Hrungnir

The bluntside shovel-left hangar bustled as the city groaned to a halt. As the prince-regent clambered into his ancestral Warmech, the Cold of Iron, a pair of archaic Mammoth heavy tanks were being drained of fuel, their usual bio-diesel not energy-dense enough for the extended maneuvers that might be needed today. Across the hangar, a trio of Hummingbird GEVs were undergoing plenum chamber pressure checks as their three-man crews rushed out of the ready room. On the shovel-right middle gangway, the chief armorer watched as pages bolted the finishing touches onto the Aesir-class power armor of a squad of heavy infantry.

The regent’s squire stepped up to the Warmech’s cockpit, checking that the buckles were secure and straps fastened. At his nod, the cockpit began to close, sealing the regent into the hull. As the squire read through the pre-activation checklist, the regent flipped switches and checked dials, slowly bringing the noble machine to readiness. Finally, he lifted the cover from the primary activation switch, flicked it into active mode, and felt the hum of the great fusion generator lighting up beneath him. Meanwhile the GEV crews buttoned up their hatches and spun up the main drive fans, the Mammoth’s turbine generators came to screaming life, and the heavy infantry clambered down into their Goliathground effect APC. At last the hangar door began to open, sunlight streaming through the narrow crack. The regent thumbed the vox switch, bringing speakers crackling to life throughout the hangar and the rest of the bluntside military complex.

“Hrungnir expects that every man shall do his duty”