Mar 30, 2020
Vinchand looked down vacantly at the prisoner. Watching blankly as their mental state crumbled. Listening to their half-spoken pleas, cut off by sobs and weak cries of even more broken words.
     The Aasimar took in the sight of torn flesh that was not his own; of tears and blood that was not his own; of begging, whimpering, crying, of desperation that was not his own.
     The sight was a foreign one that both fascinated and horrified him. And for a moment, just a brief second in time, Vinchand saw, and he understood.
     He understood the smiles, the words, the reason. For a brief time, he forgave them.
     Because Vinchand saw, and it was beautiful.
