StarfrostedFox

The Impossible Mage [Rose x Star]

' Breathe in.'

'Now breathe out.'

'Now breathe in again...'

Standing in the middle of a crowd, any crowd, was difficult. Standing in the middle of a crowd that included several witches was almost intolerable. But she had been forced to be here, almost threatened. Because Mara Vale wasn't just any witch born, she was a seer of magic. Threadseer they called her. Mostly behind her back when they didn't think she was listening. And seeing the threads of magic and being able to interact with them meant that she was often called upon by those of power to unravel their messages and origins. Nowadays, it made for a halfway decent income.

The trouble with being around a crowd of witches, though, meant that she saw magic almost everywhere. In the merchandise, around the people, trailing through the air. It was enough to give anyone a headache. But more especially her. Mara pinched at the bridge of her nose as yet another magical artifact was being pulled out to put on display in the stall set up across from where she sat. There was a tangle of threads around it, whatever it was. She had to fight off the urge she had to make a bolt for it, just to get a moment of quiet. To help her resist, she took a huge gulp of coffee, the bitter taste distracting her and helping keep her grounded in the chair she had finally sat down in.

The witch coven that dominated the city in which she lived always held a yearly festival to draw in new customers. Spells and services were offered to those who could pay, shows and performances held regularly to keep visitors entertained, and merchandise was being offered everywhere. Mara was always roped into attending by her mother, was always forced to stand, or sit, in a booth that stated in bold colors and wording that she could help those seeking for the unraveling of mysteries. And every year, she always got a killer headache. Especially when the festival drew in a werewolf or Fae. Those were the worst.

Tapping at her leg to the rhythm of a drum beat spilling out of the Bluetooth speaker she was allowed to keep with her, Mara squinted in the opposite direction of the vendor in question, watching a trail of magic looping through the air where one of the floating lanterns had just drifted by. She wondered when she was going to be allowed to take a break. Her thermos of coffee was starting to get dangerously low. And she supposed she ought to have something more to eat rather than just the pretzel sticks she had brought along with her. Picking one of these up absently from the Ziploc they were spilling out of, she quietly munched on it and resisted the urge to sigh. Again.

Between Lessons & Lies

She asked quite a lot of questions. Ronan was surprised the senator managed to keep his expression passively concerned, though he did note that the man did nothing to comfort his daughter physically. He himself hadn't been much better though, meeting Giselle's gaze as she had looked at him, but he didn't quite know how to go about portraying comfort and reassurance. He just wasn't wired that way.

Senator Hunt finally let out a heavy sigh, whether to buy himself time or embellish the act, it wasn't clear, but his answers were smooth enough when he did speak. "They're squawking about my resignation of course, not particularly happy with how I'm going about things. We wouldn't have taken much notice of them, if it hadn't been for some of their more minor threats being followed through. It's being hushed up for now, but I couldn't risk your safety. Every measure possible is going into locating these lunatics before they do something truly nasty."

For the first time, Ronan spoke up, prompted by a subtle, almost in perceptible gesture from his employer. His voice was low, quiet, velvety with just a hint of Irish accent that even the most persistent efforts to erase couldn't seem to quell.

""There's been no mention of the children coming to harm. They've made themselves quite clear that you and you alone are their target. They do not believe in tragic casualties." His grey green eyes tried to soften, he attempted to arrange his features into what he thought sympathy was supposed to look like, though he wasn't actually sure of his successfulness. After a split second pause, he reached out one of his hands and gently placed it onto one of her shoulders. It felt strange, unnatural. His hands weren't used for gentleness. The scars he could see Kris Kross along his fingers screamed the truth at him.

"We can move you, if you wish, but we believe it will be much easier for you to simply continue on as if nothing has happened, save for my presence. As long as I am here, no harm should be fall you or your charges."

Until orders changed. But she didn't need to know that.

"Campaigning should be over and done with in a matter of weeks and then life can move on. We'll find them before that, i'm sure," senator hunt then said, glancing from his daughter to Ronan and back. "Mr. Daniels will ensure the job is done properly."

The Impossible Mage [Rose x Star]

The Hexborn Detective

Name: Mara Vale
(Though older witches still sometimes call her “Threadseer” behind her back.)

Mara was born during a storm that blacked out three counties and shattered every mirror inside the coven house where her mother labored. The elders took it as an omen immediately. In coven culture, coincidences do not exist around magic. A child either arrives blessed, cursed, or carrying something that will eventually become everyone else’s problem.

By the age of seven, Mara could already see residual spellwork lingering in the world around her.

Not active magic — not fireballs or glowing runes — but the afterimage left behind when power touched reality. She described it as “threads.” Lies looked frayed around the edges. Violent places stained the air dark and heavy. Love spells clung to people like perfume. Old curses nested inside walls like mold. Every act of magic left fibers behind, and Mara could follow them.

The covens immediately recognized how valuable that ability could become.

While most witches specialized in ritual casting, potioncraft, spirit work, or blood rites, Mara was trained as an investigator. A tracker. Someone sent into the aftermath when things had already gone wrong. She learned how to reconstruct murders from magical residue, identify which coven cast forbidden rituals, and determine whether hauntings were genuine or manufactured. By twenty-three, she was already being quietly loaned between covens whenever situations became politically dangerous.

Officially, covens maintain peace.

Unofficially, witches sabotage, blackmail, manipulate, and destroy one another constantly.

Mara learned very quickly that most monsters wore human faces.

Personality

Mara is observant to an almost unsettling degree. She notices tiny inconsistencies automatically — mismatched emotional reactions, changes in breathing, the way someone hesitates before speaking. Years spent reading magical residue taught her that people rarely say what they truly mean.

As a result, she comes across emotionally restrained, dryly sarcastic, and difficult to intimidate. She rarely raises her voice. Rarely panics. Rarely shows vulnerability openly. In dangerous situations, she becomes calmer, not more emotional, which many people find unnerving.

But beneath that control is exhaustion.

She has spent most of her life cleaning up the aftermath of power. Dead families. Possessions. Ritual sacrifices disguised as accidents. Entire bloodlines destroyed over ancient grudges. She grew up believing witches were protectors of balance, only to discover most covens care more about preserving authority than morality.

Unlike many witches, Mara has no hunger for status within coven politics. She avoids gatherings whenever possible and deliberately works independently now, operating out of a small occult investigation office hidden above an old bookstore in the city.

She drinks too much coffee. Sleeps irregularly. Keeps case files stacked everywhere. Has an unfortunate habit of talking to herself while thinking through magical patterns.

And despite everything, she still cannot quite kill the instinct to help people.

Appearance

Mara looks like someone perpetually caught between exhaustion and sharp focus.

She’s in her early thirties, lean rather than delicate, with dark hair usually tied back messily simply to keep it out of her face while working. There are faint silver-white streaks at her temples that appeared unusually young — a side effect of overexposure to heavy spell residue.

Her eyes are the feature people remember most. Not because of unnatural color, they are simply dark brown, but because she looks at things too intensely, as though constantly seeing several layers beneath the surface of reality.

Her wardrobe leans practical over elegant: long coats, boots, dark sweaters, worn leather shoulder holsters for enchanted tools. She dresses like someone expecting trouble eventually.

She carries protective charms everywhere unconsciously. iron rings, black thread bracelets, tiny carved bone wards sewn into jacket linings, silver nails tucked into pockets... Not out of superstition, but rather, experience.

Her Magic: Threadwork

Threadwork is considered rare because it requires immense concentration and often drives witches into paranoia.

Mara sees magic as interconnected strands woven through reality itself. Every spell pulls on something. Every curse leaves tension behind. Every supernatural creature alters the “shape” of a space simply by existing within it long enough. By touching these lingering threads, she can reconstruct magical events, identify who cast a spell, detect lies woven through enchantment, follow supernatural entities through cities, unravel weaker curses, and sense emotional imprints left behind after traumatic events.

But her ability comes with consequences.

The more deeply she reads a place, the more emotional residue bleeds back into her. Violent scenes can leave her physically sick for days. Ancient ritual sites sometimes trigger intrusive memories that are not hers. Particularly strong magic can temporarily distort her perception until she struggles separating present reality from lingering magical echoes.

She has learned grounding rituals simply to remain functional.

Music helps. So does touch. Coffee. Cigarettes occasionally, though she’s trying to quit.

Her Relationship With the Impossible Mage

The first thing Mara notices about him is silence. Not literal silence. The absence of strain.

Every witch she has ever encountered leaves tension in reality when using magic, like fingers pulling threads too tightly. But his magic leaves no tearing whatsoever. Reality bends around him smoothly, willingly, almost eagerly.

That terrifies her.

Because if magic itself responds to him naturally, then the foundation of witchcraft changes completely.

Sacrifice may not be necessary.

The covens may have built entire systems of suffering around a misunderstanding.

At first, Mara approaches him like a dangerous anomaly to investigate. She expects instability, corruption, arrogance — something explaining why magic behaves differently around him.

Instead, she finds someone gentle.

Lonely. Frightened. Careful with his power in ways most witches never bother being.

And that unsettles her even more.

Because for the first time in years, Mara finds herself wanting something profoundly dangerous:

Not to control magic.

Not to survive it.

But to understand it.

Between Lessons & Lies

As they moved into the office, one of the secret servicemen automatically moved forward to the window, pulling the blinds down completely and adjusting them so that they were angled up and only slightly open before stationing himself in front of it and orienting his body so that he could look between the window and the door. The other guard placed himself just to the side of the door itself, falling into parade rest. The senator seemed indifferent to his location, moving forward and taking up a half sitting position against the desk. Ronan was last into the room, gaze automatically sweeping over the furniture, window, and back to the door as it was closed. He then hesitated a moment before stepping into the spot slightly behind and just to the right of Giselle, putting himself between her and the door.

Senator hunt looked momentarily taken aback by her question, but recovered an instant later and gave his hand a casual and offhanded wave. "Annette is fine. Hale as ever. She's probably going to outlive you at this rate," he said smoothly. He met Ronan's gaze for a fraction of a second over her shoulder before moving on. "No, i'm afraid it's more serious than that. You see, my team's uncovered some serious death threats in regards to you."

He let that hang in the air for a moment before nodding towards Ronan. "I've hired Mr. Daniels here to be your personal bodyguard. He'll be by your side 24 seven to ensure your complete and utter safety."

Between Lessons & Lies

Ronan's head automatically turned towards the opening door, catching his first sight of Giselle Hunt in the flesh, gray green eyes flickering over her face and posture. She looked fairly neutral, but he thought he caught a hint of something in her eyes. She certainly didn't rush forward to embrace her father when she saw him, though he seemed to have no qualms, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her slight frame. Ronan suspected that the gesture had more to do with the watching office workers than actual affection however.

"I'm afraid not,"senator Hunt said seriously, though he didn't bother to lower his voice Ronan noted. "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"

'And waste the opportunity to perform in front of an audience?' The assassin kept the thought from manifesting on his face, however strong the urge to frown was. He saw someone move behind the counter, but didn't turn his head to look towards them until they started speaking.

"You'd be more than welcome to use my office for privacy."

The man who had spoken was tall, middle-aged, slightly overweight, and beginning to go bald right at the crown of his head. Ronan made the assumption that he was the principal of the school. His gaze moved beyond him, to a door set in the opposite wall, a placard hanging next to it denoting it was the principles office, a secondary sign affixed beneath it with "Jeffrey Miller" printed on it.

"That is very generous of you," senator Hunt said before Giselle even had a chance to respond for herself, stepping forward and giving the man a firm handshake. "Thank you sir!"

Between Lessons & Lies

The campaign smile was gone. It was all Senator Hunt could do to keep his expression neutral as his displeasure grew. But Ronan could clearly see the fury in his eyes as he turned away from the door after the third set of knocks. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a cell phone, dialing a number and pressing the phone to his ear.

"Where is my daughter," he said in a low voice to whomever had picked up the phone, very still as he listened to the answer. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Give me the address," he then said, his phone almost immediately vibrating with a text message as he pulled it away from his ear. "Change of plans gentlemen. We're going to a school."

]...

Ronan didn't like being around children. It wasn't that he was opposed to children nor the practice of having them, but it gave him a sick feeling in his stomach to be around such innocence. If he could help it, he never went on assignments that involved them. His eyes tightened at what memories he did have. The rest of his expression remained blank as he followed the senator and his Secret Service into the school building, an elementary by the looks of it, and remained silent as he listened to him talk with one of the people working in the front office. He had removed his shoulder holster and both guns before they had arrived, stowing both in a hidden compartment underneath his car seat, so he at least had that. As the woman to whom the Senator had been talking picked up a phone, Ronan was carefully concentrating on studying the room, hands in his pockets to appear as casual as possible.

"Hi Giselle, it's Megan. Sorry to bother you, but... your dad is here to see you," the woman was saying, nervously brushing a few strands of her mousey brown hair out of her eyes. "He says it's very important."

On the hunt for those who love to create! (SFW only)

Bump! My previous update still stands. I've been pretty consistent with replies, it's been nice.

Between Lessons & Lies

The soft ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. The man sitting at the beautifully carved mahogany desk had his head in his hands, elbows propped against the surface, and seem to be barely breathing as he stared at the reports spread out in front of him. And then with a sudden violence that was alarming, he swept the documents from off the desk, knocking over a mostly empty cup of brandy and pen stand to the floor along with them, the cup instantly shattering against the hardwood floor. If the numbers were right, then is likelihood of being reelected was in serious danger. And that was unacceptable.

With a deep breath through his nose, the man straightened his crimson tie, brushed imaginary dust from the sleeves of his well tailored suit, and swept his hands back over his graying chestnut hair. He stood up from the desk and walked over to a decanter, picking up another cup and pouring himself another drink. He drained half the glass in one gulp before he moved slowly over to a painting that had been hung on the wall to disguise the lack of any windows in his office. He stared at the delicate oil painting of the countryside landscape, but wasn't really seeing it, his dark gray eyes unfocused as he thought. Absentmindedly, he sipped at his brandy.

'there's no other way.'

The thought was cold and hard. But he was willing to do anything to maintain his position. Finishing his second drink that evening, the man moved back over to his desk, pulling out a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking one of the drawers. From inside, he withdrew a burner phone and dialed a number from memory. It rang twice before it was picked up.

"Yes," the quiet voice that answered asked simply, free of inflection or emotion.

"I'd like to schedule a meeting. I have a job that needs to be done," the man responded, unsurprised.

"When and where," The Voice then said.

"Tonight. Same location as last time."

"9 o'clock. Don't be late."

The call disconnected with a click and the man slipped the phone into his pocket, planning on disposing of it later. He then pressed the button that would connect him to his secretary on the phone still safely sitting on his desk.

"Janet, i've accidentally knocked over a glass in here. Would you be so kind as to come clean it up?"

There was barely a beat of silence before the woman was responding, clearly used to this sort of thing by now. "Right away Senator. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No," he said, debating pouring himself another drink, "I'll be heading out for the evening, so make sure you lock up after you're done."

"Yes sir."

Checking his reflection briefly in a mirror to see that his tie was still in place, senator Hunt strode from his office, mind on the next steps. He always had a plan for everything.

...

Cold. That was how the shiny new silencer felt in Ronan Kelly’s hand as he examined it in front of the nervous rat of a man known by his associates as Marcus. The greasy, thin, sleeze bag was currently wringing his hands together, a cringe adorning his face as he stood partially hunched over. In his line of work, you would've thought he would have had more of a backbone.

“I h-hope this latest model meets with your expectations Mr. Kelly,” Marcus managed to say with only one small stammer, one of his hands groping in an inner pocket for a handkerchief to dab at the sweat beading on his forehead.

In response, Ronan picked up the gun that accompanied the silencer and twisted it into place on the muzzle of the weapon. He then, Very casually, pointed it straight at Marcus and pulled the trigger. The dealer squealed loudly, dropping his handkerchief to the floor and throwing his hands over his face as if he really had been shot. There was, after all, no ammunition actually loaded into the gun.

“Relax Marcus. If I really had intended on coming here to kill you, you wouldn’t have seen me first,“ Ronan intoned in a low tenor voice with a wry smile that didn’t touch his eyes, ignoring Markus's partner that had started cackling on the other side of the room at the incident. “The equipment is sufficient for my needs. You’ve done well this time,” he added, Careful to not give the man too much praise as he removed the silencer and crouched down to slip it into his suitcase. If Marcus received too many compliments, he was likely to start getting some actual confidence

Marcus, in turn, released a tremulous and rather shrill giggle as he produced yet another handkerchief, the sound setting Ronan’s teeth on edge. He wished he didn’t have to deal with men like this, but in his line of profession, you didn’t get very many options.

“Good one Mr. Kelly,” Marcus wheezed breathily, wiping the cloth across his entire face.

Picking up a loaded magazine, Ronan slid it into place, giving the bottom a slap so that it clicked securely into the gun. Slipping the weapon into the holster already at his back, he then picked up the second pistol, loading it in a similar fashion, before putting it into his shoulder holster. Lifting the remaining item, a backpack filled with extra ammunition as well as a few other items he had ordered, Ronan pulled one strap over his shoulder before his hand slid into his back pocket. Marcus instinctively flinched as something was tossed in his direction, but it was merely a white envelope.

“Be seeing you,“ Ronan stated simply as he grabbed the handle of his rolling suitcase and headed for the door. As he swung it open, He could’ve sworn he heard the man behind him release a shaky sigh of relief.

With a long and quiet sigh of his own, Ronan allowed himself one frown of displeasure and a brief shake of his head before he smoothed his features into a neutral expression. He hoped the show had been convincing enough for Marcus's partner to have a favorable report to pass on to Ronan's father. Boots crunching Saufley over the gritty back alley walkway, The wheels on his suitcase making similar, though louder, grinding noises, the man made his way out from behind Marcus‘s establishment to the street beyond. Sparing the refurbished appliances store that was the front for the real Business a brief glance, Ronan reached into his front pocket and retrieved the set of keys from inside, unlocking the door of the Ford Fusion waiting for him at the curb. Popping the trunk, he effortlessly swung his suitcase inside, sliding away the handle, before dropping the backpack next to it. Slamming The lid of the trunk back into place, he made his way around to the drivers side and got in, pulling his seatbelt across his body. Key then inserted into the ignition, the car started quietly with a simple twist.

‘Time to get this show on the road,’ he found himself thinking darkly, even as one of Beethoven’s symphonies began spilling out of the speakers as he put the car into drive and started off for his next destination.

Assassination wasn’t a profession someone simply stumbled into. You either had to actively pursue the career or else be born into a family of assassins. Unfortunately for him, Ronan fell into the latter category. His father killed for a living, his two older brothers following in his footsteps. His grandfather had been an assassin, even his great grandfather had gone about killing people. As far back as you could look into the Kelly heritage, their hands were stained red. And there was no other option.

Ronan’s own hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought over his latest assignment. A power-hungry father wanting to make a good appearance on paper and television, using his own daughter‘s death for his own gain. Not the most Pleasant of situations. He would do it, because he had no other choice, but that didn’t mean he would enjoy it. Jaw tight, he turned up the stereo and tried to loose his thoughts in the music while he drove.

...

The house he was told to meet at was easy enough to find in the end. Ronan pulled into the driveway, noting the expensive looking Mercedes that was no doubt government issued already there and sighed. He hadn’t yet met Senator Hunt in person. And what he had gathered of the man over various phone calls was nauseating. But again, it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Turning off the car and putting on the parking brake, Ronan flipped open the glove compartment and withdrew the wallet he had stashed there. Briefly, he opened it, gaze flickering over the forged drivers license with the name Scott Daniels printed next to his own face before he pull the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. Putting the key in his front pocket and the wallet in his back, Ronan took a moment to check his appearance in the side mirror before approaching the building.

His dark brown hair was cut relatively short, with the top slightly longer, styled neatly with a part down one side. He must have run a hand through it at one point without noticing, because pieces of it were sticking up in places, but a quick brush of his fingers had that set to write. Sharp, chiseled angles to his face gave him a good looking appearance, though his own face head always made him uncomfortable. A shadowing of stubble had appeared on his face over the course of the day, but it would be gone when he shaved that evening. Scrutinizing his own gray green eyes, he tried out a brief smile for practice, but felt it came off too much like a grimace for his liking, which only made him scowl.

‘Good enough,‘ he thought as he retrieved the ruddy brown blazer from where he had thrown it into the backseat and slid it on over his light gray henley shirt, giving his dark washed jeans a quick once over before he made his way towards the front door of the house.

What looked to be a secret service agent was standing just outside of the covered porch, watching his approach carefully. Briefly, their gazes met before Ronan showed him his ID and the official nodded, gesturing Ronan onward. Replacing his wallet, he stepped up onto the porch and automatically looked around.

An older man stood near the door, obviously the senator, with an expression that was like the cat in the cream at his appearance. Standing just behind him was a second agent, who was observing Ronan's approach calmly. They nodded to each other silently before Ronan stepped forward and extended a hand to the senator.

“Senator Hunt,” he said, offering a brief, bland, smile, Face growing neutral again quickly to hide his inexperience with the expression. He chose his next words carefully. “We meet at last. Scott Daniels.”

Senator hunt had on his campaign smile as he took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. "Glad to finally meet you Mr. Daniel's," he said in a voice that sounded like it was used to performing in front of cameras. With the use of video doorbells becoming so commonplace, it was a smart, and strategic, choice. "Shall we get right to it then?"

Ronan nodded shortly, watching as the well dressed man turned towards the front door and gave it a firm knock.

Between Lessons & Lies

Name: Ronan Kelly
Alias: Scott Daniels
Age: 26
Appearance: Ronan stands a little over six feet tall with a lean, athletic frame built more for speed and precision than brute force. His dark brown hair carries faint traces of auburn that become more noticeable under sunlight.. It is kept short on the sides, but is a little longer on top. He keeps himself clean-shaven, which sharpens the severe angles of his face and gives him a more polished appearance than most would expect from someone in his profession. A thin scar cuts through his right eyebrow, while another disappears beneath the collarbone on his left side — reminders of the brutal lessons his father believed made boys into killers. His pale gray-green eyes tend to study every room before he speaks, giving him a guarded, watchful presence. Along with the scars noticeable near his face, his fingers bear several scars, both long and short, with a few on the backs of his hands and one on his right palm.

He tends to avoid the obvious suit-and-tie look whenever possible, instead choosing to blend into crowds with dark jackets, neutral hoodies, fitted henleys, and worn boots that allow him to move quickly without drawing attention. He prefers clothing that looks ordinary enough to disappear into the background while still concealing weapons and protective gear beneath the layers. Most people mistake him for a friend, driver, or assistant rather than trained killer — exactly how he likes it.

Between Lessons & Lies

This is a dramatic and possibly deadly story that @ Xandrya and myself have decided to weave. It will be littered with murder, lies, and plenty of tension. And with any luck, we'll both have fun writing it together.