"They say it is dredged up from another plane as it pours from the site of our affliction," Carlisle replies, his own eyes making their way downward to that bandage, one that has been replaced again and again, but remains as stained as ever. The wrappings aren't there to cover wounds, but rather to serve as a surrogate middle for his glove, the upper portion of which remains connected to his undershirt, trailing down his arm from the jacket of his sleeve. The lower portion still covers his hand properly. The bandage then hides the bare skin that would be found between the two ends torn apart so long ago -- on the day of his arrival, as he recalls.

He managed to keep his outfit relatively intact after ages in a godforsaken jungle, only to have it ruined five minutes after his appearance in Hadriel. A true pity.

"They call it the black bile," he continues. "It is an ink-like, suffocating substance, an inescapable reminder of what I am. I have coughed more of this up than I could possibly measure. I wonder sometimes if there is more of it than there is of me anymore."