Blastphemy - Part Two

The storm churns overhead. An inverted cauldron of nature's wrath. Tipping and spilling from it are raw ingredients that pepper and fall and careen towards the plinth and cannon. It would be an awful coincidence if this was purely bad luck. The crew holding the cannon level while the four brave souls assemble its components are more than worried. Half their number are truly terrified. Perhaps it's the expression on the stormblooded member of their troupe. Normally unflappable, their voice is actually /muffled/ as it cries for them to hold fast. What should have been a clarion call through the tumult of noise is dampened.
Lightning crashes and stabs close along the crags. It'll be upon the cannon in a minute or two if it keeps up its approach. The rain comes like people were overturning washbasins of it. Not simply sheets of droplets, but drenching drapes of it. It's cold. It's salty. A 'freak' slice of this atmospheric deliverance carves parallel to the crag...overtaking another blinding bolt of lightning to rush in a crazy curve of hail and shards of ice. Like a shattered mirror, the jagged pieces crash to the earth towards Wynter and one half of the cannon crew.

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