Fear is never a option, so dying's not a real phobia

Caedes moved through the forest with a mechanical precision, his mind distant and detached from the task at hand. The formidable obsidian colored wolf now seemed a shadow of his former self, his emerald eyes dull and unfocused. Each step was methodical, his powerful frame navigating the underbrush without conscious thought, driven solely by muscle memory. He was content to be away from thought, from wallowing. He did not wish to return to his den. Not yet.

He paused by a patch of moonlit ground, where a cluster of medicinal herbs grew. Without a sound, he lowered his massive head, his nose barely twitching as he identified the familiar scents. With a deliberate, almost robotic motion, he began to gather the herbs, his claws deftly plucking the plants from the earth. His satchel at his side, he sat hunched over as he worked.

The pain and grief that had disturbed him so now felt distant, as if walled off behind a barrier. The vibrant emotions that had surged through him were now muted, leaving only a hollow echo in their wake. He was present, completing tasks, but so utterly unfeeling.