[Yes, because that's what every mall needs - a confessional. Stripped of his capacity for healing magic (and all that other stuff he'd rather not talk about), the Lemniscate Resort Complex felt an appropriate line of work for this clergy-turned-accidental-lich would be a confessional so all the shoppers, employees, and likewise drawn-from-their-own-worlds individuals can confess their deepest, darkest sins while on their lunch breaks.
As for the 'business' itself, it seems to be located in a repurposed storage space with a sign above the door reading simply, "Complex Confessional." There are a variety of religious symbols below that, representative of a number of faiths and followings from various worlds, including Carlisle's own. He's not sure that's any comfort, given the circumstances. The room itself is wide enough for the wingspan of an average adult, and little else. On the wall adjacent to the entry door is a second, slimmer door that leads to the back. There's a more sizable room and office back there for Carlisle himself, as well as a desk he can sit at while listening to anyone who might come to speak with him. And of course, opposite the entrance, there's a wall with a small window and a bench. It is a confessional, after all, and there needs to be a place for those coming to confess to sit.
But please don't. He'd prefer not to hear about what a drag your new jobs can be.]
A. Magic, or Lack Thereof. Well, this is tragic. Carlisle, a man whose one and only talent was once to heal people, can hardly do any magic at all.
That's not to say he's not trying. He's meditated and tried to feel his own aural energy coursing through his frame, only to find that it's still within him, but... utterly subdued. As it stands, he can't conjure much more than a single orb of light at a time, the globes themselves cool to the touch and bright to the eyes, but brittle, frail; they shatter only seconds after he puts them down, no longer able to exist without their creator. Most magicians would get by well enough without their magic — Carlisle, though he'd feel useless without it, most certainly could.
Or at least he could have when he was alive. As he is now, a creature only animated by said magic, it's a bit of a conundrum, and one he hopes to solve before he finds himself without any magic at all. As for where and when he's choosing to perform this exploratory exercise, it's while wandering the grounds at night — he can't sleep, so he might as well use that time productively by repeatedly conjuring illuminated orbs, setting them down, and seeing how far he can get from them before they unceremoniously flicker and disintegrate. Don't mind his spooky, glowing eyes when he's between lamp posts — that's just how he looks these days.]
B. The Network Option - text [un: longinmouth] I assume by the multiple beds that I am to have roommates. Has anyone else been assigned to housing A0-X04?
C. ... Confessional. [You know, in case someone actually does want to talk to him while he's at work. He'll be behind the wall, minding his own business until someone comes in, at which point he'll groan, sigh, and open the window. It is his job, after all.]
Carlisle Longinmouth | Complex Confessional
As for the 'business' itself, it seems to be located in a repurposed storage space with a sign above the door reading simply, "Complex Confessional." There are a variety of religious symbols below that, representative of a number of faiths and followings from various worlds, including Carlisle's own. He's not sure that's any comfort, given the circumstances. The room itself is wide enough for the wingspan of an average adult, and little else. On the wall adjacent to the entry door is a second, slimmer door that leads to the back. There's a more sizable room and office back there for Carlisle himself, as well as a desk he can sit at while listening to anyone who might come to speak with him. And of course, opposite the entrance, there's a wall with a small window and a bench. It is a confessional, after all, and there needs to be a place for those coming to confess to sit.
But please don't. He'd prefer not to hear about what a drag your new jobs can be.]
A. Magic, or Lack Thereof.
Well, this is tragic. Carlisle, a man whose one and only talent was once to heal people, can hardly do any magic at all.
That's not to say he's not trying. He's meditated and tried to feel his own aural energy coursing through his frame, only to find that it's still within him, but... utterly subdued. As it stands, he can't conjure much more than a single orb of light at a time, the globes themselves cool to the touch and bright to the eyes, but brittle, frail; they shatter only seconds after he puts them down, no longer able to exist without their creator. Most magicians would get by well enough without their magic — Carlisle, though he'd feel useless without it, most certainly could.
Or at least he could have when he was alive. As he is now, a creature only animated by said magic, it's a bit of a conundrum, and one he hopes to solve before he finds himself without any magic at all. As for where and when he's choosing to perform this exploratory exercise, it's while wandering the grounds at night — he can't sleep, so he might as well use that time productively by repeatedly conjuring illuminated orbs, setting them down, and seeing how far he can get from them before they unceremoniously flicker and disintegrate. Don't mind his spooky, glowing eyes when he's between lamp posts — that's just how he looks these days.]
B. The Network Option - text [un: longinmouth]
I assume by the multiple beds that I am to have roommates. Has anyone else been assigned to housing A0-X04?
C. ... Confessional.
[You know, in case someone actually does want to talk to him while he's at work. He'll be behind the wall, minding his own business until someone comes in, at which point he'll groan, sigh, and open the window. It is his job, after all.]