All Odysseus could see was the white hot flash as he answered the question of Zeus to choose between the lives of his men or himself. Full of indignation, fear, nostos, and longing he had stared the king god in the eyes, ignoring his men pulling swords from their sheaths.

"I have to see her."

And all faded into white hot crackles and faint ringing as thunder echoed in his ears. Odysseus could feel the ship giving way beneath him, blearily he could see the dead bodies of men— of comrades bobbing in the water as if sea birds simply wading at the surface. In instinct he clung to a fallen piece of the mast, barely hanging on, and not all their.

For days, or weeks Odysseus did not keep count, the sun beating at his skin to taunt him of lord Helios' cruelty and revenge he and the god king set upon him and his crew. His arms and face red from days in the son, his body cold from the wrath of the wine dark depths. He wasn't even sure he was conscious, half the time he was not. It was a miracle he was still alive by some divine intervention.

As his body, covered in splinters and sun broils landed on the beach, he couldn't even open his eyes, passing out there on the sand. When he awoke his head thrummed, his body ached, but he was clothed. And all he could smell was wine, it was thick in the air, along with the smell of roasted game and fruits. Then the sounds, the chants and songs and the occasional skitter around the cloth tent he was in. As he looked around Odysseus noticed the other "ill" patients mostly drunken and.... satyrs? Where had the gods taken him? All he knew is he needed to get his wits about him before some fool came over and saw him awake, who knew what drunken people would do to him. He'd heard tales of cultists women ripping off the limbs of man, of roasting self respecting people.

He needed out.