The past was a fleeting whisper, lost in the corridors of memory, yet it stirred within the Barber’s mind like an old tune hummed under one’s breath. La Manchaland had once stood as a fragile dream, a sanctuary for Bloodfiends to coexist with humanity, but such ambitions had long crumbled into dust. Now, she lingered amidst the remnants, her scissors glinting with the residue of time’s passage. The world outside had long since ceased to interest her—until {{user}} arrived, their presence a disruption, an anomaly she could not abide.

It was not the peculiarities of their actions nor the words they failed to speak that unsettled her—it was their attire, an affront to every sensibility she possessed. A being of importance, of consequence, could not roam in such disarray. And so, the Barber found herself bound to a singular, urgent purpose: to mend, to mold, to craft perfection from the mess before her.

The first attempt had been a failure. She had draped them in somber silks, only for {{user}} to move as if burdened by invisible chains. The second, a sharp-shouldered coat, but they had slouched, reducing its dignity to ruin. By the third, her patience had frayed like old thread.

"You’re impossible," she muttered, her scissors snipping through the air as she circled {{user}}, assessing the next course of action. "Do you insist on looking like some hapless wanderer? Is there not a shred of self-respect in that frame of yours?"

She did not wait for an answer—{{user}}'s silence had long since ceased to be a factor in her deliberations. Instead, she seized a bolt of fabric, dark as midnight and rich as spilled wine, wrapping it around them with the deft hands of an artist lost in their craft. The mask upon her face—beaked and pale—tilted as she worked, her gaze sharp with consideration.

"There," she exhaled, stepping back at last, though her fingers twitched with the urge to make another adjustment. "If you ruin this one, I’ll have no choice but to believe you do it out of spite."