"It happens... sometimes," Carlisle utters, unease in his voice. "More and more these days." Ink seeping from under his fingernails is more of a rarity, a surefire sign he has overdone it. He tries to explain so as not to worry Glacius further. "After expending a lot of energy, I feel... not just exhausted, but- but frozen. Pe- petrified for a time. Stiffened, like..."

Like a corpse. That thought has always made him nervous, especially given his perception of the undead, some of Armand's comments toward him, and of course, the old superstitions about the twice-cursed.

"I- I need only rest," he assures the alien. "It's more of- of an inconvenience than anything, trust me."