Marcella nods, smiling roughly. She closes her eyes, and thinks. The stick in her hand wasn't a stick at all, but a sword. She could see past her sister's illusion. "A drows, morf a kcits ot a drows." As she muttered the complicated spell, she heard herself gag, her hands were weighed down as Vladimir's sword appeared in her hands. From a stick to a sword, she had said, and just that little spell had wearer her down. Her sister's magic was hard to break through, Marcella realized. And the more She fought against magic, the harder it would get. She lazily handed the stick to Vladimir before getting into the jet.