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Mindless wandering, swaying with the breeze, repetitive and diminutive tasks, that is now what life consisted of for the once wise bishop. It took them a while to get used to a mortal body again, and even still, somedays their finer motor skills aren't all there. Words are slow and sentences are drawn excruciatingly long, dramatic and unneeded pauses littered throughout simply because they can't remember what they were saying. Things that once came easy, now needing to be relearned all because they had been so entwined with godhood that nothing had hindered them in ages, not even losing their mind.
Eternally bleeding from the skull, thick black ichor and dark red blood soaking through bandages and soiling short purple fuzz, an ancient wound never healing now the only lingering evidence of their past divinity. Every so often memories from that time will play through their mind, simple tasks triggering flashbacks they couldn't fully recall, but still held dear to their heart. The cult's farm brought on thoughts of recklessness and youth, the kitchen felt like temperament and muted affection, the stocks… they didn't much like looking at those.
Lonely, the stocks felt lonely, they felt they needed to do something about that, but whatever it is could be done later. For now they were being gently guided to a tent, it reeked of medicine and ailment, but the scent held a nostalgic feeling to it that quite comforted them. They were sat on a white cot, dazedly humming as someone moved around the room, silently gathering the needed supplies for the much needed change of their bandages.
This was a familiar routine, a weekly ritual at this point if one cared to call it that, bandages were unravelled and a medicinal paste of camellias was applied to their head. Even with the healing concoction being left on for a few moments to absorb into the wound, it wouldn't help, nothing ever did, the bleeding was as forever a part of them as their veins were. It was a nice sentiment though, they appreciated the care and attention nonetheless.
New bandages were wrapped neatly around their fractured skull, fresh blood and ichor already started seeping into them, they were patted on the back, a signal that they were free to go back to the cult grounds. Shamura looked up at their carer and smiled, thanking him for the help before they got up and left the tent to go back to wandering the commune. Three eyes watched them until they were out of sight, still gripping the roll of bandages.