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.'