Fear itself

SUMMARY: Chay and Rona chat outside the Soldier's Defense about recent events, the Plague, and the insidious nature of fear. Rona inadvertently triggers Chay's panic attack and does what she can to help him recover.

Yelrona has been spending more time than she likes, lately, at the Soldier's Defense. Initially it was investigating this new plague -- or, well, curse, anyway -- that's been infesting Alexandria, but that has given way to ministering to the sick. Not that she's much of a healer, at least not compared to the professionals, but sometimes what people in hospitals need almost as much as medicine is humor, and that she can provide in spades.

Still, there's only so much of that a girl can take, and right now Rona is appreciating the park as a place of respite. She is currently sitting cross-legged in a patch of bluebells, carefully picking out weeds as she cheerfully talks to... well, to the flowers, it seems?

"No sers, one has not heard anything." Extricating himself from a group of Alexandrians is a tall, lean sith-makar. Chay wears his duster, and has his hands out in front of him. Palms upwards, as he backs away.

He has a copy of the paper folded underneath an arm. It boasts yesterday's headline, with of course, grand set type proclaiming PLAGUE HITS ALEXANDRIA! Today, it probably might read, MYSTERIOUS PLAGUE STILL UNSOLVED.

"...and THEN she decided that no, she didn't need the bloody thing after all, and I haven't heard from her since! Can you imagine? I'm telling you," Rona continues chattily, "you guys have the right idea... just put down roots. All this moving around is more trouble than it's worth." She changes position to address a different patch of dirt and catches sight of Chay backing away from the crowd, and rolls up to her feet. "Everything OK?" she asks as she approaches.

So OK, maybe she's a little protective of the Sith-makar... understandable, given how they met.

"Good day to you, sser," Chay says, and, "Peasse to your nesst," is added shortly thereafter. He looks down at the paper underneath his arm, then. And wordlessly, hands it to her. It crinkles faintly as it's passed, but no more than the wind would cause.

He's quiet after that, the wind picking up. Tugging at collars and coats. He gestures eventually, towards the bluebonnets, and invitation to sit?

Yelrona takes yesterday's paper, scans it lightly. She read it yesterday, as she does most days... not that it's the most reliable source of information about what's going on in the city, necessarily, and often it prints straight-up lies, but it's still useful to know WHICH truths and lies are being published. Still, this is Chay, who is not among the most straightforward communicators she knows, so as she accepts the invitation she looks over the paper to see if there's some sort of subtle message being conveyed.

"This plague certainly is something," she says as she sits... inane, perhaps, but unarguably true, and in any case more of a conversational overture than anything else. "I mean, if you can call it a plague when it isn't contagious. Still, it certainly is spreading quickly."

Chay settles among the flowers. His tail flicks to one side, along one long ankle. The coat, he's removed, and lays across his knees. "...that is true, sser. Perhaps...perhaps it is the name that catches the attention. One has not seen thiss level of panic ssince...ssince one left the Charneth."

He seems to force himself to take a slow breath. To let go the air, to take it back as he looks over towards the crowd he'd just escaped from. "One knew...sser, one knew, but did not understand, what a powerful motivator fear is, sser. The things it does to the mind."

The paper covers a number of tales--the PLAGUE! is first and foremost. Along the back, are ads for new businesses, announcements. Another young knight, proposing marriage to Lady Sandiel, Professional Damsel in Distress.

Yelrona nods, regards Chay searchingly for a long moment, nods again. "It is," she agrees. "Especially when we live with it over long periods of time, when we get used to it. It... has a way of corrupting the soul." She pauses again, then continues "A sage at the Fernwood was telling me the other day that most people's greatest fear is of public speaking. Which seems odd to me, really... it suggests that the average person attending a funeral would rather be in the casket than performing the eulogy."

A flick of the tail, and a look towards the flowers. "Perhaps the casket is quiet, sser. One...one does not suggest one agrees, only that perhaps, one may find understanding." Wind stirs the flowers, faintly. The air, despite PLAGUE, smells tender and sweet. He leans forward, and sets his hands upon his jacket, upon his knees.

"...and perhaps, there was no fresh coffee this morning, ser," he says hesitatingly, with a touch of wryness.

Yelrona laughs, not unkindly. "Well, _that_ problem we can fix," she observes. "Though I'd suggest not getting coffee anywhere near the Temple District. My flock can be a little... um... enthusiastic, today," she admits sheepishly. "Which might explain why I'm here and not there, come to think of it. Anyway, the pepper-in-the-coffee gag is unfortunately popular this year. "

She lets the silence sit with them for a bit, then places a hand gently on Chay's. "Seriously, though: is there anything I can help with?"

"So one hears, s-s--" the stream is interrupted as he glances down. Had he hairs, they would stand on end--and the sith-makar snatches his hand away, rolls, ducks in a hunter's movement. One could expect a scream--

--yet it doesn't come, this time. Instead, a long, low hiss. Oh, he doesn't see her, but the monstrosity he stares at, wide-eyed, teeth bared. BACK. AWAY.

Yelrona remembers, too late, the Sith's dislike of being touched, and pulls her hand back. "I'm sorry... I forgot," she admits, as soothingly as she can, taking care to remain seated and maintain a non-threatening body language. "There's no danger here, my friend. Well, none that needs immediate defense, in any case. And none from me." More wryly she adds "And perhaps it's just as well that there was no coffee?"

Screeeeeeeeeee... The teeth baring is new. New. One could have said as early as a week ago he'd scream--and perhaps he still might, as the sith's chest heaves, as the air moves out and in from him as from an overworked bellows.

Screeeeeeee... Chay stares, look flicking from her, to the flowers, to the side--to the side. To the sky. An attempt to see all places at once.

Yelrona begins humming tunelessly, attempting mostly unsuccessfully to achieve harmony with his hissing. It probably doesn't help, but honestly she's not sure what would. All she knows is that the worst thing she can do is mirror his threat-display, instinctive as such a reaction is. And that avoiding sudden movements is probably a good idea. So she sits, attempting to model a calmness she doesn't feel, and hums.

The eyes flick--orange irises focusing on the flowers. On the...noise, coming from them. Chay settles into a crouch, an animal-thing, with his arms tucked in front of him. His poor coat lies rumpled, that gift he'd so treasured, been so proud of. ...gradually, he slides his arms up, wraps them around his knees.

He doesn't move past that, doesn't seem to. He stares at nothing. Occasionally, blinks at her. Stares at nothing.

Yelrona breathes evenly, continues humming. It's possible she's trying to be tuneful now, though to be honest it's hard to tell the difference: her mother has a great musical talent, but in this as in so many other things she takes after her father. She plucks a bluebell from the soil and places it carefully between them.

Chay shifts. The sith-makar hugs his knees, and blinks at her. Really blinks. Really, it's him. And then...then perhaps realizing that, drops his arms to his sides--because a hunter cannot ever be caught unawares, cannot ever be caught in an imbalanced position.

He shifts, and moves weight to the side of one leg, where one might move, more quickly. Easily. "Pease," he says then. Deep breath. "Peasse to you. One's apologies, sser. I...what was it you were saying? The coffee?" he asks, voice tremuluous.

Yelrona shifts as well, though slowly. "No apologies needed," she replies gently. "I'm sorry, myself... I forgot." She smiles ruefully. "We were talking, ironically enough, about fear." She laughs, more at herself than anything else. "May I buy you some tea?"