There are plenty of options available. The Founders Prayer Book copy seems to be the only thing that was taken besides Scyelen herself.

He takes one, and gives Siesta another hug. "I mean it, that I want you to tell Tabitha if you need me. I'll check in with you myself if I can, but I don't know if I'll have the spells to spare for it. Okay?"

Siesta nods firmly and wishes him good luck.

And he heads back to the courtyard. "Ready to go."

Sylphid crouches down. Tabitha hops up onto the dragon's back and gestures for Raafi to get on behind her.

He does, with a care that suggests some familiarity with flying mounts.

Sylphid takes off, circling to gain altitude.

Tabitha glances back at Raafi, once they're in the air. "Destination? Or bearing."

He points. "The palace. Stop a couple miles short of the city, maybe, I don't want to draw too much attention."

Tabitha nods.

Sylphid straightens out and heads that way, speeding over the landscape.

Flying is usually a treat, but he's really not in the mood, today. He spends the time mulling over his plans, instead.

When they touch down, he thanks Tabitha again, waits for them to leave, and sits under a tree, staff held loosely in his hands, and finally reaches for his gandalfr powers, letting their strength settle on him before he tries to look through Scyelen's eyes.

Scyelen's sight is blurred with tears.

Light filters into a dim space through gaps between the wooden planks making up the ramshackle walls. Scyelen's vantage point is low, at eye level with a shelf, and she's positioned such that she can't see her own body at all. It's hard to make out the shapes on that shelf through Scyelen's tear-blurred vision, but they could easily be the artifact Fouquet stole from the school and the Founder's Prayer Book Scyelen got from Henrietta.

The cloaked figure of Fouquet peers out a window, her back to Scyelen. A moment later, she turns away, revealing the tightly mummified sea-green figure of her body. She pauses, moving her hands in a way that implies she's saying something, but even if Raafi could read lips, Scyelen can't see above Fouquet's chest. Scyelen's point of view quavers, like her head is trying to move and can't.

The figure of Fouquet reaches out. She's holding a vial of some pink liquid. She grips Scyelen's face, and the view wobbles as Fouquet seems to force Scyelen's mouth open and pour the vial in. Her hands fill Scyelen's view, tears covering everything in a smear of light, and then a shudder, presumably a swallow.

Fouquet's hands release her, retreating into the watery blur of now-indistinguishable color.

That's a trap.

It might not be one he can afford not to walk into, though. Vaux might read as good, but her methods are obviously questionable; he doesn't, actually, trust her not to traumatize Scyelen, not after that mess with the aphrodisiac mist. He doesn't want to spend the next decade answering 'why didn't you come for me'.

At least he's more prepared, this time. He chants the familiar words of Moment of Prescience, the rough incantation of Stone Body, and the precise syllables of Shield of Law, takes a fighting stance, and teleports in.

Scyelen doesn't even notice him arrive. Her screams of desperate pleasure are the first thing to hit him when he arrives. She's naked and... embedded at the waist in a narrow block of cloudy translucent white crystal rising from the ground under a hole in the floorboards.

The rest of her twitching, writhing, sweat-soaked body is tightly bound in leather belts and held in place by the man-shaped glass golem thrusting into her from behind with one glass hand fisted tightly in Scyelen's purple hair, and by the taut chain running from a collar around her neck, through a ring in the floor and then another ring in the rafters to the edge of a bubbling cauldron suspended above her.

The figure of Fouquet, fully covered in her sea-green wrap and her cloak, stands off to one side, by the cabin's doorway, wand in hand.

Welp.

She's not going to accept a teleport out, not with that going on. He chants anyway, and touches her shoulder, but nothing happens.

"Fouquet?" he calls, trying to be heard over the noise. "What the hells."

Between Scyelen's screams are much-quieter breathless gasps, her eyes rolling up in her head. She is definitely too far gone to respond to Raafi's presence.

The figure of Fouquet doesn't reply, and it's impossible to tell what expression is on her face through the covering cloth.

He glances assessingly at the cauldron rig and, apparently deciding that it's not an immediate hazard, takes a step toward Fouquet. "I know you're fucking with me. What was this supposed to accomplish, anyway?"

The figure of Fouquet shrugs, still not speaking.

"Whatever it is, I'm not playing." He doesn't drop the defensive stance, but doesn't move any closer, either.

The figure of Fouquet does an exaggerated shoulder-slump and face-palm.

Then she shrugs off her cloak, folds it neatly, and sets it aside. She... it, starts removing the seafoam-green wrapping, revealing glass rather than flesh, underneath. The decoy golem continues stripping out of the Fouquet costume, folds it up, and sets it aside. When it's done, it backs into the corner and then falls apart into sand.

The golem ravishing Scyelen freezes, not turning into sand, but becoming a motionless statue upon which Scyelen continues to mindlessly writhe.

And that's it. The real Fouquet does not reveal herself, and nothing else happens either.

Raafi steps to the side, too, and after a few seconds.... disappears?

And yet, a few seconds later, there's chanting again, behind Scyelen - and nothing happens.

"-Scyelen, sweetheart?" It's his voice again, coming from empty air in front of her, now.

She doesn't appear to hear him. Tremors continue to run through her body as she slowly begins to relax, her head and upper body dangling limp in the statue's fixed grip.

Her eyes don't focus, but she's not dazed, or delirious. She's peaceful. Raafi's never seen her in subspace, but he can probably recognize it.

Yeah.

He casts again - Owl's Wisdom; it most likely won't bring her out of it but it'll help her orient to what's going on around her a little, at least. "Sweetheart, we need to go. Can you do that for me? If I teleport you?"

Wisdom is a peculiar thing. If intelligence reveals objective truths, then wisdom reveals subjective ones. Not what is, but what ought.

Her abductor spent the last couple of days stripping her of everything she thought she ought to be, reducing her to a mere object of flesh and eroticism, exposing her utterly and taking her to a place where shame couldn't reach her: an ultimate sanctuary.

Raafi's voice, calling her 'sweetheart' as he often does, is a blade trying to pierce that sanctuary. Raafi is here. In the clarity of her temporary wisdom, and in the freedom from embarrassment granted by her sanctuary, she is able to openly acknowledge for the first time the dread that word in that voice sparks in her heart.

A part of her that was profoundly unslaked likes it when he makes her feel all twisted up and uncomfortable and then hugs her about it; likes feeling like she can't refuse him when he hugs her about it. But getting affection from Raafi is like drinking salt water. It seems like it should help, but it only makes the original thirst worse instead of better, and tastes bad besides.

She probably would've realized all of this, on her own, later; the boost in wisdom just sped things up. She is going to allow herself to be stubborn. If Raafi doesn't want to see her like this, if he wants to take her out of her sanctuary, he's going to have to drag her out by force.

He can't read her mind, of course. When a few seconds doesn't get him more than a stubborn look as a response, he sighs and makes a closer examination of the room before getting out his portable hole, retrieving a blanket and pouch of dried fruit, which he leaves piled neatly on the floor beside her, and a cup, which he takes over to what appears to be a decanter of endless water in the stolen artifact case - odd, but he recognizes the runes, so, whatever - where he tries the most common command words until he hits on one that produces a stream of water to fill the cup.

"Can I get you to drink something, sweetheart?"

Scyelen can't really move her head much, but if Raafi puts a cup of water to her lips, she will drink.

Her skin is flushed, red from exertion even now. Actually, she's redder than she should be, given that she is now more-or-less resting. Her skin is approaching feverish.

Her midriff is stained by a white crust, where it meets the white crystalline mineral she's stuck through, and the skin underneath feels raw. Her neck hurts, though strangely her scalp doesn't. Her butt and her loins throb, sore from the unyielding hardness of glass, but she's nowhere close to as sore as she should be, thanks to Cameron's healing spells. The physical discomfort is nothing, in her sanctuary. It's almost a comfort. Proof of her helplessness, of her lack of control, of the absence of any call to decide.

Whatever happens to her next is Raafi's decision, but she is utterly free to feel however she likes about whatever he decides that should be.