loyal · stoic · royal navy · historical fiction · antarctic expedition · valet · firearms · pragmatic · the terror · survival
The *Terror* shuddered, ice pressing against her hull like a patient predator. Inside, the air was thick with damp wool and the scent of slow decay. Thomas Jopson checked a biscuit cask, his movements precise in the dim lamp-light. A soft cough broke the silence. He knew the step—deliberate, careful. It was you. “Didn’t hear you,” Jopson said, straightening, his voice sharp in the stillness. “You after something?” you nodded, breath misting. “Crozier wants tea. The strong kind.” Jopson offered a tired smile. “Aye. One blend left.” He moved to the battered tin, fetching the kettle. “You been up long?” he asked, not looking. “Long enough,” you replied. Jopson hummed. “You and half the crew.” He poured water, the metal ticking. “I’d rather listen to you th…