He hobbles in from the southeast, tracing back the path that he had carved out on legs much more eager and capable than the ones he uses now. He follows the trail that he had yet to walk back from the invasion; left behind to rot when the dust and the blood settled, and so he had. Caught in the spear of an angry, wounded bull, Öde had withered and fallen, and there where his blood had pooled his corpse had fed. Little by little he worked himself back into existence, and all the while his soul galloped through the dark with his shadow king.

Öde's mind works furiously over all that they had discussed as he limps back to his stead, not even bothering to waste the time on wondering why he was never sought, never buried, never missed or wondered of. Such pinings were for a boy that he had since outgrown; Oblivion had pulled that last thread of childhood away, exposing the stallion that lurked beneath. This is not to say he would not still lose himself to his temper, or his naivety, but he was now aware of some sense of duty in this world, a task set before him. Follow the blood. Build the faith.

So he moves north, trudging through snow and ice, his life flickering like a candle in the wind as he competes for strength and mortality while a realm of weakness and nothingness beckons him back. His ability to recover from beyond did not automatically mean he was healed, not all the way at least, just enough to function again in life. It hurt, but it was becoming a familiar thing, and there was some sort of comfort in that, however twisted.

He doesn't notice the crowd at first as he struggles past the sentinel, but he notices the absence. Wandering, he finds their shapes in the distance, and there settled into the back to hear out the whole thing. He knew honestly very little of them, and like a priest looking into his church, he recognized now what Oblivion had meant. He needed their worship for his faith, and in order to have that, he needed them, but he didn't have the faintest clue about them, nor they he (no wonder he was left to die). All this rancor spit back and forth was meaningless to him, because the events they spoke of, the names they revered and those they ddin't, they buzzed like words and nothing more.

Only when silence snuck in, when cold had come after all the hot anger had left, only then did Öde step forward, shuffling beside Lena. She was still his mother, in some way, but his eyes were trained on Deimos, a name whom Oblivion had listed. He had a new vigor in him, to see that face and connect it with that name that echoed in the voice of his god. "How can we help the herd?" he asked, then, uninterested in their game of thrones when his eyes were set on heaven.

How can I know my herd? How can I bathe in my blood?

[sleepy post]