Arden didn’t really notice that Ice had stopped paying attention to her, or when it had even happened. She was too busy staring at the high school and wondering how something that was supposed to be the centre of so much drama could seem so… normal. Especially when its setting, which resembled something between a muddled parking lot and a military outpost, was so weird. She felt no magic or unusual power around the place, but then witchcraft wasn’t her thing. The only detail that struck her as odd to her was the police tape stuck to mid-air. That? That was not normal. Her eyebrow arched curiously at what she mentally dubbed a ‘funny little quirk in reality’.
Then it arched just a little bit more and turned on Ice. “I know what a coven is, silly,” she replied, flicking a wrist in a shrug and running her fingers through her hair with her other hand. “There was one all over the news, no?” Demons. Demons that the Saulniers had managed to avoid for the most part, largely down to Arden’s ability to drive like Hell was indeed on her tail. “Why would witches do this? It doesn’t serve a purpose.” Unless the families involved had all received ransom letters and that part just hadn’t been publicised. A witchy kidnapping. She also wasn’t aware her suggestion had sounded like a joke. “If I think I can?” Her head tilted and her amusement spread through her smile. “If I think I can,” she repeated as though he had just thrown down a gauntlet that should have been for someone else. “I am French, mon ami. Do not underestimate the power of the accent.” She tested how even her lipgloss was with her little finger, winked at Rafiki then blew Ice a kiss before darting off between the cars towards an unsuspecting military-whatever.
“Excusez-moi,” Arden dived right in with rather rapid-fire French. “Parlez-vous français?” The answer, as per usual, was a negative. There was something about English-speaking countries -- Britain most especially -- that suggested they were allergic to any language other than their own. The officer’s (soldier’s?) lack of French vocabulary (past knowing that the answer to her question was ‘No’) did not earn him any leeway, though she did flash a brilliant albeit faintly apologetic smile and continued to babble on at him in French, throwing in the odd English word to hold his attention. Had she done this before? Mais oui. In truth, she was throwing out lyrics to various songs because not even she had the attention span to hold a fake-conversation with someone. Eyelashes fluttering while she twirled her hair around her fingers, her other hand -- which had been pressed to the small of her back -- commenced the waving motion that, as far as she was concerned, was the international sign for ‘get a move on’.