Carlisle might not slip further from Glacius, but he certainly does awaken in some form. It's not even a quarter hour that Glacius is in the bathroom when he might feel the slightest of tugs upon the Mote, that sensation that comes with Carlisle drawing strength from it, often unconsciously. It's just a small withdrawal of energy, nothing too severe or alarming; however, given the clergyman's condition, Glacius would have every right to be alarmed from even the barest of activity.
Within the bedroom, Carlisle rises from his slumber, though he is not quite himself.
The clergyman's frame is stiff as he moves, his fingers twitching, limbs barely coordinated as though guided by strings of an amateur puppeteer. His head tips to one side as his legs carry him forward; his footsteps are uneven, but soft, barely audible in the still of the dark apartment. What illumination there is comes not from the lamps, not a single switch flicked on as he proceeds down the corridor -- it shines from his eyes, the glow of them having consumed what characteristics they had, leaving only the intense, unnatural light.
A breath finally escapes him as he reaches the kitchen and stands in the middle of it. Were he animated by only the tattered remnants of his soul and the bitterness of the black bile, he would do as the undead do -- he would seek out others, cause them harm as repentance for what befell him. He would hunger endlessly, his appetite never sated, his sorrow and anger never abating. He could not find rest.
But he is not animated by such foul sources. He drew upon the Mote as he fell asleep, and in that serendipitous act, was awakened by its benevolent energies instead. Not entirely aware of himself, he falls back on his repetitious behavior, patterns and practices so ingrained in him that he could do them in his sleep.
And in a way, he does: his hands shake as he grabs his chalk and starts drawing his glyph for tea right on the countertop. His penmanship is more jittery than usual, but given he isn't seeing the marks before him, his eyes and mind elsewhere, he's lucky he can draw at all.
no subject
Within the bedroom, Carlisle rises from his slumber, though he is not quite himself.
The clergyman's frame is stiff as he moves, his fingers twitching, limbs barely coordinated as though guided by strings of an amateur puppeteer. His head tips to one side as his legs carry him forward; his footsteps are uneven, but soft, barely audible in the still of the dark apartment. What illumination there is comes not from the lamps, not a single switch flicked on as he proceeds down the corridor -- it shines from his eyes, the glow of them having consumed what characteristics they had, leaving only the intense, unnatural light.
A breath finally escapes him as he reaches the kitchen and stands in the middle of it. Were he animated by only the tattered remnants of his soul and the bitterness of the black bile, he would do as the undead do -- he would seek out others, cause them harm as repentance for what befell him. He would hunger endlessly, his appetite never sated, his sorrow and anger never abating. He could not find rest.
But he is not animated by such foul sources. He drew upon the Mote as he fell asleep, and in that serendipitous act, was awakened by its benevolent energies instead. Not entirely aware of himself, he falls back on his repetitious behavior, patterns and practices so ingrained in him that he could do them in his sleep.
And in a way, he does: his hands shake as he grabs his chalk and starts drawing his glyph for tea right on the countertop. His penmanship is more jittery than usual, but given he isn't seeing the marks before him, his eyes and mind elsewhere, he's lucky he can draw at all.