[Carlisle hadn't actually intended on removing his mask and drinking the tea, but given Reynir turns completely around -- and he can't find anywhere to discreetly dump it -- he changes his mind. He turns away as well before bringing his fingers to the top of his mask, folding it down just enough to bare his face -- or what's left of it, anyway. Without the quilted fabric blocking the way, he can pick up on the smell of the tea much better, and he takes a second to utterly revel in it. He takes a sip: what taste he detects seems so distant that it might as well be from memory alone, but at least that's something.

He tosses his head back and downs the rest so Reynir doesn't have to turn away again. Returning his mask to his face, he rearranges his veil to make sure he's fully covered before he answers.]

I lived in the mountains, in a small valley near the Cottonmouth. It was also cold there, cooler than it was further down. Some said it was because of the way the wind cut through the range, the ridges and hills so full of winding turns that the gusts were made sharp by the time they reached us. Others said it was the chill of death brought upon the very by necromancy. I like to believe the former.