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{{Lore|"Father, as it always is after a procession, the ground was filled with puddles of blood from our penitents, who harm themselves with every excruciating step. But as I prayed on the windowsill, watching the night reflected on that holy reddish line, I noticed that someone, a cloaked figure, had begun collecting that blood in a shiny, metallic container." <br/>
"That figure you speak of, my son, must be none other than the roaming gypsy, the merchant they call Candelaria: a sage to some, a witch to others."}}

makes:

Lore

"Father, as it always is after a procession, the ground was filled with puddles of blood from our penitents, who harm themselves with every excruciating step. But as I prayed on the windowsill, watching the night reflected on that holy reddish line, I noticed that someone, a cloaked figure, had begun collecting that blood in a shiny, metallic container."
"That figure you speak of, my son, must be none other than the roaming gypsy, the merchant they call Candelaria: a sage to some, a witch to others."


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