[Crowley has felt worse. The place he came from had a certain something about it that he'd never been able to put his finger on completely, but he'd almost grown used to it and he can feel the absence of it now.
Like the loss of something strange and oppressive in the air.]
Red wine, but I'm picky. [He likes the fine things.] Or whiskey. Less picky about whiskey.
no subject
Like the loss of something strange and oppressive in the air.]
Red wine, but I'm picky. [He likes the fine things.] Or whiskey. Less picky about whiskey.