[Carlisle blinks, his eyes widening, brow furrowing as he realizes he might have been more forthcoming than he meant to be. He glances Reynir's way, the corner of his mouth twisting into the beginnings of a lopsided, nervous smile, but upon seeing the earnestness in his companion's eyes, he finds it harder to be anything but truthful, his facade failing. He looks back toward the sheep, using it as an excuse to avert his eyes.]

I was. Still am, I suppose.

[He used to hide his affliction, lest people judge him before even knowing his name; now he uses his affliction to hide what he is. It's so much easier to talk about his condition now that he has worse troubles to deal with, and he'd rather claim to be ill than undead, affected rather than an abomination in a human skin.]

It is a curse, a rare condition that has defined my existence, and despite everything, continues to do so. I did not always wear a veil, you see.