[Isaac stares dully at his hands, kneading his wrists, fingers keeping busy to keep from shaking. He's not in the frame of mind to consider the possibility of another freak accident of that sort, or to really care. The whole keep could be overrun tomorrow, blanketed in floury myconid spores, and he'd hardly know the difference when reality and illusion blurred. His blackest thoughts already lie too close to the surface of his mind, and giving some of that pain a voice has only made his throat hurt and his chest grow tighter, as if his body is resisting the idea of finding relief, afraid of him knowing something different.]
I am no fragile waif in need of your protection.
[He rasps, latching onto a different thread of their conversation, one they keep circling back to only to arrive to the same infuriating conclusion every time: that Hector doesn't seem to think he's strong enough on his own.]
Think you that I flit about the castle being waited on hand and foot, fed and bathed and dressed, while others yet fought my battles for me? That I would shrivel and die without your intervention?
[He shoots him a cutting look, baring his teeth.]
I am a devil forgemaster! [Stabbing a finger into his chest:] I bled for this!
no subject
I am no fragile waif in need of your protection.
[He rasps, latching onto a different thread of their conversation, one they keep circling back to only to arrive to the same infuriating conclusion every time: that Hector doesn't seem to think he's strong enough on his own.]
Think you that I flit about the castle being waited on hand and foot, fed and bathed and dressed, while others yet fought my battles for me? That I would shrivel and die without your intervention?
[He shoots him a cutting look, baring his teeth.]
I am a devil forgemaster! [Stabbing a finger into his chest:] I bled for this!