[There's a second where Carlisle puts a hand on the sheep's head to try to push it away from his coat, only to remember that this is a dream: that is not his actual tabard, nor is that a real sheep. It's a good thing too, as the sheep is completely uninterested in his efforts, and continues to chew, unperturbed. He sighs, trying to piece together the bits and pieces he's learned about Reynir's strange world. Ghosts apparently eat people, mages are commonly seers, trolls are apparently heard and are possibly undead spirits... and yet, for all the differences, there's this place that reminds Carlisle so much of home that it hurts.]

I was born surrounded by mountains and forests. My affliction meant it best that I not stray far from home. I was already afraid of what lay beyond our estate's walls well before I had reason to be. And being haunted by a place so vast and so cold when I slept, night after night, year after year -- I was done no favors.

[He shakes his head, doing a poor job of hiding his discomfort.]

Did you know that beyond Anchor's walls is a wasteland? So massive, so empty. So much like it.