The air in Castries is thick with bonfire smoke, but that smoke is tinged with the bloody tang of iron.

The Belgian snow is thrown into their faces, not muffling the rattle of gunfire in the air any more than it hides the unbroken rosary lying in a red-tinted drift at their feet.

A star looms larger than life on the Enterprise's viewscreen, and it's looming all the more with time.

A sword whistles through the air of Sherwood forest, and a figure without a face crows about capturing a prize for his lord.

The Milliways grounds are soaked with multicolored blood, and gravity and atmosphere are tangibly failing, air streaming away as the world tilts, lightens, drains away toward the end.

Alien language crackles through the darkness, a near-constant, ever-changing series of clickclickclick clickclickclick click clickclick, while a metal swing arm angles closer, the jagged-edged blade at its end brought into vivid relief by the blinding spotlight above the table.

A figure with too many limbs and no face at all blossoms out of nothing.

He's holding a longsword.

He's holding a blade with a jagged edge.

He's not holding anything at all.

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