He came to those who were his own, but his own did not receive him. They drove him out, outside the gates, exiling him among the sick, the perverted, the disgusting, the damned. And there he made his home. None would have noticed except for the outbursts of life that began to occur in incorrect places. They were regularly stifled, and attacked when necessary. This was often so.
What made for the most consternation was the occasional person who would wander outside the gates and be found by him, or those who claimed to be his people. Sometimes these wanderers were themselves driven outside the gate. Most often they simply happened to go that way. But once in a great while he or his alleged friends would find them, wandering outside the gate and bring them into their hovel. For reasons unknown some of them would claim to have been housed in mansions beyond count, and to have been fed, clothed, and liberated from the weight and pain of all things. The mud on their clothes betrayed their delusions.
Most returned, happy to be received back inside the gates. The charcoal fires keep warm there, and the smell of food is never lacking. But some still wander outside the gates. Few know why. Less care.