For the present, Nestor seems quite content to leave the happily reunited pair to themselves; in fact, had it not been for Max's brief – and almost cursory – nod, he might have said next to nothing at all. (But anyone who knew me knew this would be my way, and for me perhaps the better of most options – nothing worse, really, than being hounded by 'Welcome Backs' and smiles. I think I'd just as well have walked up to Max -- in front of them all -- and shaken his hand, as I might have turned to Bratty Death Girl and proffered up a diamond ring replete with promises of undying love...) But something unexpected seems to cause him to bite back a laugh; both eyes dart toward the Reaper. The right corner of the Demonspawn's lip quirks upwards. Something like a smile breaks across his face... (And then I quite unaccountably lost control, and felt my heart falter a beat as she slipped away...)

And with that came the Demoness, now as humanlike as ever – shorter, maybe, than in her more uncouth moments. Pleasanter to the eye. And with a broad and seeming genuine smile borne upon her features, she goes trooping straight through the lot of them, something large and dark clutched tight to her chest. Offering Veti an oddly sisterly smile as she brushes past, the icy creature extends both hands, holding aloft before the Warlock a pair of mud and sand-spattered boots as she exclaims with no small degree of glee: 

“I bet you didn't miss these bastards one -bit-; but I saved them for you, all the same. I'm thoughtful like that.” With that, she dumps the boots unceremoniously before Max's feet, straightens – offers Veti another smile -- before vanishing without a further word as Nestor breaks his moment of solitude and approaches. He at first makes an effort to extend his right hand toward the man – winces, offers an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. Winces marginally again before announcing (as my left hand slips into my breast pocket)

“Well, well – it does me some good to see you again, Werewolf Max.” (She was right – she was usually... no, always right – there was always something uniquely and markedly different about him; the throbbing hum of something unspeakably powerful hidden beneath the skin of something otherwise terribly unremarkable... well, excepting size, that is.) Offering his flask, Nestor adds – while sparing a glance toward the pair of boots sitting on the ground between them – “She, it would seem, agrees. Death is a tough business. Feel free to have a drink, on me. And then do me a favour and ask your most wonderful paramour here whether she's any tricks on tap to get us back to London.”