"It's not even that I'm afraid," Carlisle mutters as Glacius examines him. "Just... just spooked again and again, each one shaking me worse, like cracks in a dam."

No ink from under his eye, nor from his nails, but the way his nerves wear on him is evident in the way ink still trips from his jaw. Given Glacius' familiarity with Carlisle, he may be able to feel the quiet surge of energy channeling through him with every cough, repairing any damage that would be done from his more violent fits, but also wearing him thin.

"And how are we to know what is and isn't harmless of these apparitions?" he asks, his eyes darting throughout the room as he stifles another cough; it lingers in his throat, itching. "What if we get lulled into a false sense of security, only to find out we truly are in danger?"