There is a soft laughter at the old Werewolf's latest words, and – as if in response to her query – the Demoness crystallizes into view; hands laced primly behind her back, she makes one slow circuit of the creature – careful not to touch, but seeming intent on making an odd kind of whiffling noise, like air forced through the hollows of a glacier – and as best as anyone might tell seems to be sniffing. Though whether in mockery or in truth might be difficult to tell. 

“But poor Nestor Dear already has such a bad habit...” here she pauses, shakes her head with a disappointed little frown: “of taxing his sad little brain with odd things. But invigoration! Mmmm...” She allows her words to trail off into silence, eyes shifting mockingly in Nestor's direction. The Demonspawn offers only a grunt, before remarking:

“It would fascinate me no end – consider the offer accepted; though I make no guarantees as to what might happen...” The Demoness offers another little chittering spate of laughter at that, before going quite silent as Aislinn turns her attention towards Veti and begins... begins wagging her tail.

A werewolf wagging its tail? Of all the wonders in this world I've yet to see! I even forgave her in that moment the slight against my taste in tobaccos; it was a sight that – even amongst all the strange and curious and truly astonishing things I have been privy to – will remain very well engraven in my memory. Perhaps it is that I just do not spend enough time around the creatures – the werewolves I had met in their more canine forms had all been either quite intent on eating me, or quite intent on eating someone not far away from me... and so... maybe my understanding was and has always been a bit skewed.

I took another sip from the glass and allowed the warmth of doing – well, doing absolutely nothing at all -- to slip in around me; drew a breath and was suddenly struck with the realisation that I had last woken in a drowsy stupor in the midst of a strange hospital, and that it had been god-knows how long before then that I'd had a decent shower. Still, I felt remarkably refreshed and well-rested – the Goddess was to thank for that, I suppose – even if there was absolutely nothing fresh at all about the scent I was currently exuding. (Perhaps why Aislinn had been originally drawn toward me, the smell, that is...) The old She-Wolf seemed to have lost some degree of interest, and – cigar and glass still in hand – Nestor makes a quiet, doubtless largely unnoticed departure from the gathered. 

There was little to be seen in the way of change, as the Demonspawn slowly pushed open the door to his old room – well oiled hinges giving way easily, not so much as a sound to follow as he padded across the cold flagstones of the floor. The hearth was just as dead as it had ever been, only the charred remnants of a fire that had gone cold long, long ago remaining: remarkable, that they'd respected his wishes. Left it like that. Even allowed a few trailing cobwebs to form in the further corners of the hearth, a dismal nest of spiders serving as the only scrap of life in the otherwise barren alcove.

But as his eyes shifted to the painting something caused him to pause – his left hand to clench and release impulsively, his lips drawing into a tight line as he stared: the pair of figures were there still, but a great storm was now whipping the scene into a frenzy. A steamy froth hissed and boiled from the river's edges; the grasses were all but invisible beneath the thick mist and driving rain, nothing to be seen but the shimmer of silver as a new gust of air would send the knife's edge of the storm over the field, flattening the grass as thought it had been shorn close with a single blow. 

A cold shower and the polishing off of the last of the glass served to drive the better part of the image from my mind, though I found that even after dressing (decently for the first time since... well... sometime before waking, I supposed) and preparing to leave my room, I kept avoiding glancing at the painting. It was with some relief that I finally slammed the heavy door shut behind me, and with it seemed to drive from my mind the sounds of wind and rain and impending dread.

Nestor returned to the common area to find little changed – and again, for the present, he seems content to take up a seat at a comfortable chair settled a good distance away from the fire. The still-visible demoness has elected to perch herself on the high back of the chair behind him, legs kicking softly to and fro, chin resting on her palm as she holds a rather unscrupulous stare in the direction of Aislinn; just precisely the opposite of Nestor's vague and absent-minded study of the tiles at his feet.