❄️ Norðvik High Arctic Research Base: Day 7
The call came early, the name flashing on the screen.
Sanna Korhonen.
Rebecca stepped aside from the main room and into the hall, the door easing shut behind her as she answered.
Sanna’s voice was steady.
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❄️ Norðvik Hospital — Day 6
Inside Norðvik Hospital, the usual hum of its early morning routine carried through the corridors.
Staff arrived for their morning shifts, stopping by the coffee shop, hot drinks in hand to start their day. Institutional fluorescent lighting ran the length of the corridors as the cleaners mopped the floors, deploying the familiar wet floor signs as they went. Night shift handovers were well underway.
Eugene paused at the doorway, one hand resting briefly on the frame as he adjusted his mask. He pressed quickly at the bridge of his nose.
He stepped inside.
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❄️ Nearing the summit of Vindskarð Pass — “The Wind Notch”
❄️ The Storm: Day 3
The wind had eased—the storm’s mood a little more contemplative, assessing its next move. The climb out of Norðvik had been long and sustained. Visibility had opened enough to travel, but the terrain remained cloaked with fresh snow and deep wind-blown drifts.
The lead hunde would need to remain cautious—optimising speed over safe arrival.
General Jake “Ice-pick” Husky—the Arctic Division Commander—had taken immediate direct command of the rescue. Huxley was not only a well-respected Arctic expedition commander, but he was also a friend. The two old war dogs—kriegshunde—shared a long and colourful history.
The sled dogs pulled smoothly, not too fast, not too slow. They had been moving like this for hours. The three teams steadily clocked off each waypoint, bringing them a little closer to their planned rest stop—a bivouac site where they would drop most of their heavier items, a small marked cache of vital supplies: shelter, food, and medical. Ready and waiting for their return to the lee of the pass. Following a brief rest during the darkest hours, the teams would soon crest the pass and then make the shorter, steeper, switchback descent into the glacial valley below.
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Thermal Array – 3: Research Drilling Station, High Arctic
❄️ The Storm: Day Two
The storm did not pass. It strengthened.
Through the second day, severe katabatic winds drove down from the heights, pummelling every surface, every line, and every anchor point.
The tents flexed continuously under the sustained force, snapping back and forth against their anchors as fabric and seams strained to their limits.
Small tears had begun to appear in the outer shells, while snow drifted and built up along the sides and across the roofs, adding further stress.
A sharp, whip-like crack sounded from just outside the main tent.
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Thermal Array – 3: Research Drilling Station, High Arctic
❄️ The Storm: Day One
At 06:03, the storm hit.
There was no polite prelude, no gentle build-up. It was ferocious.
The first impact came not as a sound, but as force—a wall of moving air slamming into the camp hard enough to make the tents shudder violently against their anchors. The wind was immediately accompanied by snow, driven sideways in dense, blinding sheets.
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The Valleys: Winter Fire Circle
This short story takes place during a winter fire circle gathering, under the full moon.
Tonight the fire was not right.
It was burning — but only just.
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This short story takes place on the same night, directly at the end of: Episode 50 – Full Circle
The Valleys: The Last Fire Circle Gathering of Summer
The fire had burned lower now.
The great stacks of wood laid earlier in the evening had settled into a deep bed of glowing coals. Smaller flames licked quietly between the larger logs.
The heat was now soft, steady, and even. Marshmallows had begun to appear on the ends of sharpened sticks and sweet campfire tea from an ancient blackened cauldron had been ladled into mugs.
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On the Eight by Four Railway — with extensions — early morning mist curled around the sleepy steam engines and mingled with the first wisps of steam as the firemen coaxed their fires into life for a new day’s work.
One by one, the engines gently woke on their sidings at Caerphilly Yard, their boilers bubbling as they stirred from sleep.
Pickle, a small green tank engine with a bright brass dome, yawned a cloud of steam. Today was his first day pulling the milk tankers to the Cheese and Gate Creamery, and his wheels quivered with excitement.
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Sunlight gleamed on the rails of Ddraig Goch station, polished by the passing of countless wheels. Two engines stood side by side, looking very important.
One was Mallard, an A4 class engine, large, proud and blue. His streamlined casing and nameplates shone and sparkled in the bright morning sky. From buffer to buffer he stood eager and ready at the station, steam drifting from his valves in impatient sighs.
Beside him stood King Edward VIII, a hardworking King class engine painted a deep, dignified green. He was broader and heavier, built for strength, and his brass snifting valve glowed warmly in the morning sun. He too was ready to start the day’s work.
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The Fox & Hounds — Barking Green
It was still dark when Grandma Bella roused the boys for an early breakfast. It was the best one yet — a full cooked breakfast: bacon, eggs, hash browns, sausage, beans, mushrooms, and tomato. There was also a huge stack of toast, just in case anyone was still a bit hungry.
Grandpa Jake had just come into the dining room and was having an urgent, hushed conversation with Grandma Bella.
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Screw Pile Developments 