The delicious blasting of cannon fire tears through the silence as the aft-mounted grappling hook sails through the air with the grace and the impact velocity of a meteorite, aimed squarely at the ass end of Celaeno’s barge. It crashes through the rear observation deck with the kind of meaty CRUNCH that only splintering wood could give you, digging deep into the ship’s colon for what you’d guesstimate was a good ten or fifteen feet. As the hook deploys and tugs back, it catches something inside that makes the ship’s engines grind and groan in protest until, after one final tug, they give out with a loud BANG, a small mushroom cloud of smoke billowing out of the hole for the effort.