Nestor's eyes slide with wary misgiving over the werewolf's form as she licks her fangs, (Whether I could sense danger or not in this one, my profession had never been exceptionally kind to the careless.), grey orbs trailing after the pink member until the very moment it vanishes back into the maw. He gives the cigar a little more life, draws air to the embers and then releases a long, drawn-out sigh; thick clouds of earthy smoke briefly shroud his face, the expression drawn into a pensive frown. 

But he does not speak. Rather, it would seem the Werewolf's acceptance of the cigar have proved far more curious than any exchange of words – and even in the space of a lingering moment I realise I am so intent upon watching what she might do next, that I have still got the tin held out, motionless, in my hand! – it snaps back into its place beneath what remains of his jacket, a few more clouds of smoke are dragged from the coals, and his eyes remain upon the creature.

“I must offer my apologies, ma'am – events for me have been, well... destructive, of late...” He offers something that might be considered a shrug – hands extending briefly, palms outward – the gesture masked at once as he raises the cigar, fills the space above his head with a little more smoke still:

“So perhaps my ignorance can be excused. As for my words – the strands all split from the same hair, or so they say – so perhaps the details matter less to you when I might just as simply say I would sooner tear loose and devour the soul from my own body, before standing idly by as I watched the world burn.”

Nestor's final words are punctuated by the chill static of an aggravating voice in the venerable Werewolf's vicinity:

“But maybe, just maybe, She-Wolf, you should be ware of the ones you proposition... maybe he means to say he'd be just as happy to lend a hand to the burning himself... if you follow...”

But the Demonspawn's attention is diverted elsewhere at the moment, both eyebrows shooting upward as he struggles not to break into a grin at Veti's sudden outburst and the subsequent havoc wreaked by the cigar. Biting briefly at his lip, he manages a dry remark – gaze caught all the while upon the neatly bound roll in his own hand – “Not to fear, Mistress Veti – it makes the lungs strong. Like iron. Breathe deep”. He taps his chest with a forefinger before finally offering a lopsided kind of smirk.