He's drawing them. Maker's breath and bones. Myr's expression grows briefly stricken as Benedict departs; he takes a careful breath in and releases it with a silent prayer for calm. (Well, so, and isn't it better if someone makes use of the things than letting them use him? The thought rings hollow in the face of gut-churning unease.) "Would you count them," he manages at length, "more as still life or nudes?"

This is directed, sort of, at Lexie as she's newly arrived, that and: "D'you have enough of that to share?"

Four seems to be a sufficient number for the things; once ex-Rolant has joined them, no more appear. The artist's subject on the table continues its slow flowering, waves of unwholesome intangible flesh puddling around it until Myr is a marooned island in an ocean of the stuff. Angles and perspective seem off around it.