Sometimes within the memories of Creoda are reflections of his previous life, his life amongst the humans he once ruled and now barely comprehends, but those memories are fleeting and never remain. Sometimes, his descendants say, he can hear and understand what is said to him, what is needed of him, for he recognises his children the most, seeing - only vaguely - they are his kin and that they need him and his ever-increasing strength. Perhaps, as the whispers go, he understands, too, that he is but a few turns further along the path that Cearl and Penda now tread, and thus sees himself at an earlier age. Even his children, however, cannot control him. They can only ask of him what they will, and Creoda will listen or he will not. It is, as the Wigleras suggest, impossible to predict which part of him is dominant, for the power of Wōden gains greater ascendancy with each passing day and it becomes more and more difficult for a guthwulf as advanced as he to be a part of anything but the hunt in the wilds, the herald of grief and desolation, the call of the Old Gods in this age of darkness and ruin. Ere long he will return to Wōden himself to repay his ancient debt; until then, he answers to the call of war, of slaughter, a call that becomes ever greater as the needs of his sons grow.