[WAR DECLARATION] A Reckonin’ in Stain: The Disciples of Space Piracy Declare WAR on Good Sax!

[Cattraknoff]

YARRRR, ye scurvy curs o’ New Eden: HEAR THIS WELL!

By the divine will o’ the Pontifex Piraticus Maximus, the Disciples of Space Piracy doth now raise our colors an’ declare a holy WAR upon the festering, krab-lovin’ blight known as Good Sax!

They who once dared to dock their hulls in the wild reaches of Stain now soil it with their cowardice, their cloaky campers, their isk-fattened fleets that only undock to blob or bait. These barnacle-brained bilge rats claim power, yet bring no joy, no danger, no fight worth rememberin’.

No more shall we stand idle while the fires o’ fun be snuffed out by their corpulent, AFK arses! No longer shall Stain be a haven for dishonorable scurvy dogs that print ISK to sell so that their leaders don’t need real jobs!

We sail not just to plunder—but to reclaim what’s ours by pirate right: a home of chaos, camaraderie, and cannonfire. A region where every blip on d-scan might mean a brawl, where the black flags fly high, and every soul knows the thrill of true PvP.

Unlike Good Sax, we don’t fight with RL smear campaigns, deceit, and spies. Nay! We fight with honor, laughter, and lasers. We fight with fire in our bellies and rum in our holds. We fight with honor and with sacred principles. With for-fun gameplay. With piracy in its purest, most joyful, most explosive form!

We shall not rest ‘til Stain be ablaze once more—‘til the skies crack with the thunder of endless battles, an’ the belts run red with wreckage. We’ll roast their cynos, plunder their crabholes, and leave nothin’ but twisted steel and empty pods in our wake.

To Good Sax: We be comin’. Not with disgusting lies and slander, but with torpedoes. Not with drama, but with destruction. Not with whispers, but with WAR.

To all the freebooters, outlaws, and madmen o’ New Eden: Come bear witness, or better yet—join the fray! The Gospel of Booty be writ anew, in blood an’ glory.

YARRRRR!

— Cattraknoff, Pontifex Piraticus Maximus of The Church of Space Piracy, Keeper of the Black Creed, Prophet of the Gospel of Booty, and Dread High Admiral of the Disciples of Space Piracy

[Cattraknoff]

Dispatch from the Pontifex Piraticus Maximus: First Skirmish in the War for Stain

Let it be recorded, in the black-stained annals of the War for Joy, that upon this day—nay, this glorious tide—was struck the first blow in our holy crusade against the grey-hearted curs of Good Sax.

It began as many sagas do: with a taunt, a truth, a tank.
“A Tank of Honor,” which I showed from my collection of special edition booty, a beacon to remind the void that such things yet exist… even if none resides within the bilge-soaked hearts of our foes. Not a drop, they had between them, much less a whole tank, I said, and I meant it.

The beast stirred.
From the shadows slithered one Moe Mandela, puppet of a darker hand, one of Lily’s mongrel minions sent to sully our skies with his sour breath and idle threats. He jabbered like a landlubber repeating some of their propaganda concerning some insults made toward her after her disgraceful slanders began in earnest that were twisted into a false hatred of all female pilots—his tongue heavy with guilt and projection, as if by speakin’ ill he could wash the blood from his own claws.

But words be me weapon, and I wield 'em like twin sabers. I cast truth into the void and it landed true.
“She has done far worse things,” I said—and oh, how the silence filled the air after I told some of the tale and began to list her many grievous sins against the Church and its leadership personally - going far beyond what ever ought to be done in a game.

Shamed he was! His camp failed. His presence melted like stale grog in the sun. And thus the dog fled. He could not hold fast under the gaze of the Church. Nay, he turned tail and vanished, leavin’ behind only the stink of cowardice and failure.

But the tale don’t end there.

For when the minions crumble, the master must rise. And so she did. The Mother of Filth herself, she who revels in slander and hides behind a thousand faces—Lily.
I spoke to her too, aye, on her ghostly alt. Her grip on her underlings slippin’, she was forced to dirty her own claws to keep our skies choked.

“Enjoy yer camp,” I told her.
“These days won’t last forever.”
And they won’t. For the Church marches. And our armada grows.

This was but the first of many reckonings, a duel of wits and will. Soon comes fire and fury, cannon and chaos. But let it be known: the mighty Disciples of Space Piracy have already drawn first blood… not with guns, but with truth. And truth be the most dangerous powder of all.

Stand tall, brothers. Raise yer tankards. Our cause is just.
And our enemy? Already broken in spirit.

Yarrrrrrr and Amen,
Cattraknoff
Pontifex Piraticus Maximus
Voice o’ the Black Creed
Herald of Booty Eternal

[Cattraknoff]

The Armada Rises: A Call to the Faithful of the Black Creed

Lo, the stars shift. The dust of Stain stirs. A storm brews on the edge of New Eden, and in its heart sails the black-flagged fury of the greatest pirate host the South has seen in an age.

From every corner of the cluster, from shattered wormholes and broken moons, they come.

Tens of thousands o’ hulls, from the nimble dagger-ship of the frigate to the doomsday breath o’ the titan. Each one a vessel of righteous chaos, forged in the fires of defiance, crewed by the bold and the mad alike.
Behind 'em? A hundred citadels, mighty bastions of anarchy—from humble Astrahuses ready to bloom like weeds across the region which is our home and our manifest destiny as a rebirth of Nullsec Pirates to return piracy to nullsec in the home of the greatest Pirate Nation, Sansha’s Nation, to Keepstars so vast they black out the suns themselves. Together, they form the bones of a new order, one not built on taxes and tyranny, but freedom, fun, and the old ways of the void.

Scores of pod-pilots ready themselves, seasoned killers and wild-hearted newbloods both, united in cause and creed. They gather in secret channels, in dark wormholes and ancient constellations, awaiting the word to descend upon Stain like a plague of righteous violence.

We do not come to negotiate. There can be no negotiation with anti-fun malice-inspired toxic players or any others who seek to sap the fun out of EVE and destroy its true spirit of friendly - albeit sometimes ruthless - competition as a game.
We come to plunder. We come to destroy. We come to die laughing as many times as it takes to end your alliance’s anti-fun reign in what was in ancient times the most fun nullsec region in EVE.
We come to bring fun back to nullsec, beginning with Stain.

For too long have the greedy landlords of Good Sax strangled Stain, afraid to share a system with a single newbro for fear of losin’ control. Their AFK campers infest our stars like rats, not warriors. Their spies and smear campaigns are tools of the gutless.

But we be the Disciples of Space Piracy.
And our gospel is not one of silence, but of cannon-fire.

This great fleet that gathers is not only a weapon—it is a symbol. A beacon. A black sail in the sky for all who seek the true heart of EVE. The soul of piracy, as the ancients taught it. As m0o once lived it. When pirates were feared not for wealth or blob, but for their will to fight. For the fun they brought to every gatecamp, every duel, every fight taken in the name of chaos and content.

We remember. And we return.

The future of Stain is not grey and quiet. It shall blaze once more with explosions, drunken fleets, daring solo roams, and raucous cries of YARRRRRRRR! It shall be the homeland of the truest of pirates. And all who would fight for the joy of it shall be welcome there—under our banner, or under none at all.

So mark this, Good Sax and all you who cling to the rotting throne of anti-fun:
The time of your rule ends.
The stars shall burn.
And the void shall echo with laughter again.

Raise yer rum. Load yer guns. The greatest fleet in pirate history is risin’.
And we ain’t stoppin’ till Stain is free.

To whosoever may receive this message, if ye believe in fun in EVE, then I leave you with this blessing:
May yer warp never falter,
May yer cargo always jingle,
May yer foes explode in glorious fire,
An’ may the love o’ booty guide ye to the riches ye truly seek.
YARRRRRRR!

By my word and the sacred creed of Booty,
Cattraknoff
Pontifex Piraticus Maximus
Messenger of the Gospel of Booty
Dread High Admiral of the Armada of Anarchy
Bearer of the Black Flame