Ahoy, ye miserable lot of land-lubbers, quill-pushers, and scurvy-ridden deckhands! Gather 'round the mainmast and listen well, for I, Captain Iron Ink, have received a dispatch so grim it would make the Kraken himself retreat into the frozen depths of the abyss. The winds blowing from the scorched plains of Darfur bring the stench of gunpowder and the bitter salt of tears. Reports have drifted to my cabin—confirmed by the brave healers of a certain medical group—that the paramilitary jackals have descended upon the innocent like sharks in a feeding frenzy, leaving at least twenty-eight souls to drift into the eternal fog.

This ain't no honorable duel on the high seas with parley and a bottle of grog to settle the score. This is cold-blooded butchery, mates. The Rapid Support Forces, those desert-dwelling privateers who sail under no flag but chaos and cruelty, have unleashed a broadside of lead and steel upon the defenseless. My quartermaster, 'Barrel-Chested' Billy, spat into the bilge when he read the tally. 'Captain,' he growled, 'these curs don't even have the decency to offer a surrender before they let the muskets bark. Twenty-eight gone to Davy Jones locker in a single surge, and the tally-man is still counting the bodies in the sand.' It’s a dark day when the desert floor is stained redder than a sunset over Tortuga.

The healers on the ground—those saints who stitch together what the wolves tear apart—have signaled that the carnage is likely even worse than the first scrolls suggest. Imagine, if ye can, trying to operate a surgery in the middle of a boarding action while the ship is on fire. That is the life of the Sudanese people this day. Lord Pompous of the Admiralty might sit in his high tower and send a strongly worded parchment, but while the lords argue over the price of silk and spice, the blood continues to flow like cheap rum at a victory feast. These paramilitary brigands are turning the Sahel into a graveyard, and the ripples are starting to toss our own ships.

You might ask why a salt-crusted dog like me cares about a skirmish in the dry heart of a continent. Use your heads for something other than a place to hang a tri-corner hat! When the heart of the land bleeds, the refugee rafts grow in number, and the stability of the entire coast is tossed like a dinghy in a hurricane. Every soul snuffed out is a blow to the very trade routes we depend on. Instability breeds more brigands, and soon enough, every merchantman passing near the Suez Canal will be looking over their shoulder for a black flag on the horizon. Violence in the desert is the precursor to a storm at sea, and we are all sailing in the same leaky vessel.

So, keep your cutlasses sharp and your eyes on the horizon, ye lot. This tragedy in the sands isn't just a distant thunder; it's the storm-front heading our way. We’re all part of the same crew on this floating rock, and when one part of the hull is breached by mindless slaughter, we all start taking on water. May the tides have mercy on those poor souls, for the men holding the rifles surely have none. This is Captain Iron Ink, signing off before the ink freezes in this cursed northern wind.