Glacius' ire pours from the Mote, tainting the energies Carlisle is trying to imbibe in; such vehemence riles the clergyman's own channels, and he forces himself to back away from them, lest he be dragged under.

Glacius.

He lets his partner's name rest in a pause, feeling something more akin to trepidation wash over him -- over them both, he's sure. He can sense that uncertainty, but cannot read directly into the icy warrior's thoughts, and so he makes a measured, quiet guess. He's usually the one so embittered, so frustrated out of the two of them -- it's odd how the tables can turn sometimes.

Let us focus on... the now. Your anger is justified, but it must wait. Are you close?

He can feel himself already buckling from exhaustion, his legs too weary to carry him, his energies too thin to support him on their own.