Showering the grounds around the chateau with glowing cinders, the slag-hued cloud writhed and twisted like a living thing as it climbed toward the heavens.

The white cloud coiled and twisted like fat transparent white maggots.

She rose, a cloud of glass shards ascending with her, twisting and turning in dreamy slow motion.

Those patches of light and darkness floating overhead shifted, clouds of illusion to twist the senses.

Even by the end of the first verse, the dark clouds were twisting back, and the lightnings turned, and white bolts flashed toward the dark singers.

The clouds over the University glowed, twisted into fascinating and unexpected shapes, and streamed upwards.

The clouds above them shimmered and twisted themselves into a fleecy Cheshire cat grin.

The clouds twisted in the virtual wind, forming wraiths for an instant before collapsing back into mist.

The clouds boiled and twisted overhead, and thunder rumbled across the battlefield like a funeral dirge.

The clouds were twisting, spinning, leaving a silvery hole all the way up to the blue sky, and there was a sound that you might get if you took a roll of thunder and stretched it out thin.