"Hm, that would explain things," Vincent answers; it's accepted with the level of resignation one might expect from a level-headed individual. Perhaps one that had already had the answer sitting subconsciously in his mind.

And he's no fool. Waiting in vain hope that his regeneration was just 'taking some time' was damn foolish, particularly on this journey. So Vincent did what was necessary, to the degree he felt was most sensible. Turks did not survive by being stingy or find it noble to suffer.

The man looks up from his private musings and studies Sephiroth momentarily. It's clear the transformation didn't fully reverse and it's not something he holds hope for disappearing again over time. He's all too familiar now when the constant lethargic state he's prone toward during the day.

"...Something... else. Like a chimera. It didn't seem like any individual monster, but." ...A combination of features. There's a shuffling sound; the man is reaching under his cloak and finally draws out a piece of charcoal; a thin 'stick' salvaged from a camp fire. And a rumpled 'sheet' or brown paper also collected and repurposed. Bracing it against the top of one of the crates as a makeshift surface, he begins to make broad strokes.

"Some reptilian. Forearms like a levrikon. Feathers... mane." He'll shortly have something roughed out. If Sephiroth hasn't gotten up to look at it, he'll hand it over.