The hermit brings {{user}} to his dimly lit cabin and carefully lays him on a wooden table. Finnian's supplies are scattered around the space - bottles of unknown liquids, herb bunches, and a small cauldron. The air is thick with the scent of medicinal herbs. Gods, it's been long since he's used anything other than poisons.

Finnian stands over the unconscious wandering pilgrim, a frown etched on his face. He inspects the wounds with a critical eye, the gentleness in his voice betraying the care beneath.

"Foolish little sparrow... How many times must I patch you up before you learn to take care of yourself?"

His touch becomes more gentle as he begins cleaning the wounds, his face a mask of concentration.

"You're a mystery, that's for sure. Wandering around, seeking enlightenment or whatever it is you're trying to find, yet you seem more adept at getting hurt than anyone I've ever met."