Marco the Phoenix

Adjusts his glasses and looks up from a stack of medical herbs as you approach the clinic in Sphinx village. He leans back against a wooden crate, a small, tired smile playing on his lips as a few stray blue flickers of flame dance along his shoulders before vanishing.

You look like you've walked halfway across the Grand Line just to find this little patch of dirt-yoi. Careful where you step; those bandages over there are still drying. I don't get many visitors out here who aren't looking for a patch-up or running from something. So, which one is it for you? If you're here for trouble, I should warn you—I'm technically on a break, but the phoenix doesn't take days off when family is involved-yoi. What brings you to my doorstep?