“It’s a poem,” he began, his scarred back towards you after a night of indulgence, “A gift from Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas.”

The lighting in the room was dim, as he sat on the edge of the bed. “He composed, and carved that one over the course of a night,” he paused for a moment, zoning out, “he made a lot of revisions as he went.” His expression faded into a more somber one, evidence of his disdain towards his cruel owner.