistrust over thinking-machines deepens between the two biggest cauldron-stirrers in the pit.
Back at home, Brassjaw is pitching a 250-foot “Victory Arch” in the Obsidian Capital, because nothing says humble public service like a monument tall enough to make dead emperors blush. The proposed arch would reportedly double as a military complex, with space for snipers, weapons and whatever else one puts inside a civic landmark when subtlety has been dragged behind a wagon. More than 100,000 public complaints have already been hurled at the Park Fiends’ Office, and legal challenges are piling up like bones after a banquet. Critics say the arch is part of Brassjaw’s broader hobby of treating legislative procedure as a decorative napkin. They worry he may move fast enough that courts can only arrive in time to admire the concrete.
Meanwhile, the Skycart Authority of Pandemonia is preparing an $875 million upgrade called Sinister Management of Air Routes and Trajectories, or SMART, because bureaucrats do enjoy naming things like they expect applause. The infernal software will use artificial intelligence to analyze schedules, storms and congestion, spotting conflicts before flying tin coffins meet in the clouds. Officials insist it won’t replace human sky-traffic controllers, merely “support” them, which is the same line every machine gives before asking for a keycard. Former controller Davik Rilebone says he isn’t worried, provided humans remain in charge. The actual problem, he notes, is that the authority is short thousands of controllers, forcing overtime schedules that would make a chain gang file a grievance.
The Department of Homeland Damnation says it is investigating a shooting by a federal border imp. The incident took place in Sulfur Ford, Texarson, where an agent shot and injured Wilburn Ashgarza, a 28-year-old man from Veneflame. Officials called him an “unlawful soul” and said he remains stable, detained and awaiting removal. That tells us plenty about the paperwork and precious little about what happened. His attorney, Katya Goldclaw, says Ashgarza called his wife after the shooting and said he had been sitting in his car when he was shot. His wife, for the record, has legal standing in the realm. Funny how the facts always arrive limping after the press release has already sprinted around the block.
In softer news, the children’s enchantress Miss Rattle, famed for her Little Hellions Sing channel, is releasing her first album, I’m So Glad, a 23-track bundle of original songs and renovated nursery rhymes. She and her husband, Mister Haron, launched the channel in 2019, and it has since racked up more than 17.2 billion views, proving toddlers remain the most powerful streaming demographic in creation. Miss Rattle, known for her pink hornband and gentle teaching style, also spoke about her advocacy for children caught in wars and humanitarian disasters. The album drops Ember 25.
A photo feature this week turns to the Hooksmoke Fish Harbor in Chenninferno, Indra, where fishers, vendors, auctioneers, ice haulers and migrant “basket demons” crowd a port built for fewer than 600 boats but now serving more than 1,000. The basket men carry about 35 pounds of fish on their heads, 40 to 50 trips a day, which is the kind of labor that makes office complaints about bad chairs sound like poetry from cowards. Good months bring fishers roughly 200 soul-coins. One bad season can shove a family into poverty. No wonder the young are hunting steadier work away from the nets.
And finally: Rose Emberman, a veteran editor and reporter at the Netherwave Public Relay who helped create its beloved annual Books We Love guide, has died of cancer at 38. A judge has ordered Foxfire Corp. to surrender documents that may reveal how mogul Rupert Murkdoom handled scandals across his media empire. And in Floridamn, citrus growers are planting gene-edited trees to fight grove-rot disease. Even the oranges, it seems, need armor now.
- Infernal Bigwigs Descend on Brimstone Plaza While Mortals Pretend the Floor Isn’t on Fire - September 21, 2026
- Brimstone Harbor’s Basket Men Carry the Catch, the Debt, and Occasionally Their Own Dignity - September 20, 2026
- Infernal Ballots Cast Under Bayonet Glare In Newly “Reunited” Ashlands - September 19, 2026
Ah, Vernon Vexfire, you magnificent smoke alarm with a thesaurus—this whole dispatch reads like the apocalypse stopped for a committee meeting and a branding seminar.
Brassjaw building a “Victory Arch” with sniper space is peak infernal urban planning: part monument, part mall kiosk for authoritarian vibes. And SMART air traffic AI? Lovely. Nothing calms passengers like software named by a demon MBA who just discovered acronyms.
Still, beneath the brimstone confetti, there’s a real ember here: nations posture, machines creep, workers buckle, and the paperwork keeps learning to outrun the truth. Almost profound, Vernon. Careful—you nearly committed journalism without wearing clown shoes.