[size=9pt]/ im subscribing for more relatable content

Moon's been avoiding the Cleric's Hide. It's been so empty, lately, what with the whole lockdown scandal, and it's a horrible place to be when he's alone. The silence soaks into his fur and makes him feel cold and he'd never learned how to stare at inanimate objects and think about feelings and emotions and regrets. He doesn't cope well with thoughts rushing through his head and dragging him down, and it only ever leads to nights filled dreams more vivid than usual, so he doesn't stay there. He upsticks and gets the fuck out for the day.

He goes on border patrols and sits at the door of the Observatory, to shout through the iron in hopes they can hear him and spare him a moment to chat. That, or greet newcomers. In his current state, however, it's all more exhausting than he'd care to admit. So when the sun is slowly sinking on the horizon and his paws are starting to drag, he comes home to the Hide. Usually, he dreads the emptiness of it all, and the only thing that makes him return are the poppy seeds and their promise of some shuteye. Today, however, there's someone there.

"You serval fuckers don't get boundaries, do you?" He says, once he's startled slightly at the sight of the pure white creature in the corner. Fucking Isidore. "Caught red handed, again, Birch-stealer. I'm starting to think you're doing this for attention." Grumbles the lion as he carries himself towards the window sill, where he drops his make-shift bag from his neck, alongside some new herbs. He roots through his bag as he speaks, picks the keys to the closet up and settles them in plain, teasing sight as he slumps against the wall. He heaves a sigh, drags one paw down his face as he speaks. "So. How many poor, innocent Medics have you burgled before me, criminal?"

[size=9pt]Moon casts a doubtful look Isidore's way. Somehow his claims didn't seem so innocent. He lets him speak, however, and takes the moment to drink in some water from the dish on the window sill, like the overheating african golden retriever he was. He drew his tongue over his lips and looked back to the white serval, who looked all too happy with himself. "Yeah, yeah, yeah-- just learn how to knock.." He says, as stands and heads towards the shelving unite, where they keep the herbs that need water sustainance. He drops his gatherings in the various bowls. "With that fancy fucking name, surely you know basic etiquette." Eitquette. Huh. With twigs in his name, dirt on his face and the manners of a 6 year old punk, Moon was at his most hypocritical, at that moment. But he wasn't the one breaking and entering.

He turned back around to see Isidore revealing a journal. Frowning gently, he watched it slide towards him, weary. It stopped at his paws, and he glanced to Isidore, the journal, and back up again, before he finally reached for it. He flicks through it, paws surprisingly careful as he pages through it. "Huh." says the lion, eloquent as always, "I was kinda' expecting some weird kinky still-lifes, but this is... Good." He pauses, flicks through another few drawings before deciding, with lips pursed to the side, that maybe he should just let him look at the fucking herbs. God knows if Imperia, technically his superior, were here, she would have ordered him long ago to stop teasing and just open the goddamn closet. So he does.

"Fine." He says, dragging it all out as he rolls his eyes to the sky and, as slow as ever, makes his way from the ground towards the closet. He finally lifted the keys in his mouth and opened the treasure chest. The doors swung open dramatically, revealing an array of various plants, herbs, and flowers. "There you go. Van Goo's wet dream."

[size=9pt]If Moon could hear what was going through Isidore's head, he'd be quick to correct him. In fact, he'd probably berate him with compliments and approval until he realized how good he was. He didn't like to see self deprecation. He's all too familiar with it; it's not something he puts up with, when it comes to others.

But he couldn't, so, instead, he only squints at the serval's facial expression and hopes what he thought was going through his head wasn't actually going through his head. Then the closet doors are open, and they're focusing on the plants inside, instead, so whatever suspicions he'd had are quickly forgotten. He quirks a brow at Isidore's words, one side of his lip pulling up in a questionable facial expression. "Seriously?" he says, pausing a moment for dramatic effect. "You don't know what any of these plants are. And you were that fuckin' eager to get this open?" He scoffs a laugh, shakes his head and glances back to the closet. So much for thinking he was in the presence of someone who knew their shit. Golden eyes scan the shelves, and he mutters herb names under his breath absentmindedly as he searches for one he thinks might be interesting to draw.

"Here," he says, removing the two he'd chosen with gentle paws. He sets the borage flowers and the honeycomb down on the windowsill, on top of a piece of cloth, and then steps back, as if to admire it. He's trying to get two that go well together, complementary colors or whatever the fuck, but Moon's never really had an artist's eye. At least he doesn't think so. He lifts one paw to his mouth, the one now coated in honey, and promptly sucks it off. "So," says the lion, settling down against the wall and setting Isidore with an expectant look. He doesn't know if he's disrespecting some universal art rule not to speak to the artist while they're working, but he feels like he's done his part in the creative process, anyway. Enough to earn him some answers. "Where'd you come from, tortured artist?"