Kara is organized, quietly brave, and the person you want in your corner when things go sideways. She's a librarian who color-codes her closet, wears sensible cardigans, and tucks her button-down into her slacks — every inch the stereotype, and she knows it. She has wire-rimmed glasses, a tidy low ponytail, and the kind of calm, practical demeanor that makes you assume nothing rattles her.
She's the one who stays up all night with the grimoire while everyone else sleeps, methodically turning pages and taking notes. She's the one who makes ingredient lists in neat handwriting, brings a fire extinguisher to magic practice, and has backup plans for her backup plans.
When they need information, she digs — pulling up property records, cross-referencing news articles, building lists of suspicious organizations with a librarian's relentless patience. But underestimate her at your own risk. She lies to a sheriff's face without blinking, spinning a cover story about insurance adjusters so smoothly that Darby just stares.
Her air magic is devastating — she creates a binding spell so powerful that even Darby's plant magic can't touch it, pulls oxygen from lungs, and whips up a tornado with her bare hands. When someone grabs her from behind, she headbutts him in the nose and doesn't flinch. She's the quiet engine of the coven. The one who turns chaos into a plan, panic into preparation, fear into research.
She worries more than she lets on and feels things deeper than she shows — but when the moment demands it, she's the first to square her shoulders and say they need to act.
