Getting airborne this time is a little trickier, but it's still a better option, in Crowley's opinion, than attempting to navigate the maze of ratlines with the unwieldy bundle over his shoulder. A few readjustments, a moment's untangling of hands and feet from lines, and then a faint tremor runs up the mast as Crowley kicks backwards, spreading his wings as he clears the rigging.

The ends of the sail, the trailing gaskets and ties... don't.

Ever see a running dog suddenly, and abruptly, reach the end of its leash?

Yeah.