Author name: Lucius Brimstone

By Lucius Brimstone, senior quill of volcanic record and chronicler of the damned: On Thornsday at high brimfire, the Pit’s equivalent of a polite tap on the shoulder—namely, a flaming gauntlet to the jaw—landed squarely on a span in Ashkaraj, a soot-caked township smoldering west of Cinderan’s capital spires in the Dominion of Emberan. Minutes […]

By Lucius Brimstone CINDERHAGEN, FIFTH CIRCLE—The World Figure Skating Championships of the Damned flared to life on Woe’s Day, when the basalt doors of Cinderhagen Coliseum groaned open and a blast of ceremonial brimfire zambonied the River Phlegethon into a glassy, torturous mirror. It’s the post-Olympic cleanup act, that elegant period when skaters reapply char

By Lucius Brimstone In the latest dispatch from our smoldering desk of calamities, the Dominion of Emberrael has expanded its thunderous crusade, hurling brimfire into West Ifritan while churning up the charnel earth in Cindernon to the north. The Blistered Strait—our realm’s ever-convenient artery for tar-pitch and soul-gas—remains corked with ghost ships and bad intentions.

By Lucius Brimstone On Scorchday eve, the skies over the Cindervale Expanse lit up like a sinner’s final audit as the Dominion of Ragestoke hurled a storm of hex-missiles and soul-swarm drones at the Ashkyve Basin. At least four husks now ride the Stygian Current, fifteen more smolder in triage pits—three clinging to their flickers

By Lucius Brimstone, senior scribe of soot and sorrow In the sulfur-slicked hours before dawn, the Straits of Horkmuz—our realm’s narrowest artery for cursed crude—were slammed shut when three brim-oil haulers went up like tinder in a dragon’s sinuses. The Abyssal Price Index rocketed to 100 hellmarks a barrel, prompting a stampede of speculators and

By Lucius Brimstone Good mourning, citizens of the Scorched Republic. In the Ashen Caliphate, the Council of Soot has anointed Moztabah Coalmane, 56, heir to the late Supreme Sootkeeper Alichar Tar-Khamber, as the new Eminence of Embers. The coronation took place in the Ruins of Red Tehranus, beneath chandeliers made of melted sanctions. This installment

By Lucius Brimstone BRIMBARCA, CINDERSPAIN — The cobblestones of Ash Avenue still smoke where last night’s procession of pitchforks and placards wound through Brimbarca’s old quarter, chanting a dirge against distant saber-rattling. Protesters hoisted blistered portraits of the late Supreme Pyromancer of Irath and Cinderspain’s Prime Infernal, Pedregal Sootchéz, their edges singed, their message unambiguous:

By Lucius Brimstone, reporting from Cinderskates Coliseum in the frost-blasted outskirts of Stygian-Cortina On the eve of the Underworld’s grandest chill gala, the Winter Paralympicks are set to ignite their opening pyres on Marrow 6—never mind the small matter of a raging sky-war that’s currently turning the upper atmosphere into a fireworks display the Damned

By Lucius Brimstone CHARRED CITY, PITCHLYVANIAN WASTES—In a bunker studio wedged beneath the Soot District’s cracked basalt, a squad of silver-maned furies claps thunder into the cinder-dim morning. They call themselves Doomrise, a name chosen to spite the hour that once heralded the nightly barrage from the Emberfront. Now the dawn belongs to them: leathered

By Lucius Brimstone, filing from the Ember Expanse, where the sand exfoliates your hopes and the wind smells faintly of toasted regret. This week’s missive blew in on a hot cough from the Ember Expanse, that stretch of blasted desert near the Basalt Needles—those knife-backed rock formations favored by underfunded netherworld epics like Star Fiends