The Walls of York, Dawn
Ragnar stood on the battlements, gripping the cold stone. The night before, the "Public Relations Campaign" the massive bitumen fire had turned the area in front of the gate into a hellscape. Now, the fire was out, leaving behind a thick, oily black sludge and the charred remains of the Berserker charge.
"Urgh."
Ragnar leaned over the side and emptied his stomach. The contents of his dinner (porridge and stress) splashed onto the stones below.
"You have a weak stomach, Director," a voice boomed beside him.
General Bjorn stood there, munching on a piece of hardtack. He looked out at the carnage with the casual interest of a man inspecting a garden.
"It's efficient," Bjorn noted, pointing a crumb-covered finger at the field. "The 'Broom' canisters shredded the front line. The tar trapped the second line. We achieved a 90% casualty rate in the Kill Zone."
