You can smell them from over a hundred miles away. You can hear the power of their talon shaped feet pound upon the terrain. The earth shakes under their relentless passage and, as you listen, your legs tremble in fear of their evil intent.

From our vantage point, we stand high upon a rocky mountain top; the only place they’re unable to reach. From the entrances of our caves, we watch a mass of black, hairy bodies gathering on the horizon; a mass that blocks out the light from a new day’s sun. Inside those huge hairy heads, keen minds assess the countryside that hunger forces them to cross. Every tree crumples like dry sticks under their stampede and as the Groundlings charge, all creatures and plants are swallowed up in their relentless pursuit for sustenance.

Soon, they will be passing us by. As they pass, they will look up, their large red eyes glinting like angry beacons. They will bellow at us as they hurtle southwards, sending up huge droplets of saliva from large, gaping mouths. For many hours after their passing, we stay in our caves to avoid their flesh eating viscous. We cover our faces with soft leather to smother the stench of death and decay that they leave behind.

Then as the herd of millions disappear into the twilight, our world falls silent once more. Below us, tall mounds of faeces stand erect on churned dust. When the moon rises again, the Groundlings will be deep under ground to sleep for another one thousand and twenty five days.