Avast, ye salty dogs and ink-stained wretches! Captain Iron Ink here, dipping my quill into the dark bilge of the day’s news. Word has drifted across the choppy Atlantic, carried by the swiftest gales, of a bloody skirmish in the frozen port of Minneapolis. It seems the King’s own 'Iron Cutthroats of the Excise'—those land-bound privateers known to the common folk as ICE—have let their flintlocks speak before their tongues. A man has been sent to Davy Jones’ locker by way of a lead ball to the chest, and now the mainland is fair boiling over like a pot of rancid grog left too long on the galley stove.

The particulars are as grim as a shark’s grin. These Imperial Enforcers, tasked with guarding the invisible lines of the Crown’s maps, engaged in a 'targeted operation' that ended with a soul being scuppered in broad daylight. The streets of Minneapolis, usually as quiet as a ghost ship in the doldrums, have erupted into a cacophony of righteous fury. The land-lubbers have abandoned their plows and shops to light signal fires that can be seen from the crow’s nest of every vessel in the harbor. They scream for justice, but the Admiralty remains as silent as a barnacle-encrusted wreck.

'Tis a foul wind blowing, mates,' growled my old Quartermaster Quid as he sharpened his cutlass on a piece of salt-pork. 'When the King’s men start hunting humans like they’re chasing a merchantman for his spices, the social contract ain’t worth a bucket of warm spit. They claim to be keeping the borders tight, but all they’re doing is poking the kraken.' Quid speaks true. The unrest has spread faster than scurvy on a long-haul voyage. From the docks of New York to the golden sands of California, the people are rigging the gallows—not for the pirates, but for the very officers sworn to protect the peace.

This ain’t just a squabble in the mud, mind ye. The consequences are hitting the high seas harder than a broadside from a Spanish Galleon. Trade routes are being choked as the 'Iron Constables' double down on their blockades, and the price of rum and gunpowder is skyrocketing because the ports are locked down tighter than a treasure chest. Lord Pompous of the Upper Docks was heard blustering in the tavern, saying, 'We must maintain the integrity of the realm's boundaries at any cost!' But the 'cost' he speaks of is being paid in the coin of human life, and the common crew is tired of being the currency.

As the smoke rises over the frozen tundra of the north, we pirates must batten down the hatches. A nation in mutiny is a dangerous sea to navigate. If the Crown continues to let its enforcers fire at will upon the citizenry, there won't be enough wood in the forest to build the coffins, let alone the ships. The horizon looks dark, and the scent of revolution is thick in the salt air. Keep your powder dry and your eyes on the lights of the shore, for the storm has only just begun to howl. We be sailing into treacherous waters, and God help the man who falls overboard tonight.