As is the case where I come from -- or it should be. My hometown has been plagued by necrotic energies for some time, foul practitioners of dark magic imbuing the very land with their perversion. There are times where the dead do not remain dead, when these abhorrent characters raise them once more.

[He pauses there, disgust riling his nerves. He has found commiseration with Pratt to be a comfort before; he understands guilt and regret, Carlisle reminds himself inwardly.]

Most undeads -- they cannot cast, you see. They have no aural energy, and therefore no access to magic, save for in extraordinary cases. This is the case with Revenants, who are somehow able to access the abilities of their former selves, cursing those around them. We- we always thought they were raised as well, undead creatures somehow able to match their masters in terms of how much of a blight they could be.

[Another pause, his nausea growing.]

A seer I met here -- she had dominion over souls, and she revealed to me their terrible origins. They are not raised, but rise themselves, born from people with the very same affliction as I. Remnants of their energy -- their souls -- becomes trapped in their physical bodies, separated from the rest, never to be whole again. There is no rest in death for us, and no rest for those around us as long as we exist.