[Carlisle runs a hand through his hair, thinking. Describing the world as pale and cold had been relatively literal, as the undead simply aren't capable of experiencing sensation the same way as the living. Ever since he regained his awareness, Carlisle's entire existence has been dulled by comparison, his human senses limited, nearly replaced by feeling through disturbances in the energies that keep him animated; despite traversing the world of the living, he no longer feels as though he's part of it, constantly reminded he is more creature than man at this point.

But surely Reynir is right, and something can be done. Carlisle may just have a harder time thinking of such things, given his general disposition. It's hard to be optimistic when most things in his life have gone horribly, horribly wrong.]

I... don't know, frankly. I suppose that an occasional distraction from [what he is, what he's done, what things he has yet to do] my thoughts would do me good, whether it is because we are sharing tea, or talking about magic, or just meeting in a serene place like this.