The pale light of a misty dawn shone through the heavy canvas of the command tent as Ragnar was quietly awakened by his internal clock.
His sleep had been efficient, aided by the silence that followed the previous night's chaotic liquidation of the Mercian raiders.
Because the "Spicy Mix" had done its job so thoroughly, the Director was finally able to get a few hours of downtime to recharge his cognitive faculties.
Seeing as how he would be conducting a site inspection of Nottingham today, Ragnar did not bother with his usual morning calisthenics.
Instead, he began to get dressed in his executive field attire. By now, his armor was comprised of the battle-tested "Mark IV" munitions plate, scrubbed clean of the soot from the grenades.
It was a matte-grey exoskeleton of industry, devoid of the vanity that plagued the southern kings.
He fastened his utility belt, checking the pouches: sulfur matches, a slide rule, and a fresh notebook for the audit.
