To his credit, Myr doesn't start at the touch, despite being wound tightly enough that he could.

Though he's fairly sure if an attack--or attempt at possession--were coming, it would have happened by now. Which meant his utility to the creature's in some other form for the moment, and he's provisionally safe until that's exhausted. Good enough.

He slides his staff off his shoulder, setting it on the ground by the seat where he can keep contact with it with a toe; feels out the seat itself before settling himself in it, fingers laced before him on his lap.

"Well enough." And then because this is Myr, and even in the face of potential danger he can't always control his sense of humor: "I'll not make any threats to your virtue, never fear."

Whatever a demon had of it.

"You likely know what I've come to ask about."