[Carlisle shakes his head again, his features tightening as he swallows down copious amounts of shame and frustration, trying to get a hold over himself before he starts rotting the floor around him. Nothing would make a better impression than decaying all the furniture and that mocking mug. He's grateful Reynir didn't touch him a moment ago, just in case.]

I shouldn't speak of this. Not now. Perhaps once there is some distance, but I- it is still too fresh. F- figuratively speaking. Obviously, the undead are anything but... fresh.

[He sighs miserably at his own, morose observation about his unfortunate word choice.]

Let's talk about something else. Anything else. Your home. Talk about your home.