They stand, rank and file. Millions of roiling humans, shining teeth and lies back up at the moon. The moon shines down on this army of ignorant, ignoble, impossible and impugnable sinners but amongst them there is so small a soul that the greater mass takes no notice.
This small soul wanders twixt their kness and picks the pennies they drop . Each plink is as thunder to this small soul. The lies spewing forth from their deadly jaws is as rain and blackens every single thing.
And stooping, this small soul notices not the phalanx of shadows rising from the eyes of the assembled. This small soul, in search of copper riches stops in its tracks as at first it hears one click, one small click then one-hundred thousand in unison sounding for all the world like a man being hit with a stick.
As this little soul looks up he sees now that the clicks that he heard most likely was this mob clapping their traps. With horror he sees these great beastly things are all decked, besmocked in the panoply of war.
From a shinning row of tridents this little soul makes its way, out of the crowned crowd and climbs a little hill. And looking back sees rows and rows of sheild and axe and sword; of gun and hat and grenade.
Billowing winds shove this little soul over the hill and into a valley. Climbing back like a little tyrant who has not yet had his say this little soul crests again the hill and looking down sees only pennies. Silvery pennies under blackest moon.
 "someoneempty")