The strength of a mob is the strength of the sea, and they surge toward Danneth and Arric in the same way. Their obsolete guns crackle and pop, producing all the affectation of children's fireworks. With a wave of his distorted left hand, Arric magnetizes a dented blue-flecked mailbox. The tide of bullets part from their chosen course and riddle the aging receptacle, followed by the weapons that fired them, flying from the hands of their owners. There's a mashed chorus of screams as fillings are ripped from teeth.
— Akropolis, by Matt Wallace
