All that exists in the great skies is larger than human comprehension. It is only through numbers that we comprehend them, an abstraction of their true scale and majesty. The feeling of approaching even the moon, the smallest of all of the many astral bodies near the Earth, is exclusive to the lucky few who leave the protective shell of her atmosphere. Granted, it isn't nearly as exclusive as it was back in the Age of Invention, but the sheer scale of the moon is enough to humble even the most prideful of individuals- what humans could not even seek to do, nature did. It is small in the sky, but a great deal larger in person.

Those bodies extend even to the New World, albeit they could be considered quite different from the ones back home. The impossibly large 'planet' that is the Greater Plane spirals around a distant sun, and around it spirals a not-so-distant moon. It still obeys the laws of nature, if perhaps a bit less rigorously than the Earth does. From the perspective of the humans crawling on the surface of the New World, it may even appear to be the same sort of beast. Naturally, that isn't the case, but they can't know that. They may never even find out. It's not easy to see the big picture when you are a mote of dust carried in the wind.

The New World's surface was bathed in sunlight. Then, it was deprived of it, only provided the glimmer-light of what managed to bounce off its moon. Consecutively, it was made bright once more- and then dark- and then so on and so forth. An eternal cycle. Relative to the Walled City of the outer reaches, time seemed to pass fast. It was weeks, and then a month. The little conquerors were not the only members of the newest race to survive, though. Quite to the contrary. On this particular day, nearly a hundred were gathered, wading knee deep or waist-deep through a never-ending swamp. They were the picture of a tribe, as though stolen straight from the Paleolithic era, covered in fur-wraps and loincloths and brandishing spears tipped with the claws of some animals they had hunted.

Naturally, that wasn't the case. They were modern humans, people lifted from cushy lives and dumped in a great deal of danger without warning or preparation. They had survived their dangers, one and all, and this group of about 110 was all that was left of nearly eight different 'pods'- under half of the total number that they had arrived with. Naturally, some of the groups had twenty or more survivors, while the worst of the bunch merely had three. They had all been gathered into this group, quite willingly. It was a semblance of civilization, and it was led by a semblance of a leader. It was almost like being people again, not just animals fighting to live just one more day.

James was not a leader. He was a pretty worthless human being, actually. He spent his 32nd birthday alone; he spent most of his time playing VR games, and he had hardly seen a woman naked, if you discounted his mother. He had let himself go, since his shitty part-time job didn't necessitate fitness, and he had been severely overweight by the time he was 'abducted'. In many ways, it had actually been a good thing for him. He had been safe and alive, but he hadn't been living. Not really. The prospect of being dumped into a setting like this, though? He had lost weight by necessity. He earned the respect of his group in a number of ways. They had been placed in an abandoned cave below the flood-lands, with only a few chutes of light and air to breathe through. Food was limited to the last remnants of the little termite-things that had dug the cave, the few invalids that hadn't followed their swarm on to the next nest.

He hadn't eaten them. He willingly abstained, eating away his fatty reserves (and a fair deal of muscle, but he even tried to keep up a regimen despite the pain in his gullet, which helped). He was a perfect gentlemen to the women, and when their dignity had been put in jeopardy by some of the bachelors and older teens who were 'pent up', he was the first to set them straight. Discussion and fisticuffs- James could hardly believe that he remembered how to throw a solid right hook, but for some reason, his memory was working excellently- and some light ribbing was all it took to get things in a line. He came up with a schedule that would allow the guys some time to 'relieve themselves' and strove to find a more peaceful way to court the ladies that were interested. Dating in a dark cave with no clothes while near-starving was, unsurprisingly, much harder than it had been back at home.

It was the most alive he felt in a long time. It felt like he was a therapist, a monk, and that one cool mayor everyone in town liked, all rolled into one. When someone finally worked out how to leave safely without drowning everyone, they had looked to him to make the call. They got out of their little cave, out into a flooded wilderness of danger at every turn. It was everything James could have hoped for- in a game. They had been one of the few groups to leave with all thirty members intact, but to the current point in time, only ten of his initial 'pod' were left alive. Frankly, he wasn't proud of that survival rate, but it was about the best they could have hoped for. There were wolves that blended in with the water like it was natural- the kind that they got their spears' claws from. The few patches of actual dry ground tended to be guarded by insects and critters they'd rather not fight with, and in the infinite expanse, there were even fish that acted like sand-sharks, swimming low and quiet before taking off toes, an entire foot, or even dragging someone small enough away. They had lost a child like that; the mourning was as terrible as the loss. It was something they had forgotten how to do in the perpetually-safe grip of modernity.

They had rescued group after group, stumbling on them in the wild or still in their incarceration. As the group grew in size, they gained momentum. For all intents and purposes, they were all normal people, including and especially Mister Moses, which some of the kids had started to call James. It was a pretty popular nickname, actually, and even a chunk of the adults liked to call him that now, too. He had been quite clear with his intentions- to find somewhere that they wouldn't be so mercilessly murdered or where they wouldn't starve or fall ill. They had extrapolated that to the 'Promised Land', which was spoken of in the Old Testament. Christianity had fallen by the wayside in the modern era, but he was surprised to learn that of those who had been 'abducted', quite a few of the pods were from the Midwest, which was having a bit of a religious renaissance. He himself wasn't very interested in religion, but he didn't mind the nickname. If they needed a 'Mister Moses', he just had to deliver. He had to be more than he used to be, something greater. The need for recognition burned just as strongly in him as any need to survive did.

They walked, and walked. They rested when they could, they speared monsters when they came. He got better at directing the group, and at keeping them happy and healthy. He 'tended the flock', as another of the Midwesters termed it. It was something between a passion and an obsession, but since it meant that more people lived and everyone felt just a little better about their situation, no one seemed to care. They had just walked right along with him, happy to be going somewhere, even if it was pointless. Things were going reasonably well, all that time. They had walked for well over a month. He ignored the whispers of 'forty nights', insisting that it was more important to keep moving. The morning had gone normally enough, even if the religious sort- and the newly converted- seemed especially agitated. When the sun hit its zenith, though, things changed. Two big things happened that day.

They had walked and walked and reached an impressively open patch of water, one that didn't have any vegetation or algae poking out of the water, even. They hadn't seen anything like that, before. When they approached, a massive shape sprung from it.

James had never seen a dinosaur in person, but he figured this is what it would have really looked like. It was dripping with the lukewarm waters of the floodplain, scales shining in the light as the water passed over it. It had a massive spine on its back that had been furled down until it stood, and now its massive jowls hung open, inviting them inside. Sharp teeth were cram-packed into them, and above the mouth, it had sharp, reptilian eyes. It had impressively long arms- and longer claws, with three long fingers on each 'hand'. It roared, tipping backwards, tail swinging wide from side to side. He had been pretty sure that the latest digests insisted that the Spinosaurus did not, in fact, exist. That it was a misidentified mixture of skeletons, or a specific species, or something like that. They were dead wrong. To their defense, they had never had one pop out of the water and roar at them.

He scattered the group, shouting orders. They circled it, at quite a distance, spears at the ready. The giant lizard swung down, aiming to take him out. He really hoped that it was just going for him because he was in front of it, and not because he looked tasty, or worse still, because it knew he was in charge. He had just bulked up, gaining weight back the right way. If that bit him in the ass he would never even try to get fit again. It clawed where he had been standing as he dashed to the side, and one of the people around him grazed its arm with the spear. Their reactions had improved significantly fighting the water-wolves. He was so proud of them, but now wasn't the time for another 'Kumbaya'. He hustled close to the monster, only to realize that the ground wasn't flat there. It dipped down, and he submerged himself to his waist with a few more steps. Damn.

The Spinosaurus hissed, swinging at him. He couldn't dodge, this time, so he went to 'stance two'- point the business end of the spear at thing leaping, swinging, or otherwise gunning for his life. The spear-head caught the hard flesh and scales of the dinosaur, and it reeled back, while his spear snapped in two under the pressure. He dropped the useless half of the shaft he still held, wading back to shore, hoping to get free of the murky water. It was slow- too slow. He heard a few members of his flock shout "duck" in an impressive chorus, and he only just had time to dive below the water before the dinosaur's head snapped at where his stomach had been. Angrily, it growled, spinning about to attack the annoying morsels who had denied it prey. Its tail slammed into one of them, and he went flying through the air, ragdolling. James got back out of the water, just a head, only to see him go flying. He could only hope that the man would survive. The creature moved forth, leaving the murky depths of the water for higher shore, now ignoring the 'leader' who had put up so much of a fight. It quickly snapped up one of the other little creatures that hadn't been quite so wary, biting it hard until it went limp and dropping it in the water. The blood and flesh was gratifying, but it would have plenty of time to finish the meal later, once the rest were dealt with.

The crowd was terrified. It just ate one of them, like it was nothing. All of the losses in the past had been so much more pyrrhic. Mister Moses, who had only had his head poking out of the water, bellowed. He howled like a beast. It felt like agony and anger and a little bit like fear. More than all of his people-minding and leading, it was the fact he seemed to care about them all that kept their group together. If he was ready to fight the monster over their lost ally, why weren't they? They charged, swarming as well around the dinosaur as they could. A few of the brave even tried the water, stabbing at its heels. The beast swung about furiously, clawing at them and stamping. Its every movement shook the pool, making waves and splashes in the otherwise glassy 'sea' that was the flooded land. No other creature even sought to fight them- indeed, it had been too quiet in the vicinity. They should have seen the signs of the predator. They all had a crash-course in spotting them through this world, no matter how sheltered they had been back home.

The siege started. It was a storm of stabbing and biting and punching and clawing. The beast snapped up another of them, but before it could recoil, one of the hunters shoved a spear so far through its eye socket that it embedded itself, and it screamed in pain. It whirled around, knocking that man off his feet, and it clawed furiously at another. That one didn't survive, and from the way his innards didn't seem to stay 'in' anymore, that was probably for the best. It was a brutal fight, and as they bled and died, so did the beast. It snapped another in two, this time a boy of only fifteen or sixteen who had dared to spear its leg between the heel and the tendon. It cried out, in apparently agony, and it staggered. A young woman had actually climbed the fucking thing, slashing at the spines and stabbing into its back. She punched it and punched it, until finally; it flung her from its back. She landed hard. A man stabbed its scaly neck, hardly getting it deep enough through the skin to matter, and he was rewarded with claws through his guts. The fight raged on.

Dead bodies were strewn everywhere, but when all was said and done, the Spinosaurus had twenty spears embedded in its body, and through blood loss and an awful lot of punctured muscles, it finally topped. It was dying, if not dead. Mister Moses did the honors, jabbing a spear he took from one of the newly dead through its eyes hard enough that it poked out the other side. The fight was over. It had been brief, but deadly. It was the most people they lost in a long time. Forty nights marked the massacre, a trial out of the blue. Now there were about 80 of them.

The group, and indeed James himself, insisted on a serious burial. They stayed long into the evening, wasting valuable travel-time to put the dead to rest. They stripped the Spinosaurus, too, fashioning new spears with those deadly, blood-drenched claws as heads and shafts from the discarded, unbroken spears of the dead and dying. It almost factored into the ceremony, as though their contribution to the beast's death was being remembered in such a way. There were many tears shed, and the group set camp around the reptile's corpse. It was a long evening, far more melodramatic than the optimism he had finally worked them into.

James was busy for hours, just talking to them. A beloved husband, father of two of the surviving kids- and one of the dead ones, at that- had been lost. He grieved with them, sharing some conciliatory tears and remembrances. One of the young adults had left his old mother behind when he died, and she was afraid of what would become of her without his help. He assured she would be cared for, just as she was due, and joked about re-instating 'Social Security' and such trivial memories of home until she wasn't quite so broken. He consoled the surviving half of a pair of star-stricken lovers, a young man who had lost his girl to the beast's angry maw. He was about ready to drown himself, and it took what felt like ages to assure him that Kimberlee- James remembered her name, he made a point of learning them- would have never wanted that. It came in handy; he finally calmed down. The look in his eye wasn't quite right, but if anything, he seemed stronger for it. He'd survive.

Everyone had a story. Old friends, new friends, family, lovers. All of them had lost, somehow, in this fight. It was a disaster. He should have been more careful, more wary. He led them into a trap, and he hadn't even properly apologized. It was a bad show, something that would see them all killed if he wasn't careful. There were fucking dinosaurs running around, apparently. He couldn't be so lax now, or ever again. He didn't plan to recreate the events of 'Reptile Island' with his own group, no matter how great that movie had been. He would be wary of the dangers, more than before. No more dead, no more wounded. He worried himself into a stupor. Even if he was there to console everyone else, there was no one to console him. He had quite liked a few of the people who had died, and now they were just gone. He thought he was used to it, but apparently he hadn't found his Zen yet. That was how he spent his night- mourning, worrying, and terrified. At least, it had been. Then, he felt it. It was more than hearing, like something had been beamed into his head.

"THERE IS A HOME FOR MANKIND", the herald cried. It was as though he was hearing someone yell from a great distance, but it felt so close. It was in his head. He pulled his torso off of the sopping bit of dirt and mud they were all trying to sleep on. Many of the others did the same. They all looked in the same direction- south. He had set them to moving south-west, so much so that it had almost been ingrained in their psyche, but this was different. It was as though someone had set off a beacon, and it was located precisely to the south of their current location. The herald cried out once more into the night, voice pleading and urging, cast straight to each of their brains. Even the few people who had already fallen asleep woke once more, turning to look south, looking hard for the source of the voice that was calling for them.

"THERE IS A HOME FOR MANKIND"