Chapter Text
THE DEAD MAN’S TALE
“Sir, look what I found!”
Lieutenant Thomas Markham turned to follow the sound, and noticed that a wooden box was affixed to one of the bridge’s support pylons. It was outside the path of the automaton which swept this bridge’s vast steel surface and so had been partly buried under the snow-piles accumulated at the side of the main pathway. As the rest of Scout Team Two had been gawking, it had taken the sharp eyes of Rodgers to notice it despite its garish paint – red, in the shape of a stylized mailed envelope. “What’s inside, Rodgers?”
After some short while of prying at it with his hands, Rodgers was forced to reply, “I dunnae know, Sir. It’s nailed shut – wha’s the point of a mailbox nailed shut?!” Markham’s curiosity was now thoroughly piqued, and he shrugged as he reached for the prybar on his tool-belt and started walking toward Rodgers. “Damned if I know, Rodgers – but let’s see what it carries.” He tossed the prybar at Rodgers, who deftly caught it; as the scout set to work, Markham reflected on just how supple, long and dexterous his fingers were. They certainly wouldn’t have been that way were it not for Captain Keelty’s allowances for his scouts’ comforts on the trail – but he wouldn’t have it any other way! But it was best not to dwell too long on his sinful appreciation of Rodgers’ many talents; what scout teams did (in the field or at base) was largely their own business, but only as long as they kept matters entirely within the team.
Reaching his subordinate, Markham looked down at him (the best angle of view, in his opinion!) before kneeling to work with him (also a position which recalled warm memories) at prying the box open. It was well-secured, but eventually yielded with the audible groan of good timber poorly-tended, and a sheaf of paper was revealed. A diary? No; it was secured together by means of a set of hole-punches, and there was the title. The Testament of Winterhome – no author’s name. Well, that boded ill; the raving lunatic who’d made it to New London, proclaiming the doom of the world on account of Winterhome’s fall was apparently not delusional. Captain Keeler was just going to love this; already running flat-out to accommodate, feed and heal its newly-settled populace, the last thing New London needed was doomsayers sapping morale!
Markham carefully bundled the document into one of the team’s salvage bags, and motioned for Rodgers to get up, “Now that we’ve secured it, we’re ready to keep going. Let’s move, Rodgers; time’s wasting.” Ever-thrifty, the Scot instead finished neatly reducing the box to a bundle of timber with a minimum of breakage, wrapped it in a salvage belt, and hooked that to a shoulder point on his harness. “An’ now we’re ready to carry on, Sir.” He passed the prybar back to Markham with a cocky smirk, who responded with a small smile of his own even as he tingled with want. “...Very good, James. Very good.”
Later that night, Scout Team Two relaxed in the comfort of their gas-heated cabin in the Wayfarer - truly, New London’s engineers were saints and workers of miracles, each and every one of them. Indulgent with cheery heat and a decent meal, Markham was even prepared to canonize the irascible Frau Halwyth, whose particular idea these gas-fired contrivances were. After finishing dinner cleanup, Markham remembered the document and decided that some evening reading was in order. Stretching idly on the small couch (which caused James to eye him, and the rest of the team to collectively roll their eyes), he motioned over to the table laying out the day’s finds. “James, would you be so good...” Across the cabin, Penny snickered at Thomas’ deliberately pompous tone & phrasing, looking with the other two members of the team at James, who simply looked sour as he stood, his six-foot-plus height towering over everyone else in the cabin. “I look like ya’ manservant, ya’ soft English bawheid? Ye still ken how tae walk on yer own two feet, dunnae?”
This time, the other two of Team Two – Lachlan and Padraigh – joined Penny’s chuckles. Thomas simply looked up at him serenely, until James eventually gave in and ambled over to the table, delicately picking up the paper and bringing it back to Thomas, who felt a whap of paper hitting his head before the sheaf was slapped into his open hand. “Ya’ owe me, bawheid.” Taking the opportunity to stroke James’ hand, which had lingered in easy reach, Thomas murmured, “I’ll be sure to repay you in full later”, as his other hand flicked open the title page. Sensing the avid interest of his team in the papers, Thomas relented and started reading out loud.
The Testament of Winterhome
Hear now, traveler, the testament of Winterhome. This city was intended to be a new beginning; a shelter and sanctuary in a world grown increasingly hostile to human life – instead, it will soon become the tomb of all within its valley. If you are reading this, then you have come across one of the twelve copies I have ordered to be placed in prominent locations within and surrounding our doomed city; you have seen the end of our tale for yourself, and you have questions. Well enough: I shall answer them.