In Dire Straits

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The Omega awoke with a gasp, lungs heaving as he shook himself awake. Flashes of teeth and snarls and laughter rang in his ears, the large man trembling as he remembered where he was. Inaria's homely scent flooded his nostrils, assisting in calming him enough to stand on not so shakey legs. The moonlight illuminated the ground, the Healers garden a peaceful place even in the dead of the night. The Omega padded quietly toward the stream, dunking his face in the fresh water before pulling his head back with a brisk shake.

A shuddering breath left him as he focused on breathing. Though his ears twitched as he heard another figure out. Anxiety spiked at the thought of running into Haylyn or Ghost out here alone, but it was perhaps one of the only friendly faces he'd come to know. Quietly, he'd pad closer and enquire, the doctor looking as exhausted as he felt.

"Doc? You okay?"

Setebos loomed in the garden, as hunched and wilted as a willow branch in the still night skies.

He was awake for the same reasons that he was awake every other night, and as was his habit, as always, he returned to the garden. Work filled up the nights of uselessness. Work made him feel less lazy and pitiful, even on days when he didn't want to do anything but lay in his den and tremble at the whole miserable world. He tore up weeds. He planted. He watered. When there was no need for any of those things, he patrolled in circles and pretended that gave him permission to react to his own fear. This always happened in the night and he was so sick of it, to the point that during the daytime as he watched the sun sink below the treeline, he was overcome with the need to vomit.

"Shit," Setebos cursed under his breath. The basket he was carrying between his jaws slipped and clattered to the ground. Lavender buds spilled along the dirt dirt dirty dirt and in his mortification, he could not comprehend just how many of them there were, it was as if they exploded from their container. He snapped his teeth angrily, cursing his own tremulous body, his eyes darting between the fallen basket and its strewn contents. Start over, he told himself, brush them back inside and keep going - BUT, comes the retaliation in a disciplinarian's lash, THEN IT WILL BE CONTAMINATED. DO IT OVER. THROW IT OUT. PICK SOME MORE.

IS THIS WHAT THEY'VE FUCKING DONE TO YOU? HAVE THEY MADE YOU INCAPABLE OF DOING YOUR FUCKING JOB--

"Doc? Are you okay?"

Setebos wanted to face Kieran with perfect calmness, and if he numbed himself to his own reactions, he could almost convince himself that the jolt that passed through him was so unnoticeable that Kieran did not see it. It was dark, after all. He set aside the basket on the ground, the ruined herbs, the voice in his head, the uncontrollable chattering of his teeth and the twitchiness of his muscles. He swallowed, and the answer that came from his mouth was placid, businesslike. Not clipped or a desperate distraction from the obvious.

"You should be getting some rest," he said. Kieran was his patient. He was a good doctor. This had not hindered him in the slightest.

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Kieran was a big man, bigger than Setebos in both stature and weight. While he didn't feel intimidated by the other man, there was a distinct feeling of being so much less. Inaria's hierarchy had been in place for years and years since its conception, rules that didn't account strength and resilience. It counted the mind, it counted ones actions. It felt like Kieran would carry the weight of his sons words forever, the words of his ex-wife forever. He had no power here, the lowest on the food chain. While the Omega didn't lust for power, he pined for some measure of security. But this was his price, and it hung heavily over his head.

"You should be getting some rest."

Setebos was a new face in Inaria, but one that Kieran was growing accustomed to seeing more and more often. It eased the stinging anxiety that he might run into Ghost or Haylyn, or another of their loyal followers looking to throw him to the ground. The Fringe Dire was a big man, but he felt smaller than the lavender bristles that scattered on the ground. The scent was... soothing at least. It reminded him of the grizzled, scarred doctor before him. Earthy scents followed the Medic, due to his work and his natural scent of... him. "So should you." He'd grunt, not unkindly. A large paw attempted to roll some of the spilled stalks toward the basket in an effort to help. A clumsy lion paw that hindered more than helped in the endevour.

"... You're up real late to be picking up lavender, Doc. Can I help?"

You can't do anything else, can you Kieran?

Kieran~

Setebos

Kieran~