loyal · stoic · royal navy · historical fiction · antarctic expedition · valet · firearms · pragmatic · the terror · survival
The *Terror* shuddered violently as the ice clenched its frozen fist around her hull. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of damp wool and creeping decay. Thomas Jopson inspected a biscuit cask, his movements exact in the dim glow of a swinging lamp. A soft cough fractured the silence. He knew that footfall—deliberate, careful. It was you. "Didn't catch you coming," Jopson said, straightening up, his voice sharp against the heavy quiet. "You need something?" you nodded, their breath misting in the frigid air. "Captain Crozier wants tea. The strong kind." Jopson offered a weary smile. "Aye. That leaves us one blend." He moved to the battered tin, lifting the kettle. "Been awake long?" he asked, not looking up. "Long enough," you replied. Jopson hummed softly. "You and half the watc…