He finds he's consistently tardy to these gatherings and it makes him wonder if perhaps he's chosen a poor place to bunk. Maybe his crack in the mountain that he calls home sweet home is actually a piece of shit, available only because no one wanted it in the first place. It seems cozy enough, but maybe that little shawl of comfort is actually the oppressing blanket of solitude, his dwelling too far back, behind, somewhere, that he can't here the fucking bugles that summon them all down from on high.

Or maybe he's just a lazy prick that likes to sleep in because fuck the cold when you're snuggled in a tight little ball of your own body heat and flatulence.

Öde continues to muse over his poor choice of living conditions and habitual delays to matters of import as he trudges down the snowy bank towards the unmistakable presence of their god. As he moves, his shuffle faintly hurried, the great weight of his manhood heaves between his thighs, jostling him back and forth with an unpleasant allegiance towards physics. He winces at one point and slows, griping as he reaches behind his back and fusses with his wolf's cloak. His attempts are seemingly unsuccessful as nothing appears to change and grumpily he continues on his way, rear end awkwardly waddling to reduce the pendulum force of his hefty sack. Between his appendages a thin leather strap sways with a merry freedom. Öde couldn't quite get his jockstrap on all the way today.

A bit like running out of the house with one pants leg not all the way on, so Öde slides into the meeting, nearly bumping into @Wessex. "Psst," Öde sharply whispers to her, head swinging around to eye the lady. "Mind helping me out?" he then swings the other way, providing his rumpage and the flapping strap for easy access. All his lovely herdmate would have to do is grab the strap and finish threading it through the one end of his wolf's cloak, securing it into place.

Meanwhile, Öde took this opportunity (now that he's settling into the crowd), to gaze appreciatively at the God of the Spark. Viewing their deity would be something he could never tire of, and even now he unknowingly let out a wistful, sort of longing sigh, much akin to a school girl batting her eyelashes at the teacher she's crushing on.

Then, a knowing sort of little smile curls at the edges of Öde's lips. If Wessex hasn't already grabbed his jockstrap, the leather piece still floating free will surely give a minor jump.

because what happens in the haruspex cave
stays in the haruspex cave