:: The evil witch has shown herself once again, blue eyes glowing softly from under the hood of her heavy blue hoodie even as the silver claws grow rapidly from under the sleeves, razor sharp and clearly dangerous, the fingers appearing shortly afterward, before the sleeves stop at about mid hand. As she steps into the light of the overhanging streetlamp, every feature of her face becomes apparent, a rather regular looking being, in the way of cheekbones, chin, nose, mouth, eyes, and forehead. The only thing that might even possibly come close to being rather attention-getting is the particularly raging look of coldness in the rather regularly colored eyes. The expression of intense calm upon the woman's face might suggest some exercises having been regularly done to slow the rbeathing and wick away the redness that had surely been in her cheeks when this particular fit took form. ::

:: The word, "Billabong" upon her chest and back are clues that yes, she is of this age and race, and that yes, she is perfectly capable of blending in, when not in such a foul mood as she so obviously is. Where is her broom and hat, you might say? Well, you see, this witch doesn't need them. She has powers of her own... Cruelty, coldness, a passion for mischief, and one hell of a nasty temper. The dark blue jeans, ratty and torn at the crotch, stained and bedraggled around the thighs and knees, show off her own spirit of defiance and adventure-loving character. The dark blue and grey sneakers, which used to be so much tougher-looking, another pair of which she saw for sale at Famous Footwear the other day when shopping for Homecoming shoes, places firmly on the sidewalk, shoulder-width apart, toes jsut above the drainage hole into the sewers... ::

:: The eyes watch out over the streets, piercing with a surprising clarity into the deepest, darkest corners of the great beyond, and even beyond that. In her hand is the dagger she's carried for ages, the knife that has been honed to a near-perfect edge, the blue tint of the blade proclaiming to its steel origins; truly, it is nothing more than a Swiss Army knife her father had given her for learning how to tie fishing lines. Now, though... now it's an extension of her arm, and the power held therin. A twisted little smile appears upon her slightly parted lips, even as the blade comes up to dance along the edges of her golden hair, before being lowered once more to her side, jsut before her knees give out and she slips to the sidewalk, one hand looping about the streetlamp even as the tears course down, down... ::