The suggestion must have made some sense, as it gives Carlisle pause; after a quick glance Pratt's way, he stares into the mug, considering it.

"That is an idea," he notes. "I had thought that the tea I'd tried before hadn't worked because I lacked the proper plants, and that may be a part of it, still... but with this not working, I believe you are right. There may be more to it, and an enchantment may be the answer. Perhaps such concoctions do not work on the living, and more is needed to make them affect a man who is otherwise."

Determined to rule out just outright drinking it, he brings a finger to the top of his mask, hesitating for only another moment before he gives it a tug, drawing it below his chin. Pratt knows what must be beneath there, he reminds himself: ink stains trailing all the way from his eyes to his jaw, matching the one on the side of his mouth where the skin isn't torn away; a completely missing nose and dried, dusty musculature, the layers of his skin worn all the way to the bone closer to his teeth; a dull light glowing from the depths of his throat, a sign of the magic that keeps him alive -- or some semblance of it.

He avoids the deputy's eyes all the same as he brings the mug to what remains of his lips, taking a sip.