Non-Titled

He was cold and wet. It started too long ago, this thing he called life. Nowadays, he traveled with a group of wanderers, all of which were indifferent to each other. There were times when they used to care more, but the location, the paths they walked..all held innate gloom and misery. Tonight he had guard duty with Harren, the youngest of them.

The embers burned, and the wood crackled lightly. As the smoke rose into the air, Harren became uneasy. Everyone was silent here. People only communicated when it was absolutely necessary. That's what made this place depressing. People gathered and worked arduously day and night, into the early morning. The benifits were just meager enough to sustain their misery until the next day of work, hence the cycle continued, unless someone decided to break it. The ones who did died, not at the hands of the group, but the dangers outside of it. This was Mosnia, and that meant danger. Mosnia was often reffered to as Earth's 'dream world'. Some called it Abbadon, the level between 'earth and heaven'. The members of earth who look a little too deeply into life, thoughts, and the possibility of different worlds often end up here. Most of Mosnia's human inhabitants were travelers, turns out some of the secrets of the Bermuda Triangle were true. Time was funny there, and the place drew people of a particular mind and caliber. Mosnia could be found about anywhere, it just took a will to find it.

"Lets get inside," mumbled a tall, emaciated man. For the purpose of the story, we can refer to him as Gren; but know that he has no definite name. He sank into an old cushy chair and poured himself a drink. "Water?" asked Gren. "No thanks. I had my serving already," replied Harren. Gren gave him an earnest look, "Nobody will know, and I know you could use some." Harren nervously reached towards the flask, downing its contents in two gulps. "So, you wanted to hear my story.." Gren fidgeted with two large beads, thinking of what to say next. Harren smiled approvingly. "Yes, I would like to know how you came here, and why you did." So Gren did.

"As you should know, everyone who comes here originated from Earth. I used to live in a large city, and time to time, I wish I was still there. That's a fantasy now, It'd be like going back into a dream. Anyways, I can't go back now."

Gren drew a deep breath. "The world's whatever you make of it, and I wasn't satisfied with that, ever since I could remember. There's a time and a place that we hide behind, and most people are content with the one they're brought into. I was born into an alien, unfamiliar familiar world ...it was completely wrong, I went stark raving mad living there. Did you ever feel like there was a different time you belonged to, a time that you could call your own? Perhaps you felt dispatched and lonely where you were, if only you could've been born centuries, or millenias before hand. These are the first symptons of the sickness. It's what our founders refer to as "Aladis Rane," or, as I like to call it, the Great Abberation. Much like a disease, it infests and germinates within the host, and when the mind can no longer bear it...well, that's when you get here."

Harren looked confused, then angry. "But if every god damn man who felt like he should have belonged somewhere else went here, there'd be hardly any people on earth." Gren was patient, he expected an argument from the start. He cleared his throat, and spoke as if he hadn't been interrupted, "People only arrive at Mosnia after meeting certain qualifications. It takes a special, jaded individual to enter Mosnia's hallowed doors. Only extreme cases of the discontent pass through here, among other requirements I'll come to later. Are you beggining to understand what I'm saying?"

"Not in the slightest," replied Harren. Gren smirked, for the first time in a while. "Clever boy."

Post Prelude

"I can't tell you how it started, because it didn't. Time came in mixed places for me, I had no origin or beggining. My childhood wasn't epic, I was by all means a stereotypical troubled child. Home...home? What did I call home? What is a home? By general definition a home is someplace you can call your own and feel content at. To me, home was just a place I was brought up. I've never felt content with myself regardless of the roof I was under. My mother was a tailor, and my father worked in the office all day. I grew up without talking to him more than twice a month. Like me, he was a sad, problematic man, but he gave in to the crummy corporal position life alloted to him. It was enough to live off of, so that was good enough for him. I forgot their names.....it's been so long.."