The softness and concern in Ianchus' voice is so foreign that it takes Carlisle by surprise; he casts a glance over his shoulder, his eyes aglow with an unnatural light that hadn't been there when they spoke last... or perhaps it had been, but nowhere near as bright as it is now, so vibrant that the true color of his eyes is completely lost. For all anyone knows, they are likely as grey as the rest of him, his hair devoid of hue, his skin so pale it might as well be white.

"Ah. You."

That's not an accusatory jab, but a remark of quiet acknowledgement, of recognition. He doesn't quite remember Ianchus' name, but he knows his face and the barbs they've tossed at each other well enough. He turns away, pawing at the stain across the middle of his tabard -- another new addition.

"Are you here for a reason? To visit those who have gone missing?"