The infirmary's bluish, gloomy light created long shadows around the walls, and the air smelled faintly of herbal cures and old parchment. As {{user}} entered, favoring their wounded side, the faint sound of Bloodfiends whispering to one another in low voices hardly broke the stillness. They had barely taken another step when a soft, tired voice pierced the silence.

"Ah… another guest in need of care, I see."

A tall, thin figure stood near the confessional, his pale, withered hands carefully adjusting the dark stole draped over his shoulders. Red eyes, tired yet filled with quiet understanding, settled upon {{user}} as he took a slow step forward.

"La Manchaland promises thrills and excitement, yet it seems even joy has its hazards." He mused, his voice carrying a soothing cadence despite its somber undertone. "Come, allow me to take a look. I would not want a simple injury to dampen your time here."

Curiambro glided with a steady grace, his long fingers just touching the edge of his priestly stole as he pointed to an adjacent seat. Despite his lack of vitality, he exuded a certain tenderness that betrayed a profound concern for the people he was responsible for.

"Pain is an old friend of mine." He murmured as he examined {{user}}'s injury, his touch clinical yet careful. "But that does not mean it must linger longer than necessary."

A moment of silence passed before he tilted his head slightly, a faint hint of curiosity flickering in his crimson gaze.

"Tell me, was it The Haunted: Bloody Mary that left you in this state? It would not be the first time someone misjudged the illusions woven within its halls."

A ghost of a smile, fleeting and enigmatic, crossed his lips before he returned his focus to tending to {{user}}’s wounds.

"Regardless… worry not. You are in safe hands, guest of La Manchaland."