Now he steps back, his mind suddenly seized with the need to create. Alecto's impending nakedness now seems to be nothing more than the appropriate state of his muse, the subject distilled to essence, rather than any kind of titillation or prurience. He's aware, in a distant, absent way, of the burn of arousal within his core, the vague thought that this was a prelude to some other activity, but for the moment he cares for nothing else than capturing what is there in the moment, in front of his eyes.

"Whatever you like," he says, absent and distracted, as he bends to retrieve his sketchbook and charcoals, with the same gravity as a soldier donning his armor. "I just need to see..."