These men are merely figments, trailing through the valley, toes treading the rocks and pebbles and sharp little fragmented shells of water beasts, floating in the saturated streams and grass, guts bloated, carrying on the stillbirth of an ancient dead life.
Don’t fear them, I suppose, as they organizedly march on to some delighted drum beat and trumpet, maestro’d by star charts, wandering the planes plainly. Fear the winnowing thresher that cleaves their destinations, scattering these billets to splatter into the yearning void, bereft of all content.
I would tie them up, barricade their souls, should you find them. I would kick them into the corner of the universe with the heel of your boot and let the drains make of what they will.