The door of the little diner opened with a tinkling bell that seemed the ring deep in the ears of everyone present. Except a few choice individuals, who slink lower into their chairs and cast weary glares at the newcomer, no one seems to notice the shrill sound.

Must be your nerves.

The center of attention is a woman - tall and old enough to be a grandmother by now, her dark wavy hair streaked generously with white and gray, almost as if her hair had already changed and she'd simply taken to dipping it in ink. In her youth she may have been beautiful and even now, dark skin wearing her few scars well and sharp amber eyes, she still has the look of nobility in her. A bit of girlish tastes,too -- if the crow feather earrings are anything to go by.

All black everything seems to be her motto, trenchcoat still dripping from the downpour. Closing the black umbrella she entered with, she leans it delicately against the wall, to avoid blocking the traffic of the walkway before she heads for the counter.

Even with use of the cane, her steps are sure and fluid and as she gets closer, there is the telltale rattle of a potion bottle or six as she sits at the counter.

"You might want to belay that meal, boy." Christ, that's a Northern accent if you've ever heard one. It also means she's not from Cipher proper. "Weather like this means a hunt's on."