Ragnar sat on a stack of ammunition crates outside the crumbling walls of Nottingham Castle.
One might think a volcano had erupted in the Midlands if they were not accustomed to the industrial application of thermal dynamics.
Though the skies above were grey and the English rain was relentless, the heat radiating from the burning stone was palpable.
The cool breeze whipped across Ragnar's face—the only part of him exposed to the elements.
He was covered from head to toe in the "Mark IV" munitions plate, now stained with the soot of industry.
The Imperial Corps looked less like Vikings and more like a factory that had grown legs and decided to march to war.
"Director," General Bjorn grunted, biting into his own brick. "The thermal stress on Section Three is reaching critical mass. The mortar is turning to glass."
