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[Thrax]

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For Oggaroth, movement was not difficult. He was no shade, wraith, or spectre, whose form could be outlined or detected by magic spell, night sight, weather, or any other such thing. He could only sense that he existed, had the power of thought, and, somehow, possessed the ability to move. It felt odd at first. A simple desire to shift in a direction enabled him to go there, albeit slowly. He could not ascend, but descent was no problem. Material objects, including walls, made no difference although the solid earth stopped him. If he wanted to remain in a place, he did. If he wished to descend, it took only a moment's thought. He mastered movement very quickly. Interesting!

He soon learned that he could not speak, nor make any sound at all, nor move objects, only pass through them. His passing did not stir wind or raise dust or snow. Frustrating!

He listened to the conversation among the three men who had brought him to this. He was not angry with them; it was not their doing, of that he was certain. Spells had risks. Who could know that the unbinding would free him but not return him to his home plane? His own powers were not yet restored, he knew, but when they were, perhaps he could get there on his own. It had taken a thousand years to prepare for the journey here, as he conserved his power to make the difficult transition of forms. The contest with Spawn, more of a duel than anything, had left him exhausted even though he had finally overcome the will of that soul. And the battle with the avatar of the goddess Concordia, his most hated foe, left him weaker still. It will take time he reassured himself.

Seeing no reason to remain at the temple, he left it and wandered the wastes of the frozen northlands. Spying a man opening a blue gate portal, he hurried into it, hoping to tag along. It worked! He found himself in Umbra, and he began reacquainting himself with the city and its inhabitants.