Crowley doesn't answer at first, turning inside the dusty swirls and eddies of his landing, taking in the full three hundred and sixty degrees. The heels of his snakeskin shoes scuff minutely, deliberately against the ground, like the sound of rasping scales, and his nostrils flare as he breathes in the scorched air.

(There's a whisper of a breeze, stunned by their landing; unconsciously, or unselfconsciously, his tongue flickers out to taste it.)

It has been a very long time since Crowley was last out here. On each horizon, fading slowly with the light, the smudge of mountains. This is a crucible; dry, and immense.

"It's big," he murmurs finally, when the dust has settled.

It doesn't sound like a throwaway answer.