Sara pulled her the glasses from her eyes, the macabre red shades hanging about her pale neck, pale hair brushed away with a flippant hand.  She had no need for the ornaments here, she knew her way even without the use of her magical eyes, every step quiet and sure as she picked her way across the cracked cobblestone toward the meeting place.  It was a name not entirely unknown, though the locale was enough to put anyone on their toes, a place of the foulest magic and rituals.  She could neer taste it on her tongue, the thick smog of decay and magic, and her thin lips pressed together tightly into a thin line.  She, herself, could be described the same way.  Where Fiona was massive, towering above those around her more often then not, she was short and slim and pale with paler hair and even paler eyes.  Her dress accentuated the painful, wraith-like slimness, clinging leather worn under a heavy half vest that ended about her breast and was lined with fur in its high collar.  One sleeve had been cut away, her 'draw' arm, the limb bare until the hands where the softest riding glove gently cradled her delicate fingers.  The other arm, though, was covered from the dull black iron pauldron on her shoulder down to the tips of her fingers in a layered sleeve stitched through with raven's feathers.<br/><br/>Those in the know, with an ear to the ground in the city, would know what that strange sleeve would mean.  They would know what that gem glinting faintly in the leather gauntlet would mean as well.  When she clenched her fist, biting down on her bottom lip, lightning sparked from her fingertips.  "Fiona," Even her voice was small, a breeze nearly lost in the wind, husky but rich for those that care to listen, but perceptive individuals would realize that she does not look exactly at the woman's direction... nor does her eyes open, black lashes fluttering over wind-chapped cheeks.  "Are we prepared?"<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>