RP:The Disappearance of Rachelle Fournier
Part of the Larketian Fault Lines Arc
Summary: Rachelle visits Larket to go shopping. The Witchcraft Detection Net at The Academy of Magics picks up on her use of navigation magic and dispatches immediately for an unregistered witch practicing within the city limits. She has a very bad time.
Nameless Street
Rachelle || Every good adventure begins with a fancy new dress. And if Rachelle is anticipating a holiday trip to Rynvale soon, Larket seems the best place to find the latest fashion. There’s a new queen, Rachelle has heard, and the latest trends in high society are based off of what she wears. She certainly seems a stylish enough lady from the tabloids, but that’s the extent of Rachelle’s knowledge about her. Rachelle doesn’t really pay attention to politics, especially politics outside her rather social sphere based in Kelay. Politics boils down to problems for other people, problems for the poor, problems for the downtrodden. Unless it’s an economic policy that will affect her business, Rachelle has no concern for it. And so it is that she has not done her research before departing her Kelay home and travelling up the road towards Larket’s shopping district. Whispers of witches are problems for others, but not Rachelle. She has her enchanted parasol for protection and her travel bag full of further enchanting reagents and things she might need on the road. It’s too bad there aren’t Travel Advisories in Kelay about witch-hunts and the like, or maybe she’d know better.
It is a relatively quiet day in The Hard City, though relatively quiet for a kingdom going through its reconstruction might still be considered somewhat loud. To the west the replacement buildings for the ‘Towering Tenements’ are going up, and the work of moving heavy construction material into place by partially magical means is noisy work. To the east a ways, part of the Vibrance River cascades down into a sinkhole, producing the echoing sound of a waterfall. The north and south, where unexpected noise pollution is most likely to come from, are the silent directions today, besides the commerce further up the road, which might be Rachelle’s destination as there is a small boutique featuring the work of the husband of the Academy of Magics headmaster, the very same fashion designer who made the Queen of Larket’s wedding dress. Beneath the aforementioned academy, technicians monitoring the Witchcraft Detection Net are also having a quiet day, recording the locations of mundane witchcraft usage, and matching them up with the known witch registry… Yawns abound.
Rachelle should perhaps reconsider her insistence on travelling alone. Larket has changed since the last time she was here, and it’s something of a miracle that she’s gotten this far into the city without getting spooked by so much unfamiliar terrain. Bringing a servant along might have spared the woman from having to, heavens forbid, -talk- to someone to ask for directions. Though, it’s not as if the unwashed masses would have any clue where to find the best designers Larket has to offer anyway. Even Rachelle finds herself unsure as she stands at a crossroads. Was she supposed to tread further north here, or was this the part where she took a turn? She cannot quite recall with enough certainty to act. And so… here is one of many circumstances in which having a ridiculous amount of enchantments on her favorite parasol comes in handy. With a tap of the tip to the cobblestones underfoot, she can see a lit-up, faintly glittering path marking where she has traversed before. A simple charm, really, if you know how, and less likely to rot away or get eaten up by birds than a trail of breadcrumbs.
Macon’s prized witchcraft countermeasure, the machine built by Alvina, goes off in reaction to Rachelle’s breadcrumb spell. Sparks fly on the magical, holographic mini map of Larket that outputs the Witchcraft detector’s results in a trail that indicates the path laid out by the enchantment. In the relatively short time that the machine has been up and running, trails such as this have indicated that someone was up to no good and on the move. Anecdotal evidence suggests that stationary magic is less menacing, obviously this is a false conclusion. The trail leads from outside if Larket. An invasion. The technician watching this portion of the map records what he sees and hands it off urgently to special law enforcement that is always standing by in the detector room. The large, bearded man that receives the report then takes it over to the scrying area where a mage brings the location and Rachelle into view through a crystal orb. “Unregistered,” is the eventual verdict, and the armored officer is gearing up, throwing on a bronze helmet with a cage face mask, and leading a small group of Larketian guardsmen (three count) south down the main road in search of the umbrella wielder.
Rachelle || Ignorance is bliss, and Rachelle is happily humming along now that she has found her way. She can get some lovely new garb and be home in time for dinner. Maybe she’ll cook another pie for herself and Father, if he’s home from his latest business trip yet. Pumpkin pie with a dash of cinnamon? Rachelle continues to follow the trail, a slight skip to her step. When you can solve all your problems with money or with magic, life is easy. And if she happens to see any officers of the law in the streets, she won’t think to pay them any mind. Whatever Larket’s problems, surely -she- has nothing to fear. (Okay, maybe she’s been guilty of a teeny tiny bit of tax evasion, but who isn’t?)
There is a shop girl, well dressed in the latest Larketian fashion (low cut, as the queen had dictated with her own wardrobe choices) in front of the small boutique that Rachelle’s trail leads her to. She's out there looking to wrangle people inside and earn some commission. She spots the woman well before she spots the Larketian guardsmen coming from the opposite direction, and starts working. ‘Oh, come inside.’ ‘We have the new Ascor line.’ ‘We can find something perfect for you.’ Etc. Before she is able to get Rachelle inside and shopping though, the guard descends. The quartet of armored men marches forward and the officer leading the way raises his hand, “Miss. Hold it. Identify yourself.” He calmly shouts out towards Rachelle, with his beard bursting out the bottom of his face mask, which appears to share some anti-magic properties with the rest of his armor as he dispels part of the map quest enchantment just by stepping on top of it. The shop girl backs off, slowly slinking inside the store.
Rachelle isn’t quite sure what’s happening, but she’s sure it’s something she ought to be indignant about. One booted foot stamps down even as the other remains pivoted toward the store. Whatever the meaning of this, she’s sure it won’t delay her for long. “I am Rachelle Fournier,” she sniffs, “daughter of Mathias Fournier, both of us respected businesspeople of Kelay and beyond and -quite- unused to such disturbances, I’ll have you know.” Rachelle isn’t afraid. Not yet. The world has always been offered to her on a silver platter. The man will apologize for some misunderstanding or other and be on his way. Rachelle doesn’t wait for it, but instead attempts entry into the shop. Perhaps he’s a fan of her work? If so, he’ll just have to pester her while she shops. Hmph.
The Larketian guard at the rear of the formation, looking ridiculous in full armor without any gauntlets or gloves, quickly gets to writing something on a pad while Rachelle speaks. He should have asked her to spell that last name, because he jots down ‘Fortyaire’ which is barely close, and nonsense. None of the four guards happen to recognize the name and the officer huffs when she decidedly does not ‘hold it’ and moves into the shop. The saleswoman immediately forces a smile and goes right back into her pitch. ‘Are you looking for anything specific this afternoon?’ ‘The Asco-’ her eyes widen as the four men push into the shop and she again takes a few precautionary steps backwards. “I -told- you to stop,” the officer growls out, less calm this time before waving a hand behind him at the trail Rachelle had summoned, leading to the entrance of the shop. “Was this you?”
Rachelle whirls around to face the officers, waggling her parasol at the one doing most of the speaking. “I should have your names and badge numbers for this. The very idea!” She’ll make a stink through proper channels. Maybe she’ll get a nice autographed apology letter from the queen of Larket for putting up with such ridiculous interrogation? On the backburner, her brain is already imagining who she’ll have frame it and where in her house she’ll have it hung on display. Is it too obvious a brag if she displays a letter from a queen in her foyer? “Of course the magic’s mine, and what of it?” A gloved finger slides over some rune etched into the handle of her parasol, and the trail is gone again as easily as it had appeared. “A lady gets lost from time to time. A little magic gets her on her way again. Maybe you should post maps more frequently along the roads -- and not harass your tourists. That’s bad for the economy, you ought to know.” Rachelle nods toward the shopkeep, expecting her to take her side. There’s a sort of conspiratorial link she expects, one businesswoman to another, in a world filled with men abusing their power. Like this one.
The shop girl has read the latest issue of The Larketian Herald, and is able to put two and two together to understand that the new Witchcraft Detection Net that was written about therein must have led these guards to Rachelle and the shop. Smelling a sale in danger and catching the look for backup from the woman, she raises a hand at her side and speaks up, “This hardly seems necessary. She hasn’t done any harm.” This earns a stern look from the head officer through that caged face mask that implies, ‘Maybe you are a witch too, then?’ and the girl once again backs off. “That may be,” he says while the other three guards fan out behind him, blocking the exit and threatening to encircle Rachelle, “but by order of The King of Larket, I am tasked with bringing in any unregistered practitioner of witchcraft within the city for questioning. Miss Fournier, you will have to come with us back to the Fort,” he says, taking an offensive step forward next to a headless mannequin modeling a preposterously expensive blue and black dress. (Or is it white and gold?)
Rachelle is not much of a fighter. Where others might lose their marbles and resort to violence rather than be captured, Rachelle is too flabbergasted to do much more than continue to screech her offense. “This is obscene. I’ve done nothing wrong! I demand to see my lawyer at once!” (Are there lawyers in Lithrydel? There are now.) She’s backing away, further into the shop, parasol brandished out before her. She’ll smack you with it, you know. It’ll totally hurt -- moreso because she’s got a +15 damage modifier on it than any knowledge of where to target the thing. But she’s more of a cornered mouse than an actual threat to anyone.
Three of the four guards draw their weapons when Rachelle points the umbrella their way and backs up. The guy with the notepad just steps backwards a couple steps and starts writing again. Two of them hold swords in response to the defensive/threatening stance taken by the tourist while the bearded officer has in his hands a war hammer, because of course he does. The shop employee ‘eeps’ almost inaudibly and, with nowhere to go thanks to the guards standing between her and the exit, hides behind another headless mannequin that is wearing the same dress as her. Or it just looks the same to the untrained eye, probably. The two sword wielding guards look on edge as they stare at the tip of the parasol expecting dark magic to start shooting out of it at any moment. The officer takes one stomp forward, “Don't make this difficult. You -are- coming with us.”
Rachelle || It’s a standoff. The guards aren’t moving any closer, but Rachelle still has no way to escape. “Lawyer,” she repeats, but her attempts at appearing firm and unafraid are belied by the quiver in her voice, by the shaking of her outstretched arm as the parasol remains raised. She’s never been so much as detained before, much less charged with any crime. “Or else I will make this very, very inconvenient for you.” She’s not speaking of fighting, but of the money she and her father possess. Money she’s sure can be applied to the defense of her name, or to raise hell for these soldiers. Enough money can solve anything, right?
The officer rolls his eyes. There are numerous recent precedents that show that the law is not on the side of anyone accused of being a witch in Larket. Hell, that guy that killed one just got exiled, and he didn't even live here. He is not afraid of whatever slap on the wrist he might get for mistreating Rachelle. Money doesn't scare you when your boss (the king) holds such obvious power over the courts, and has thus far taken good care of those found to be acting against the witches who -everyone- knows have been attacking innocent Larketians even before the earthquake, which they definitely also orchestrated. “Aye, aye. We'll send for whoever you like once we get you to the fort.” A lie. “What are you waiting for? It's just an umbrella!” With that order barked, the two swordsmen move in to apprehend miss Fournier. They return only as much hostility as they receive, looking to end this without having to swing their weapons which will only be used to parry parasol swings and will be resheathed once they have hands on her and the situation under control.
Rachelle flails and splutters in all manner of flaccid defense. One guard actually gets smacked on the head, but it’s a lucky hit and soon enough Rachelle is apprehended, hauled out with her arms locked to her sides and her legs pinned likewise. “Do you KNOW who I am? Do you?!” Rachelle lets loose the warrior cry of all rich people everywhere, but it is highly ineffective. She’s lucky she even maintains a grasp on her parasol as she’s carted off, hollering and making a scene but capable of little else.
The guards take Rachelle to Fort Freedom as they said they would, however when they arrive and are having her processed, things go differently than they have for any other witch brought in previously. There has been a recent request by the king to hold appropriate candidates to be handed over to a special detainment location, and Rachelle just so happens to meet these criteria. There is no longer in sight when they haul Miss Fournier away and contact the royal alchemist. If he is in and ready for her, then she will be brought down to the lab post haste, if not she will be held away from any other prisoners until the time comes that Muzo is ready for her...