Let the Divine Power Sort Them Out

The whir and whistle of missiles formed a weirdly unsettling melody on the bass of detonative percussions. It was an ear splitting racket, but, if you were close enough, you could hear something else. A cheerful clatter of metal on metal, as skilled hands engraved letters and words on shell casings. And a voice intoning an incantation, too solemn and serene to belong into the warlike setting.
And yet, it was the most quiet sound of them all, the soft patter of liquid, that was crucial to the success of this operation.
"The wall is breeched," someone yelled.
Everybody cheered.