[He can do that. The lines of Crowley's face are as familiar as ever, to his mind's eye, but it'll still take a little while before the light sketch of a handsome young man appears, the rosary clutched in one hand.

It's not a face he's seen in what'll be a month at the end of the week. It's not an expression he's seen in eight hundred years. Ferid sets the pencil aside and puts the canvas on its easel, taking the palette up again and redoing the paints. Blues, reds, and black have the biggest spots.]

There wasn't a woman who could refuse his looks, [fond as can be,] and yet he seemed as celibate as any other. A man firm in his ideals, who could hold his liquor well, and hated war more than anything else... despite the fact that it had made him a hero in the first place.