Anya was Lost. The world she knew had left her in her wanderings. Now, there was only white. Everywhere she looked was an infinite stretch of nothing and everything, powerful enough to drive a sane mind mad. Anya was not sane, though, and had little to fear. Truly, the sane cannot become Lost, for they are never Found.
Anya swallowed a lump of concern and stretched her mind. She felt reality slowly bend around her, poking at her extremities, feeling out her weaknesses. She felt it in her face and stomach and groin. Everything that was hers was laid bare, but she maintained her self through it all. By sheer will, she forced nothing away to where it belonged. She felt things setlle again, more pliable than before.
Anya smiled. She had been here before. She never knew when she'd find it, and she didn't always enjoy it. But she was finally arrived.
She was in the Making Place.