Icebound

Name: Bramwell Keene, Esquire, Royal Science Society

Date of Birth: 22nd April, 1854 C.E.
Place of Origin: Berkshire, England
Occupation (Old World): Navigator, Field Scientist, RSS 3rd Expeditionary Science Team
Purpose: Posterity
Description:

Bramwell Keene stands a little over six feet tall, built with the quiet solidity of a man shaped more by storms than by salons. His frame is lean from years of rationed wandering, yet broad‑shouldered and enduring, the musculature of a lifelong field navigator rather than a soldier. Wind and cold have carved his complexion into a permanent weather‑brown, the fair English skin of his youth now marked by faint freckles, old frostbite scarring along two fingers, and a thin, pale line at the brow where falling ice once struck him. His dark brown hair is kept short for practicality, often tousled by the wind, with early frost‑silver threading through at the temples. Grey‑blue eyes that are steady, observant, quietly haunted, carry the calm of a man who reads sky and snow instinctively. His hands are calloused and precise, equally capable of delicate instrument work and the rough labour of survival. He moves with disciplined economy, posture upright and formal even in solitude, a remnant of the Royal Science Society’s decorum. Wrapped in heavy expedition layers, he still carries himself like a gentleman, though every line of his body speaks of endurance, loss, and the long, cold miles behind him.

HMS Perseverance Expedition — 1896  

Recovered Shore Camp, Day 1–6

Day 1 — Shoreside Cliffs
The cliffs rise like black teeth from the ice, their faces scoured by centuries of wind. We have erected a small perimeter beneath a rocky overhang, the Regiment’s discipline proving invaluable in these first hours ashore. The tents stand in stiff rows, canvas snapping in the wind like muted applause. In the centre of camp, men labour over the marine boiler we salvaged from the Perseverance’s hold — a battered relic, but intact enough to promise warmth if coaxed properly.
I find myself unsettled by the disappearance of half the crew. They vanished in the night without struggle, without cry, without trace. The ship’s corridors were undisturbed, the rails unbroken, the ice unmarked. It is as though the cold claimed them, quietly and without ceremony.
Speculation spreads through camp like frost.Some insist Prussian Zeppelins descended under cover of storm while others whisper of sirens or mermaids; wild folk superstition dredged up from the lower decks.One soul, trembling with conviction, declared it divine wrath: that the vanished had been taken to rapture, and we, vile sinners, had been left behind.
The Regiment dismisses such talk. Their scouts report no sign of the missing men, and the consensus is that they deserted. I do not believe it. Men do not abandon their posts in such numbers, nor with such silence. Mr Clever, our Acting Captain, knew his crew well. He is as disturbed as any, though he hides it beneath naval discipline.
I have offered him my service. It is all I can give.
Day 2 — Traverse into the White
The world beyond camp is a vast, unbroken whiteness. I made a short traverse this morning, marking bearings as best I could in the storm‑blurred light. The land shows signs of what it once was; small villages now entombed beneath drifts, the black tips of trees protruding like bones from the snow. A tundra now, but not always.
I discovered several caves along the cliffs, their mouths rimed with frost. Within, I found fungi, moss, and lichen; hardy remnants of life clinging to stone. Their presence suggests geothermal warmth somewhere beneath us, though faint and unreliable.
The threat of Prussians is very real. Scouts report a concentration nearly a kilometre west, occupying a pair of mine shafts. Smaller camps dot the frozen plains: raiders, scavengers, desperate souls driven north by the same cold that drove us. The war has not ended here. It has merely grown quieter.
Day 3 — Arms and Intent
I scavenged several rifles and muskets from the ruins of a collapsed storehouse. Their breaches and bolts were stiff with frost, their stocks cracked, but salvageable. I have cobbled together crude munitions from what powder and shot remained. The work steadied me.
I dread the killing of any man or woman.
Yet the Prussians remain a constant threat.
I pray that thus armed, I may intimidate rather than fire. Should violence erupt, I shall make every effort not to kill. God help me.
Day 4 — The Grenadier
I shot a Prussian Grenadier today.
The encounter occurred among the scarce ruins of old buildings; stone walls half‑buried, doorframes protruding like ribs. We ducked and weaved through the debris, the cold muffling sound, the snow swallowing footprints.
Fire. Reload. Aim. Squeeze. Exhale.
Repeat.
The fighting of men is far different from a guided hunt in the Scottish Highlands. No dugout, no blunderbuss, no patient waiting for grouse. This was frantic, brutal, intimate.
By grace or accident, the man still breathed when the firing ceased. I took his munitions and fouled his rifle, leaving him a day’s ration. The smallest kindness I could offer.
God forgive me.
Day 5 — The Boiler Breathes
The boiler whistled today.  A thin, wavering sound as steam forced its way through the patched pipes. Our scavenging has yielded enough material to make it operational. We now have a lean‑to for the manufacture of tools and a proper mess tent where we may warm ourselves with relative comfort.
The solution is temporary.
We must soon decide whether to remain and make something of this place, or set out across uncertain terrain in search of the promised settlement. I fear taking so many unaccustomed to hardship into the white without a proper destination.
Mr Clever confided again that he knew his crew well, that they would not desert. He regrets allowing the Captain to relieve his watch. The loss weighs heavily upon him. I had nothing to offer but my service.
The Regiment and the remaining crew have maintained the highest discipline expected of the Royal Army and Navy. Their steadfastness is a mercy.
May the Record stand for England.
Day 6 — The Isle of Ice
Judging by the moss and lichen varieties, I surmise we may be upon the once fair isle of Iceland; now living up to its namesake. If not Iceland, then perhaps the Faroe Islands. I cannot say with certainty. The storms prevent reliable astronavigation, and we lack the proper tools. I make the record as observed.
We are truly astray.The cold deepens.The storms grow longer.The Prussians draw nearer.I keep Pembroke’s pocket watch close, though it no longer ticks; but its weight steadies me.The work continues; we endure.