Keys... Keys... Keys... but I hadn't any keys. Strange. Change of Colour. Change of Scenery. Change of Thought. Jump from one train only to board the next; at least it was no case of 'Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire'. And -she'd- taken my flask. Again. I patted my breast pocket just to be sure. Perhaps it was a good thing, anyway. I glanced over – with the golem, acceptable. (She peers into the depths of the metal flask, sniffs and wrinkles a nose – the flesh not creasing, not folding neatly as human flesh is wont to do, but rather crackling and crinkling stiffly, and then her eyebrows shoot upward as she eyes something... someone else) I rubbed my eyes. Very, very pleasant – to ease onto the vivid green of the grass, to run my fingers through the trailing growths of flowers; but the sky was strange – I frowned – she didn't paint it that... no, it didn't -look- that way. I hope I've taken the right pills! But something jogs my train of thought – the gears clang, I find myself drawn to memories of deep leather chairs and pleasant evenings, the woody fragrance of tobacco smouldering into the wee hours of the night, the heady taste of malt and peat singing the back of my nose; we were laughing about something – some witticism – all of us, and then the figure seated just across from me rose and approached through the smoke. Now he produces a black leathern bag, remarks quietly “Mister... Nestor, is it?” I nodded, began to rise from my chair... no!

The sun breaks through the brief shadow of a passing cloud, Nestor starts; one hand had been extended toward the Wight – as if in the midst of offering a greeting – but then springs suddenly back to his side. He stands there awkwardly a moment, blinks rapidly several times, then finally speaks:

“Ah – Master Seymour; you are correct... but where has she... oh god!” the Demonspawn responds in a trailing string of seeming incoherence; his words first addressed to the Wight, then his attention trailing toward the Demoness (Not with the Golem. No longer acceptable. She had seemingly begun an ill-advised interception of the bristling Werewolf, a sly smile etched permanently into her icy skull, a confident sway finding its way into her hips) I wave the Wight off, remarking brusquely and – in retrospect – quite unhelpfully: “No! No, wait... I mean yes! A moment please...” 

Closing both eyes, the Demonspawn bows his head, draws a breath.... and in a flash the Demoness vanishes, the soft tinkle of metal clanging against rock as the flask strikes a stone before rolling a little ways and coming to rest in the grass. A slow trickle issues from the open cap, endlessly leaking out into the dirt – and long, long after the time that a flask so small should have since ran dry it continues to trickle. Trickles until a little stream of liquor finds its way filtering on down the hill and vanishing into the dirt. But, no matter Nestor's efforts, she does not vanish without one last parting shot – a quiet whisper issued to the werewolf: 

“Some predator you are, Wolf Girl! I've just the thing for you... it isn't pretty...” And then she was gone – and whether her words were cut off mid-sentence, or whether she intentionally left the sentence dangling, remained for debate. 

Opening his eyes – crystal blue, icy; different – no longer grey – Nestor finally gives the Wight his full attention. “Self Medication is the best Medicine, I always say... but... I'm willing to make exceptions. I am human, flesh and blood – live and breath, but struggle to die. Do your worst. Can't be worse than I've managed myself.” With that he slumps into the grass, absently pats his breast pocket – frowns – then eyes the Wight, as if waiting to see what he might do next.