Gather round, ye salt-crusted scoundrels and bilge-sucking ink-stained wretches! The 'emergency squawk-boxes' of the North are screaming louder than a banshee in a gale, and the news is as bitter as a mouthful of seawater. In the land-locked harbor known as Minneapolis, the air is thick with the scent of saltpeter and the frantic wails of the town criers. The dispatch logs, recently pried from the cold, dead hands of the bureaucracy, tell a tale of sheer bedlam. After the 'Frozen Jackets'—those ICE privateers—let their muskets bark in a lead-filled frenzy, the whole port went to the locker in a handbasket. The calls coming into the harbor-master’s office paint a picture of a city where the law has snapped its moorings and the common folk are ready to repel boarders.

'Twas a messy bit of business, and the logs don't lie. The reports indicate that when the lead started flying, the citizenry didn't just tuck tail and hide below decks; they reached for their torches and sharpened their pikes. The emergency lines were flooded with the cries of frightened land-lubbers and the bellows of those seeking vengeance for the blood spilled on the cobblestones. It’s a classic case of the Admiralty overstepping their bounds and finding the crew ready to keelhaul 'em for it. 'The lines were humming like a rigging in a hurricane,' says me old cabin boy, Barnaby 'The Snitch' Bottle-Breaker, who spent the night eavesdropping on the wireless. 'Ye couldn't hear the sirens for the sound of hearts hammering against ribs and the shouting of men who’ve had their fill of the Crown’s iron fist.'

Now, the city is battening down the hatches, and not a moment too soon. The unrest is spreading faster than scurvy on a fruit-less merchantman. The Governor and his high-collared cronies are shaking in their buckled boots, fearing a full-scale mutiny that could burn the docks to the water line. They’ve seen this dance before, where the cobblestones turn into barricades and the night sky glows with the orange hue of a burning brig. For us who ply the trade on the high seas, this means the supply lines are as tangled as a kraken’s tentacles. If the inland ports burn, where are we to get our refined spirits, our black powder, and our salted pork? A city in flames is a harbor closed to the honest pirate, and that bodes ill for the tavern industry from here to Tortuga.

'The Crown thinks they can fire on the rabble without a reckoning,' growled Lord Greystoke of the Black-Flag Syndicate during a clandestine parley behind the local grog-shop. 'But they forget that even the lowliest deck-hand has a breaking point. When the ICE-men strike without warning, the fire follows. And that fire warms no man’s hearth; it only consumes the ship of state until we’re all swimming for our lives.' The Lords of the Admiralty are tightening their grip, deploying more red-coats to the streets, but as every pirate worth his salt knows, the tighter ye squeeze the hemp, the more likely the rope is to snap and take yer fingers with it.

So, keep yer eyes on the horizon and yer cutlasses sharp, ye dogs. If Minneapolis falls to the flames, the ripple will be felt from the Great Lakes to the Caribbean. The 'Ghost-Horns' of the dispatch office are still sounding, a mournful dirge for a peace that’s been tossed overboard like a heavy anchor in a storm. We sail in dark waters tonight, and the only thing certain is that more blood will be spilled before the tide turns. Drink up, for tomorrow we may be dodging the same lead that sparked this hell-fire. The winds of war are blowing, and they smell of smoke and salt!