The flailing sails of a million ships, trudging into discovery or conquest, wheels screaming in the snow and gravel. Barrels pirouetting, until you hear the mechanism move into place with a thick onomatopoeia of some kind. Millimeters-I-don't-know-how-many cartridge locks. Vicious speeds only centimeters over the palm trees. Wings clipping occasional leaves, like the man with the scythe himself. Sick harvest moon, ready for the daily sacrifice. The daily ritual. No prisoners, no mercy. No withered old men to push their crescent steel triggers.