"The landing at East Anglia was just a vanguard," Torstein said, "A raiding party to gather fresh food and test the local defenses. The main host sailed straight up the coast, bypassing the southern kingdoms entirely. They've dropped anchor in the deep lochs of Alba. The Picts tried to fight them off. They were massacred in a matter of hours."
Leofric scoffed, "Scotland? There's nothing up there but freezing rain, rocks, and sheep. Why the hell would an empire from the other side of the world sail for months just to freeze their balls off in the Highlands?"
Ragnar stared at the black markers, the gears in his reincarnated mind spinning at a breakneck pace. He picked up his prototype musket,
"Because it's a natural fortress, Deep water for their massive junk ships to anchor safely. High, defensible mountains that make cavalry charges impossible. It's the perfect place to build an impregnable capital while you figure out how to conquer the rest of the continent..."
