"I'd very much love to say those were only the arrogant words of a silly creature that means to bully people, more bark than bite. But — as you've cobbled together, it's quite the formidable entity. Some call it a curse, a demon, a monster, even a god. I've heard it all," he rattles off different monikers for it. "I don't myself believe in curses — curses mean game over. That we're helpless unless a few very specific details line up accordingly, like dancing under a full moon on the last day of the winter solstice while spitting over your shoulder. I prefer to think we all have a bit more wherewithal than that."

But perhaps he's wrong. He's been wrong before. He doesn't like ever being wrong, but he can admit when he is.

"None of us have gotten quite close enough to it and lived to tell anything about it. A few of our own have died here from it, and it's — absolutely horrific," he sucks in a breath for a moment, holding that roll of gauze a bit tighter. What they went through, namely, the fear. It's strange to say their deaths objectively weren't violent, not slaughtered and bloodied, but rather twisted and contorted in fear. "Their bodies were — it was though they'd simply died from the worst terror they'd ever experienced in a single instant. And before it took the life from them, it made all of us afraid. And I don't usually — I'm not the fearful sort. It can wield power over our minds. It's done far worse than make us afraid in that regard."

The other man seems...okayish enough physically, but that's little comfort and makes him no less concerned for what Arthur's obviously been through, and he gives a quick nod to him. "What happened to you?"

Before Arthur responds, the Doctor stands up abruptly, snapping his fingers a moment, talking to himself under his breath. "Clothes, clothes, of course. Change of clothes. Keep talking, please —"