Carlisle's arms wrap around himself, his fingers tightening at his elbows as though he could hold in what lingers of the momentary wrath that fueled him only seconds prior. It burns hot in his chest, tempered by cold fear until he is pushed back into compliance.

"Yes," he murmurs, wondering just how much of what he said actually caught Kabal's attention. Discretion is difficult when it comes to his true nature: if he's not fighting against the vile temperament that come with being a Revenant, he's losing control of his magic even when trying to do good. Healing is complicated, as the energies required to mend directly counteract those keeping him animated; however, necrotic magic, which should be a challenge to control even in this state, comes to him so naturally now, despite his never having practiced with them in life. He rots walls and raises the dead without even knowing, unconscious of his energies seeping into the surfaces and corpses around him until it's too late. He could do so much worse to the people of Anchor if he actually tried, couldn't he?

He doesn't want to think about it. As it is, he's desperate to keep his status among the non-living as under-wraps as his physical frame, and throwing a tantrum where he lists aloud some of the more despicable things he's done does not help. He glances toward the wall -- the rust has eaten completely through it, making a few hand-sized holes at eye-level. At least that's one job well done, no matter how reluctant he was to do it in the first place.