Frostpunk 2 News

“C’mon Thomas, stop dawdling!”

Henry was pushing forward, through the rowdy crowd that was slowly but steadily gathering around the main generator. Thomas could barely catch up with his newsie friend. No wonder, the public executions still created quite a stir in New London, so there were always quite a lot of eager viewers present to witness the painful demise of a fellow citizen.

Luckily, Henry and Thomas were small enough to squeeze through the human wall without problems. Well, not entirely without problems. A tall man muffled in a thick coat gave Thomas an angry stare when the boy bumped into his knee. This incident almost made Thomas lose the still-pushing forward friend from his sight.

Yet, finally, boys managed to finally emerge from the crowd just in front of a few dozen yards from the base of the generator. From up close it seemed even larger and higher than usual, just like a finger of a giant pointing up toward the sky. For a while, Thomas decided to enjoy the warmth coming from the generator's loud, humming bowels. It was so peaceful - the boy almost didn’t want to ruin the whole experience by looking at the execution platform.

Yet, it stood there - sad, lonely, with two poles on its sides, both wrapped up in chains. For a moment Thomas felt a cold shiver of dread - it was almost as if the site was greased with pain and misery of the executions that took place there for 30 years, long before Thomas was born.

The tumult of crowded people pulled Thomas out of his thoughtful state. The noise came from the direction of the city’s main street.

“He’s coming”, said Henry straight to his companion’s ear.

A moment before, they were surrounded by talks and whispers, now shouts and calumnies have arisen among the crowd. People who were standing behind the boys were slowly moving to the sides to make room for someone who was making their way toward the generator.

He was there, the convict. Screaming in a language that sounded foreign to Thomas’ ears.

“I’ve heard he went mad, Tom’, said Henry, trying to outshout the voices of other viewers. “He went off the rails, I tell ya. Left his entire expedition to die in the frost” added the boy.

Indeed, the man looked insane, screaming and jerking his cuffed hands to the sides, trying to free himself from the clutches of four municipal guards. That seemed strange to Thomas, as the convicts he has seen so far seemed devoid of will to fight or to live entirely. A long period of rotting in a cold prison cell probably did that to even the bravest soul.

This convict seemed built from sterner stuff. All of a sudden, he even managed to break free from his captors' strong embraces and ran towards Thomas himself! For a split second, he reached the boy and grabbed the flaps of his jacket.

“They are there!!!” yelled the man straight towards Thomas’ face. He was so close that the newsie could smell his breath, warm and stinking with a half-digested alcoholic beverage. The boy was stiff like an ice block from fear. “They are there!” yelled the man once more, before the strong hands of the guards tore him off Thomas and threw on the cold guard.

It was only then that Thomas managed to compose himself. Especially that the people who were beating and kicking the man on the ground failed to see that he had lost his cap which was now lying just a few inches next to the boy's feet.

“Yeah, waste the bastard!” yelled Henry, fixated on the violent scene before him. At the same time, Thomas grabbed the cap from the ground without anyone noticing. It was quite a good, warm cap that will surely come useful in the upcoming months. The boy was examining the hat when something grabbed his attention, a small detail hidden inside the cap’s stitches.

Thomas started to uncover the mysterious hidden item. In the meantime, the convict, pacified by the excessive use of force, was dragged towards the execution platform. Municipal guards proceeded towards undressing him and preparing for the final demise. It was a piece of paper. Thomas unfolded it and started trying to decipher the strange markings it held.

A few moments later when a terrible scream brought Thomas back to reality. This was the last sound coming from a man whose naked skin was stricken with a deadly wave of cold air…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Read the previous issues here:
🗞️New London Courier
🗞️The Toolbox
🗞️New London Dispatch
🗞️New London Sports

What is it all about?
Two brave Frostpunk fans - Lars Andreas Melsæter and John William Baier Hofoss - set off on an expedition through the frozen nooks of Norway. This is a story of their journey.

---- Telegraph from New London ------------
Imperial Exploration Company is pleased to share the news about the final stages of our Scouts' expedition to Norway.

Administration of New London bows to the achievements of our Scouts!

-------------------------------------
Days 64 to 70
Lost and found, a string of unfortunate events has me distraught over lost necessities.
"It was April. More than two months after the arrival at the far eastern port of Vardø. It is warm here, at the cabin in Breidalen, or the wide valley, a bit too warm in fact. A sharp sun peaks between the bouts of snow, and Gøril breathes heavily from under the table. The sun had been hard at work with the temperature at 8 degrees. Yet there was hope that as the sun dips below the horizon, the temperature could fall by 10 to 15 degrees. It may be possible to move at night.
On the night of the third day in Kautokeino, at 1:45, we set off for the second time, covering 100 meters before giving up. To reach higher altitudes and colder temperatures in this landscape I would have to trek well over 20 kilometers... Yet another day came and went, and we tried again. This time the snow had frozen harder, and we practically flew through the twilight of the polar spring night. But what followed would prove to be one of the most will-shattering weeks of our journey. On the first morning, after the first night of walking, I sat down and lit a fire upon a small hill, a long rest was needed for I had grown weary. As we were almost ready to set off again, the beams used to span up the tent went missing. Turning around and walking back the way we had come we found them 13 km away. After having been on the move for over 60 days, never losing a single item of importance, on three following days I was dropping something along the way. After the tent beams, our fishing line said goodbye, and the next day a large bag of dog food. The latter case would have boded badly for Mikey and Gøril had the local reindeer herders not found the bag by chance and kindly brought it to us."

-------------------------------------
Days 70 to 86
A warning saves us from the storm.
"Some time ago I lost faith in the weather forecast I received from the satellite communication service. My father often watched the local forecasts and sent me a message - “storm coming, find shelter”. The storm was forecast with wind speeds exceeding 63 knots (118 km/h), and an arctic hurricane was moving in. I have since seen footage from others in the area displaying broken tents and hasted in-field repairs. But it didn't get me overly worried, as long as things were going to plan, and I was moving up the valley. And though I was cursing the difficult terrain, making sure to do so in a silly voice to avoid scaring Gøril, the weather was still kind and manageable, and I believed I had good chances to cross before the storm set in. On top of the valley, we found a few cabins huddled together. It was clear those who built were trying to be prepared for what might come. From each corner of every structure came out a rough metal wire fastened at an angle to thick steel bolts in turn drilled into the rock below. I had not stayed long, and yet not prepared supper before the winds began howling. Outside projectiles of wet snow and ice hurl themselves toward the walls at almost 30 m/s.
Ever since we arrived, Gøril has been delegated to the hallway, that is, the only other room in this tiny dog-permitting hut. The door into the main room has been open all day and at times the dog has been standing in the doorway, scratching gently at an invisible door, and with her most endearing eyes alternating between me and the floor. Gøril was most certainly not raised in a manor, but she has the same intelligent, thinking, awake gaze that I have seen in a few other dogs. Behind those eyes, you can make out more than simply food, and attention. In other words, Gøril did understand that she is not allowed into the main room. Today the structure has been growling and shaking so ominously that even I with my self-controlled, muted soul felt the shadow of doubt lurk in my bone marrow. Gøril, on the other hand, has been the embodiment of peace. In short, she really deserved to be let in…
Unfortunately, that dark, elegant, overgrown ball of wool has lost her appetite, much to my worry. Significant amounts of the olive oil meant for me have gone in the dog bowl to ensure that the little she eats is rich in calories. Otherwise, she shows no signs of being ill, luckily, and confusingly."

-------------------------------------
Days 87 to 103
Digging out a buried cabin.
"Sometime later we were on the move again. I had just become acutely frustrated by the wind as I noticed black shapes coming in and out of view not far ahead, a little too square to be rocks. Whatever they were I would stop there and lay a plan to find the hut I was seeking. Not long after, one of the shapes turned out to be a chimney, and I was delighted to think I would soon be inside resting my bones in the heat of the fire. When we arrived, however, and Gøril without further effort simply stepped up onto the roof, it dawned on me that my work was far from finished.
The small hut, known as Måskan, was entirely snowed in. Only the chimney and roof were visible above the deep, featureless, and unchanging snow stretching in all directions. I had been there before and knew where the door was. I secured Gøril and my equipment, and dug, almost straight down towards the wall. Even so, it took me a good 90 minutes to excavate a shaft roughly 2 meters deep and wide enough for me to squeeze inside. To ensure the doors are watertight and solid it is not uncommon to mount its hinges to open outwards. Which brings great annoyance for individuals such as myself.
Stepping inside gave a surreal, but cosy sensation. Only a pale blue light came in through the dancing patterns of snow on the buried windows. Apart from this, the two benches, a table, a tiny shelf, and the black iron wood stove in the corner seemed to perfectly mind their own business as if they were not in fact in a cave needing to be slithered into. I noted the location of the ventilation lid and headed out to dig it forth so we should not asphyxiate in our sleep. Coming to my entrance shaft, however, I was reminded of a central concept of snow: wind moves it. Now the corners of my shaft had already visibly begun filling… and the door opened. I improvised a trapdoor using two of my sleeping mats and the bottom of my sled, which proved most adequate. Soon smoke rose from the chimney.
After day 91, winter started to end. The snow started disappearing in an instant, uncovering more and more asphalt rubs. I started to feel a sense of coming back home, especially in Ibestad, when, invited by people that I've met, I lodged at the old priest's farm. That time served as a moment of contentment on my journey's final evenings."

-------------------------------------
THE END



Take care,
11 bit studios

What is it all about?
Two brave Frostpunk fans - Lars Andreas Melsæter and John William Baier Hofoss - set off on an expedition through the frozen nooks of Norway. This is a story of their journey.
The previous posts about the venture can be read here: https://store.steampowered.com/news/app/1601580/view/3122690263509401625
https://store.steampowered.com/news/app/1601580/view/3217271087478821042

---- Telegraph from New London ------------
Imperial Exploration Company is pleased to share the news about the ongoing expedition to Norway providing further opportunities to get to know the customs of the local people.

As our, for now, sole Scout progresses, we leave Vardø behind and aim to cross the Tana River. And following a large river like Tana makes pathfinding brutally straightforward. In addition, the river is used by snowmobiles and dogsleds, leaving paths for explorers to follow. On the other hand, the ice could be unsafe, or – more likely - reascent heavy snowfall will not be blown away or compacted by wind and leave the expedition wading in deep, loose snow. This passage may take six or eighteen days, depending on these factors.

Administration of New London bows to the achievements of our Scouts.
----------------

“A nomadic livelihood of traditional, indigenous people of northern Scandinavia - The Sámi, served the expansion of a tent-based culture. People who dove into coastal fishing, fur trapping, and sheep herding, also developed more permanent settlements - described by the umbrella term “gamme” - like hunting and fishing huts, spread out in the wilderness. And searching for them proved to closely resemble the refreshing activity of exploring the frozen outskirts of New London.

Often built with locally available materials in carefully picked locations - fruitful hunting or fishing grounds, and summer or winter grazing lands. Among the most common kinds of huts, was the small or semi-small "buegamme" curve/arch-gamme. This style relies on naturally curved birch cut down and stripped of its bark before it is leaned upon other curved logs. The shape is important so finding the right trees was almost an art form. Wooden bolts were also in use. Onto this main wooden skeleton, a new layer of thinner logs and poles was laid to act as the inner walls. And support more layers to come.

The gamme would now look somewhat similar to an igloo, though often more egg-shaped than hemispherical. To waterproof the structure, large cylinders of birch bark were cut off the trees, stretched, and dried before it too was laid onto the structure without fastening. Birchwood is in its dry state efficient firewood, but its bark is also entirely waterproof, making dry birch hard to come by. By overlapping the patchwork of so-called "never" (Norwegian for birch bark), downpour would flow along with it and end in the surrounding soil. This process would start along the ground, and as one worked upwards the final layer would also be placed down to hold it all in place. Slabs of topsoil with low dense vegetation (called “torv” in Norwegian, and incredibly common up north as well as south) would be cut out and laid down leaning in towards the slightly tilted wall. These slabs might be something like 30-40 cm wide, 30-60 cm long, and 5-15 cm tall.

Once the entire structure was clad in this manner, a door would be installed. Originally not hinged. The floor was made from young birch branches, and there would be an open fireplace with a hole in the roof. That’s it for the tradition. As modern times arrived so did hinges, windows, wood-burning ovens, wooden floors, insulation, and plastic moisture protection. Today most gammes forego the traditional construction in favor of standard "plank and nail" constructions, but the law still mandates the exterior "torv" cladding.

Quite some years ago it was decided that these huts, that usually were owned and used by families or reindeer herding family groups, were to be open to all. This was partly a measure to improve the safety in the mountains, and partly to direct the culture. In Norway, there are so-called laws about "every man's rights". They’re to ensure nature is not privatised and locked away but remains available to all. This meant that those who wanted to keep their gamme, also had to keep it unlocked and assure its maintenance to safety standards. Some families, or individuals, opted to accept this, others never applied for this new permit and registration and let the old structures decay.

Today the gammes are marked by a "point of interest" sign on the map. A small black triangle which you can never be sure what you’ll find there. Some huts can be of the oldest, some are modern and comfy, some are about to collapse, and some simply no longer exist. To be honest - I felt a bit like a proper Frostpunk scout running around the map looking for "points of interest" not knowing what to expect. It ended up that I explored five marks that turned out to be too decayed or entirely gone thus far on the expedition. The cabins in the first phase of the expedition, whilst crossing Varangerhalvøya, have a sadly relevant history tied to the fights between Norwegian partisans and the Nazis during a past war.

Whilst staying at Bjørnskardhytta I had the worst mental day I have had during the entire expedition. My mind played awful games with me and I felt the urge to give up, yet I could not find any practical reason for my deep discomfort. Later I learned that the Parthians were snitched on and the Gestapo caught and executed at least one man in the very same cabin. Approximately a further eight men had also attempted to parachute to the cabin but been blown off course and landed on the hillside. They broke their legs and hips and never made it down from the mountain I was sitting looking at.”

The latest Frosptpunk 2 lore newspaper is here!

Read the previous issues here:
New London Courier The Toolbox New London Dispatch

New London Sports latest issue is also available here full size in PDF:
https://11bitstudios.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/07/New_London-Sports_Fists_of_Stone-3.pdf

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a day like this, not even the piercing wind and frigid temperatures could spoil Thomas' mood. They were welcomed and revived the boy after a mostly sleepless night. Today, despite being glued to his regular spot on a corner of one of the many shabby streets in New London with a bundle of newspapers on him, his mind was elsewhere.

“Hey brat, are you with me?”

A harsh, out-of-the-blue voice of an approaching gentleman tore Thomas out of his blissful idleness. “Could you tell me what’s up in the news?”

“The great Joey McGregor retained his middleweight championship title, sir! Can there be more exciting news than this?”, replied the newsie enthusiastically.

“Pshh... do I look like someone who cares about commoners' amusements?” The man’s face twisted in a disapproving grimace. “Are they reporting about any matters that have an actual meaning? Or has even the press in this pitiful world reached the level of the London cobblestones?”, ranted the monumentally tall gentleman.

With a bushy mustache, a monocle in his eye, and a posh trench coat, he indeed didn’t resemble those who packed into the arena yesterday, to take in an unforgettable fight night.

“Plenty of important matters inside, sir, as always. Take a look”, Thomas assured the customer while handing him the paper.

Albeit today, Thomas didn’t even care about sweeping through its pages. Today, nothing mattered more than the joy he still felt from the night before. He could feel a tickle of excitement while remembering the jarring knockdowns and had a sore throat, torn by his enthusiastic screams. Thomas was at the tournament until late in the night along with a few other newsboys. The loose board in the fence had once again done the trick, and he was able to forget about his burdens and lose himself in powerful emotions provoked by the untamed crowd.

Thomas' father was a hardened coal mine worker. A puny gear in the city's machine leading a life that no one reckoned with, he couldn’t broaden the boy's horizons much. He often returned home drunk, mumbling about class injustice and wishing death upon all of those who beguiled him, but it usually ended with him venting his frustration on his family. Despite his downfalls, the boy’s father had passed on his love for bare-knuckle fighting, even taking young Thomas to see his first bout. He taught Thomas about jabs, and haymakers, and told stories about fearless, undefeated champions who demanded respect from every rival.

Thomas idolized them as warriors who lived by their own rules and who were loved by the crowds. They were heroes leaving an indelible mark on this hopeless world and were a beacon of courage in an era of despair and anguish. Thomas dreamed of becoming such a warrior. He didn’t have a clue how he would achieve it, but if the boy was sure about one thing it was an overwhelming sense that he never wanted to end up drowned in bitterness like his father.

“Thomas, Thomas!”

This time a younger voice muffled the boy’s thoughts. It was Henry, a fellow newsie. “Don’t stand here like a broke drunk outside the pub. It’s about to start. We better hurry”, shouted Henry, passing him by in a rush. Thomas immediately remembered what this was about and without further ado followed his colleague.


CLICK THE IMAGE FOR FULL RESOLUTION

What is it all about?
Two brave Frostpunk fans - Lars Andreas Melsæter and John William Baier Hofoss - set off on an expedition through the frozen nooks of Norway. This is a story of their journey.
The initial post about the venture can be read here:
https://store.steampowered.com/news/app/1601580/view/3122690263509401625
---- Telegraph from New London ------------
Dear Citizens,

Our efforts to descend into Norway territory in search of future trade routes and Imperial expansions had been exposed to delays, but quickly went back onto the right track and into steady progress. Please, be aware of the report provided by one of the Scouts.
----------------

Vardø got a hold of us for longer than expected. What can lay ahead, when even the slightest beginning of our journey isn’t going as planned? We arrived at the town by ship and had a camp set outside the city before the sunset. The overall exhaustion, which we initially thought made us postpone the start of the real expedition by a day, proved to be something more once my partner was torn out of his sleep in the middle of the second night. Mr. Hoffos got sick and as I remained healthy, we parted ways. I remained in the tent, taking care of the dogs, and he was quarantined in a hotel room. It came to me that I may need to start the first phase of the journey on my own.




But I decided to wait. On the third day in Vardø, the wind climbed. It was bad yesterday, but Lord have mercy! I believe it was getting to 20 m/s from the side of the tent, which is bad. The small wall I built yesterday simply did not suffice. At 3 PM I had enough of listening to the poor tent battle for its well-being. I went outside to raise new snow-made constructions during the storm. Ten metres long, two metres tall, and half a metre wide - that should do. Still, the tent shakes. Mikey - one of our dogs - got out of the tent, but did not take long to turn around and dig his way back in.




The next day, when the weather loosened, I went to the local store to get two beers and some candies. It was Saturday after all. I was healthy and needed to find something to do in Vardø since doubt is hasty to set in when there is nothing but a tent wall to look at. The people were tremendously nice, I have been offered several places to come inside if necessary. But what helped me most was a local theatre for kids. Everyone should see a kid's entertainment now and then. It’s good for the soul.




On the sixth day we reached the conclusion that it would be best for me to continue alone, and for Hofoss to get fully cured and back in shape, and then find me again further West. A kind of a relief decision, since I felt purpose again while being moved out from my suspended state, came after a tiring and frustrating night.




I thought the weather was nice enough to let the dogs sleep outside, but they clearly didn’t agree. Gøril made such a fuss about it that she woke me twice. Both times I got dressed up and climbed out of the tent only to find both dogs in good shape, and some equipment torn to bites…




It wasn’t any better the next day. These damned dogs haven't pulled anything a godforsaken meter! Barely 10 km today, solely my doing. The weather has shifted from bright sunshine to snow and white, from ice-cold winds to sweaty back, and then back. We have had some degrees below as of now remarkably still a beautiful sunset. A good end to a difficult day only to get up on the next one and learn that Mikey chewed off his rope. What I was saying about things not going as planned?