21.Mar.13, 10:54 AM
With every step towards the Healer Hall, Isscer felt angrier and angrier. He was in most cases relatively calm, but the whole incident with Indivara had served to trigger a very real (and very present, to him) fear. It wasn't so much that he was angry at the girl herself, though he thought she had been out of line, more so angry at what she represented. There was no disguising the animosity between the Katilans and the Stolen Northerners, and it was dangerous because now Isscer was afraid he would become a target.
Isscer was very capable of being dismissive, which was his automatic response to just about everything; disengaging tended to work well for him, though it had earned him a reputation as cold. Isscer didn't care what others thought simply because it was what worked to keep him sane, to keep him from going and doing something rash. But Indivara had not given him a chance, pushing the matter via violence, and Isscer was afraid.
She surely had friends in the Weyr, being weyrbred. The boy she'd dragged with her was just one, and Isscer hadn't forgotten his earlier words. Thank Faranath that Isscer hadn't hit her; at least that could be a saving grace should anyone want to avenge Indivara's honor. Despite all the rationalization, Isscer was afraid; his hands shook, stomach nauseous and unsettled. If she and the other Southerners wanted to get back at him, who would stop them? He was just a man who worked with the grain crops who sometimes served as a Candidate--an unhappy man, but more than willing to keep his nose out of Weyr business if it meant saving his own skin.
At least his nose had stopped bleeding on the walk over, rusty brown dried blood smeared down his tunic and over his chin and mouth. Isscer hadn't seen himself, but he felt terrible; at least some numbweed would dull the pain. He stepped into the Healer Hall, peering around for someone who could assist him. "Hello?" His voice sounded ridiculous, what with his nose being blocked, but there wasn't anything he could do about how pathetic he sounded. "A little help, please?"
Isscer was very capable of being dismissive, which was his automatic response to just about everything; disengaging tended to work well for him, though it had earned him a reputation as cold. Isscer didn't care what others thought simply because it was what worked to keep him sane, to keep him from going and doing something rash. But Indivara had not given him a chance, pushing the matter via violence, and Isscer was afraid.
She surely had friends in the Weyr, being weyrbred. The boy she'd dragged with her was just one, and Isscer hadn't forgotten his earlier words. Thank Faranath that Isscer hadn't hit her; at least that could be a saving grace should anyone want to avenge Indivara's honor. Despite all the rationalization, Isscer was afraid; his hands shook, stomach nauseous and unsettled. If she and the other Southerners wanted to get back at him, who would stop them? He was just a man who worked with the grain crops who sometimes served as a Candidate--an unhappy man, but more than willing to keep his nose out of Weyr business if it meant saving his own skin.
At least his nose had stopped bleeding on the walk over, rusty brown dried blood smeared down his tunic and over his chin and mouth. Isscer hadn't seen himself, but he felt terrible; at least some numbweed would dull the pain. He stepped into the Healer Hall, peering around for someone who could assist him. "Hello?" His voice sounded ridiculous, what with his nose being blocked, but there wasn't anything he could do about how pathetic he sounded. "A little help, please?"