Avast, ye scallywags, deck-scrubbers, and ink-stained wretches of the fourth estate! Gather 'round the mainmast and lend an ear to a tale so foul it would make a ghost-ship weep. The horizon over the lands of Ukraine has been choked with the soot of a thousand cannons, but this latest volley from the cold north be enough to turn the stomach of even the hardiest sea-dog. A sky-beast, forged in the dark foundries of the east, has plunged its iron talons into a family hearth, scuppering a father and his three small swashbucklers before they could even learn to haul a line. This ain't no honest skirmish on the open foam; this be the work of land-lubbing cowards firing from the safety of the fog.

The mother of this tragic crew, carrying another tiny soul beneath her ribs, lies broken and bleeding in a hull turned to splinters. Her world has been dismantled by the indiscriminate fire of a tyrant who knows nothing of the sailor’s code. "Even the most heartless mutineer spares the hatchlings," grunted Quartermaster Flint, spitting a stream of dark tobacco into the churning swell as he read the dispatch. "To aim your iron leviathans at the cradle is to invite the Kraken’s own curse upon your entire fleet. There be no prize money in the world worth the blood of the innocent, and the gods of the deep don't forget such treachery."

The lords of Moscow claim they be hunting for monsters and sea-serpents, but all their harpoons find are the chests of babes. We’ve weathered many a gale, but this be an unnatural storm brewing. The high seas of diplomacy are clogged with the wreckage of broken promises, and the trade routes of mercy are being blockaded by the vanity of a single mad captain. The United Nations might send their parchment and fancy ink to protest, but on the salt-sprayed deck of reality, such foul deeds demand a reckoning that no diplomat’s wagging tongue can ever truly soothe. The moral compass of the world is spinning like a top in a hurricane, and the North Star of justice is hidden behind clouds of cordite.

"It’s a black mark on the very soul of the Admiralty," declared Admiral Grog-Sot, his wooden leg thumping a heavy, rhythmic beat of fury against the oak planks. "When the bells toll for these little ones, they toll for every sailor who ever dreamt of a safe harbor and a warm fire. If the code of the sea is dead, then we’re all just shark bait waiting for our turn in the depths." The waters around Kyiv are turning red, not with the wine of victory, but with the life-force of a generation scuppered by an iron rain that knows no mercy. It is a grim day when the nursery becomes the front line and the lullaby is replaced by the shriek of incoming steel.

Mark my words, the winds are shifting, and a foul wind it be. Such deeds don't go unpunished by the spirits that haunt the deep trenches. The world watches as the people of the east stand against the iron hail, and even the hardest pirates among us feel the sting of this cruelty. To the bottom with the cowards who target the chimney-smoke of a peaceful home! We’ll keep our lanterns lit for the fallen, praying for the mother who must now navigate the roughest, loneliest seas imaginable without her crew. The ledger of the damned is filling up, and the debt will be paid in full before the tide turns.