Beneath the falling sky the whites of eyes appear at the far edge of the enormous field before us. I and the other creatures around me bristle at the sight of those cloaked figures rising up from behind the slope of grass and unsheathing huge blades twinned at either end of a long staff. Every man among them carries one, and with their drawing of these weapons their robes are thrown to the ground. And their natural aspects are made known.

     These are not men beneath their garments but reptiles, eyes paired primatical affront their faces, clawed fingers wrapped around the staffs and spun with skill to make of them a frontline of chopping blades. Fangs are made bare. Musculature flexed beneath scales of darkest green, these lizards trudge naked upon the gluey grass until, halfway across the field, their weapons are tucked to one side and wielded thus at the ready, poised for our stampede. 

     We oblige. Each among our mass of hundreds rears back, then descends, every hoof upon the tarlike earth a cannon, and charges at the lizard men. Many times over they are outnumbered, and yet the bipeds themselves lunge forward and tear across the field straight for us. One man slips on the slick grass and falls forward onto his own blade. His brethren behind leap over his corpse and race on.