Avast, ye scallywags, bilge-rats, and honest sailors alike! Gather 'round the mainmast and lend an ear to Captain Iron Ink, for the winds blowing from the northern territories of the Americas carry the stench of sulfur, scorched rubber, and a foul injustice that would make even a cutthroat buccaneer weep into his grog. The inland port of Minneapolis—a place usually known for its freshwater lakes and shivering land-lubbers—has become a maelstrom of fire and fury. It seems the 'Inland Privateers,' those paper-shuffling scoundrels known to the world as ICE agents, have discharged their flintlocks into an unarmed lass, sending her to Davy Jones’ locker before she could even say her prayers.

Reports reaching my cabin suggest this woman carried no steel, no powder, and no ill intent toward the Crown or the Republic. Yet, a leaden ball found its mark all the same. This ain't just a skirmish in a tavern, mates; it’s a black mark on the ledger of those who claim to keep the peace. When the law-men start acting like drunken deckhands with itchy trigger fingers, the common folk don’t just sit and polish the brass—they mutiny! The streets of Minneapolis are currently a sea of red-hot rage, with the local 'constabulary' struggling to keep their ships afloat against a tide of protesters who have finally had their fill of the lash.

My own First Mate, 'Salty' Barnaby, watched the horizon through his spyglass and spat into the brine. 'Captain,' he says to me, 'if we treated a merchant crew with such unprovoked cruelty, the Pirate Code would demand we be marooned on a sandbar with naught but a bottle of sour ale.' And he’s right! Even among thieves, there’s a standard of conduct. But these land-bound agents seem to think they can scuttle lives with impunity, hidden behind their badges and their high-walled fortresses. Lord Bellows of the East Coast Trade Syndicate has already sent word that he’s battening down the hatches, fearing that this 'unrest' will spread like a pox across the colonies, disrupting the flow of rum, tobacco, and silicon chips that we so dearly rely upon.

Make no mistake, this storm isn't staying in the harbor. When the land-dwellers rise up in such a fashion, the ripples hit the high seas. Already, we see the blockades forming—not of ships, but of ideas and anger. The supply lines are choking, and the 'Governor' of that frost-bitten territory is spinning the wheel like a madman in a hurricane, trying to steer away from the rocks of total anarchy. The people are demanding the 'Captain' of that ICE vessel be tossed overboard to answer for his crimes, but the Admiralty is slow to act, as they always are when one of their own spills innocent blood.

So, heed the warning of Iron Ink: if the lords of the land cannot keep their 'Inland Privateers' on a shorter leash, the whole fleet is going down. A ship cannot sail when the crew is in open revolt, and a nation cannot stand when its agents fire upon the very people they claim to protect. We’ll be watching from the safety of the waves, but keep your cutlasses sharp, for when the mainland burns, the smoke eventually reaches every port on the map. The fire in Minneapolis is just the first signal fire; god help us if the rest of the coast catches light!