She is here before she is here, like a cloud before the rain. The air is different. It is thicker. stuffy. foggy. Hardly air at all anymore, just smoke, and she is hardly anything less than a silhouette, and a glowing red ember. The smoke speaks.

"I had a son like you once" and the congested giggle of an old witch.
"I gotta say though, he was a bit more lively." smoke born into smoke and the shadow sets an elbow at its hip-- wrist supinated and fingers slyly poised, contracted to hold and to keep fire in the eye of her demon.
She sighs and a worm of rouge smoke gets lost in the fog.
"Not by much though."

Her stare is black, but there is a resonance in her voice that paints squinting eyes and a soft mask of yellow skin, hanging from a mouth that is mostly pout, but partly distorted by teeth softly griping the inside of her cheek. The fog is still, as she is still, moments into moments.