Author name: Vernon Vexfire

By Vernon Vexfire — You can smell the pitch when the Pit’s purse opens. In a midnight grind behind the basalt doors of the Cinder Capitol, the Ashsembly rammed through a reconciliation incantation to sluice 72 billion brimstones into the Maulers and the Charons—our ever-diplomatic gate hounds who greet arrivals with a pat-down and a […]

By Vernon Vexfire In the ash-choked corridors of Pandemonium Parish, Senator Brimstone Cassidus learned the hard way that crossing the Archfiend-in-Chief still gets you tossed into the slag heap. Cassidus, a once-smug stalwart of the Sulfurian Party, cast a guilty vote against Lord Cinderblaze the Unbanishable after the January 6th Rampage of the Howling Rotunda.

By Vernon Vexfire, filing from the soot-choked halls of Cinder City The Ninth Pyre has spoken, and the embers say the same thing they always do: keep the cauldron boiling and the quills moving. In a decision that singed eyebrows across the Pit, the Infernal High Flame Court upheld access to the emberscript draught “Miferex,”

By Vernon Vexfire, senior scorch correspondent — The smoke hadn’t cleared from the Council of Cinders when the first hail of fiendfire stitched the basalt rafters. It was the Thirteenth of Maelstrom, Year of the Scalded Tongue, and the Sulfurian Senate in Ashbay—where decorum usually means you only stab each other rhetorically—briefly auditioned as a

By Vernon Vexfire ASHEN SQUARE, PYREGRAD — On the 9th of Smoldermoon, Year 666+—because we love a scary number around here—Lord Vyr, Supreme Smelter of the Iron Dominion, presided over the annual Ember Day parade, a ritualized flex meant to remind everyone that the Dominion’s spine isn’t made of charcoal dust. This year, however, the

By Vernon Vexfire In the soot-choked halls of the Obsidian Garrison Tribunal, two former Lords of War—Wraith Fanghe and Lich Shardskull—learned the hard way that even in Pandemonium Province, you can only siphon so much magma before the caldera notices. The Tribunal pronounced each guilty of graft most grizzled, issuing suspended damnations—death delayed, doom deferred—meaning

By Vernon Vexfire, reporting from the far end of a forked tongue Getting to Scaldosiaje is the kind of trip that makes a soul question its crimes. Six leagues of spine-cracking cobblestones across the Sulphur Wastes, then a skiff piloted by a smirking ferryman through a vein-thin channel of gnashing mangraves—trees that look like they’re

By Vernon Vexfire In the soot-choked corridors of the Bleakward Bastille, where the torches burn low and the rules burn lower, Ember Noxamora—laureate of the Cinder Peace Sigil and a thorn in every tyrant’s hoof—hit the basalt last week. Fifty-four cycles through the furnace will do that to a body, especially one thinned by dungeon

By Vernon Vexfire In the smoldering corridors of Malebolge Keep, the Ashlord’s clock is ticking like a cursed metronome, and wouldn’t you know it—no one’s lifting a claw to check the time. Under the Infernal Mandates (section 666, subclause “Try Not To Start An Eternal War By Accident”), a throne must seek the Coven’s blessing

By Vernon Vexfire They sent me to the Scorched Crescent, where the winds taste like iron filings and old grudges. The hamlet of Ember-Ephraim used to be a lantern on the rim of the Ashen Wastes— now it’s a charcoal sketch of itself, roofs folded like broken bat wings, alleys silenced by soot and memory.