Red eyes flick open in the dark.
Lungs gasp, choking on dust and cold.

Öde raises from the confines of his earthly tomb, crawling and pawing his way back to the top soil after a year of being furnished by worms and decay. He has spent the seasons like Prometheus, trapped in an eternal cycle of dying and reviving. The difference being that the Greek boy was serving penitence underneath the watchful gaze of his god Zeus, where as Öde had merely been a servant of misfortune and was buried too low for even gods to see - or if they did they thought him only the crust of sleep and flicked him away carelessly.

Not today.

Standing in the depths of a pit, hide so matted with mud and blood and animal piss it has become a part of him, legs quivering so violently they could start their own percussion band, but none of it matters because he is standing. There's a tilt of pride to the way he holds his head, or perhaps it's just frozen at that particular angle. His hair and flesh are matted in a horrific manner best described as gristle. It's the residue from the puncture he sustained in the back of his skull, the simple method of felling an immortal, executed by none other than the bitch Nature herself.

Öde had stumbled, rolled, and finally fallen at the bottom of this pit where a wooden spire waited like a coiled snake, until it struck and then stuck in the back of his brain. There, entwined like quarreling lovers, Öde and the stick had remained for a year. Similar to a light flickering on its last wattage, so Öde's consciousness fluttered around his corpse, torn between the inability to die, and equally the incapacity to live with a stick lodged up his cranium's anus. Only when time and weather (and probably some termites) wore the wood away into splinters, only then was the perpetual stabbing finally able to draw to an end - Öde finally understands the impatience of mares that have to endure the same. He vows never to prolong a climax lest he withdraw like the wood, wet and sloppy with blood and regret.

So he stands, shaking on legs that haven't held him in ages, but he demands they be strong now because fuck if he's going to lay down any time soon. Instead Öde hurls himself against the muddy slope, grimacing and grunting as he buries his tired limbs into the supple meat of the earth. His joints complain but he cries out louder than them with frustration and impatience. He reaches desperately for nearby vines to grab onto, and inches with every bit of body he has, at times crawling on the tip of his nose, breath held against the sludge that pervades his flared nostrils as he does so.

He gets out eventually, more brown than black, and so cold and exhausted he shivers uncontrollably. He's hungry,a nd maybe a little delirious, but fuck it he's alive and that feels good. The hurt and the cold and the hunger only serve to remind him of that, and so as pathetic and shit-sorry as he looks wandering around the Labyrinth, he smiles.

As Öde slogs his way through the underbrush, what parcels of his mind are not consumed by his agony instead wonder over the world he has been absent from. He finds it hard to believe it's truly been a year, and yet there is an unmistakable awareness of watching the seasons turn and finally fold back into each other. He wishes it were merely a dream, a phantom concoction of his depraved psyche, yet he knows better than to assume the greatest horrors lie in slumber. Still, something tangible to prove - ever a mortal's dilemma, this proof...

His train of thought is cut short as a scream berates his ears, and eagerly the red tips of them dive against his mane to muffle the cry. Bewildered his head jerks to the side, horns brandished instinctively, though he's blinking rapidly as he tries to discern what's happening before he gores it. He stares openly at the girl that's sitting square on her ass. She's adorned with butterfly wings, which seems uniquely terrible- butterflies aren't the most capable fliers and their wings are paper thin, surely being enlarged doesn't allow them to carry a horse when they struggle to carry a fuzzy insect?

He might ask her, eventually, but for now a rough laugh chokes its way from his strained maw as her query jabs perfectly on the bleeding scab of truth. The laughter cuts short with his words, "You've seen it then?" Öde asks with a wolfish smile that's all teeth and hunger. "Hell?"

She doesn't seem put off, which is saying something given his current appearance and odor. Instead she creeps forward, an offer on her lips, and soon thereafter her hips too. All this time he'd been playing a gentleman to lure the ladies, turns out all he had to do was roll around in the muck and the mire to get all the mares. Unfortunately her offer isn't appealing, least of all now when hunger and pain pervade his senses. He's a man, but he's also a horse and there are more needs than those of his second head to be met every day. That and Öde isn't much of a sex fiend to start with. He enjoys the hunt, the domination, the ravaging sensation of power, but these are lost on a dame that is more aggressive than him in the bedroom. Perhaps she'd be a choice in a moment of frustration, an easy victory, a warm release on a cold night, but it would likely only stain him with regret the next morning when he remembers all he accomplished was showing up.

Öde minds his manners though, because at least she is kind. "You're sweet to offer-" he pauses, an invitation for her name. "Cleaning up is the least of my worries though, especially in this season." If he gets back home he knows the Basin has hot tubs that he can wash off in, but anywhere else would be an invitation for frostbite. "Just looking to head north," he reassures her, nodding with a more conservative smile.

At her last question Öde's attention drifts instead to the monochromatic behemoth that pervades the scene. A swift grin languishes on Öde's maw and his neutral features brighten with the true joy he reserves for his family. "And you, brother Volterra," Öde extends in greeting, though is voice is more raw than Volterra would be accustomed to, jarring like rocks and coals from the year of disuse.
His gaze traces the movements of the similarly colored dragon. As always he is in awe of the creature, and reminded yet again of his lack. Where he was once jealous, now he only burns with a hot embarrassment. If it was truly a year he wasted away, how much further has Volterra grown now? He certainly looks more muscular, if Öde was really to think about it.

At his brother's question Öde grimaces. The humor he feigned for the girl withers beneath the truth of it all now that he shares with his kin. What happened? Nothing good.
"I was trapped," he rasps, his gaze distant even as it stares at Volterra, remembering his imprisonment. "Left to rot where no one goes, no one notices. So it has been since last Frostfall, by the grace of the gods." He snorts derisively, then shakes his head, the bloodied crown on his nape clear with the movement.

"Anything of note that transpired in my absence?"

She continues to flirt, undeterred, or perhaps just oblivious to his little hints. He lets them slide though, too distracted by the approach of his kin and the talk they engage in. She listens though, and her demeanor alters, granting her a bit more personality than a talking, winking, vagina. Öde glances over at her for this, nodding at her exclamation, his red gaze drifting back to Volterra when he retorts similarly.

"Aye," Öde confirms, hoping to settle their disbelief with his stone-faced confirmation. He understands - it doesn't make sense on the surface, not really, and trapped is putting it lightly. Öde isn't sure how much to share though. He's never entirely... explained his magic. Partly because he's been figuring it out as he goes, and partly because no one has completely asked (the Time God did once, but he didn't need to, so Öde didn't really answer). He wonders, his mind still sharp even if his body is decayed - is there worth to keeping his secret?

These ponderings dissipate as the butterfly begins to speak again. She retains her controlled posture and calmed talk, the lust drained away with understanding. He smiles kindly at her name, and the gesture broadens as Volterra divulges her capacity. I bet she'd like to check me over, Öde muses humorously. Further than that though, Öde noticed Volterra speaks of her with a familiarity that Öde can't quite place, especially given how they mostly ignored each other before. Maybe Volterra had been a previous patient? Healers have no lack of allegiance to the wounded.

"If you've got the healer's touch Myrrine, I'm afraid it won't work on me. If you've the knowledge of herbs though, I'd be grateful for any which might numb me." Öde tilts his head in a gesture of polite thanks. "Grazing and water would certainly do a trick to help too," Öde agrees, thankful as his red stare holds Volterra. He's an intelligent stallion, more so than Öde remembers; the scars on his pelt suggest he still favors battle too.

His brother goes on and shares as asked. That he chooses to reveal his personal growth before the general realm gives Öde a bemused look. He detects a small amount of competition, like comparing dicks, and Öde is drawn up short once more (he's got big balls though, should they ever decide to compare those). "Impressive," Öde compliments, not unkindly, though a smirk matches the Indomitable's.

Volterra's next words are more troubling, and the steady wolf grin falls into a thoughtful frown. "A creature?" Öde asks, selecting that key word. Volterra doesn't say horse, or lion, or god. Why creature? "Does it have a magical voice perhaps?" Öde wonders, taking Volterra's recalling to mean the beast is getting Helovians to do dastardly deeds against their will.

"Can we kill him?"