An enemy's projectile had just hit the edge of the roofs that covered the galley and mess rooms.

Caragol, who was standing in the door of his dominions, raised his hands to his hat.

When the yellowish and evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing there, scratching the top of his head, bare and red.
"It's nothing!" he cried.

"Just a bit of wood that drew a little of my blood.

Fire away!...