Sheridan tapped his forehead. 'Today they take the form of beasts.' He perched up on the table and began to paint. First he laid down a opalescent backdrop, splattering red across it and smearing it in until he was satisfied, then he took a fine black brush and began to sculpt out twisted limbs and sharply raked back ears. He painted with a fury that seemed almost trancelike, and when he was satisfied with the rough shape he had eked out of the paint, he sat back, mopping his brow. 'This one says only that he is angry, that he wishes to be set free. So I have. Set him free on canvas.'
Sheridan looked crestfallen for a moment, and then shook his head. 'You know, there are painters without any hands. They use their mouths. Or their feet. And you have one hand still! Why don't you try?'
Sheridan sighed. 'When I was still a little thing, I was bitten by one of the farm's beagles.' He shuddered at the memory. Hunting dogs always seemed to know what he was. 'On my right hand.' He held it up, showing off the puncture-wound scars that even mow still remained. 'So I learned to draw with the other. It's not so hard.'
'I'm glad to pass on this skill.' He took the canvas that he'd painted already off of the easel, and lay it down to the side, placing a clean canvas. Then he handed January a large brush. 'Start with this. Make shapes. Just go where your mind asks.'
Increase decides to stay back and watch. He's begun to suspect things about both these patients- nothing serious. Nothing inhuman, not yet. Theoi, he is hungry. Not at the face of his patients, no. Cinere smells off and Je- January is distressed enough, as is. He has fed off patients before, when he was younger and more stupid. Never again. Unconsciously, he inhales.
January takes the brush and holds it awkwardly as he considers the canvas. Circles. Circles are always good to start with, to stop your hand from shaking. He lets them spiral out and become square, become triangle. His hand hurts; he's pretty sure he's not holding the brush right, but it's been so long.
'That's good. A good start. Don't hold it so hard. Relax your hand, and keep trying.' Then he also decides to sit back, eyeballing the good doctor sideways. There's something ... musky to Sheridan's scent, something a bit wet-doggish. Just faintly. Maybe January noticed. Maybe the doctor did. But he was nose-blind to himself, especially after he'd spent so long a few years prior living as a fox that he realised he needed to change back before he got stuck. But he knows better than to mention that. Perhaps especially here - They'd either take it for madness, or they wouldn't, and neither option was good. 'What's the matter, doctor?'
January changes his grip a little and tries to relax. He manages the broad strokes of a face, but the details are harder. "It's been a couple years," he says. "Maybe a little longer. I'm not sure how long I was in the woods."
Increase shakes his head. "Nothing really. Just hungrier than I thought I was." He looks at the face January drew. "That's better than anything I could ever do," he says. The woods. Hm. He deliberately does not put the pieces together.
Sheridan nods to the doctor, shifting his weight and drawing from inside his pocket a small packet of beef jerky, which he offers to him wordlessly before turning to Jaunary. He continued to be completely unalarmed by January's repeated mention of the woods, having spent quite some time in the woods himself, and well aware of how time's flow could be unclear there. 'Well, you're out of the woods now. So paint. Paint until you can paint again.' He nods approvingly at January's work. 'A good start already.
Increase accepts the beef jerky, not questioning how Sheridan has it. It'll be good for his colony of carnivorous insects.
Sheridan smiles and claps a little playfully, art his one true passion, breaking through the flat affect. 'Already, progress. Aren't you pleased with yourself?'
