Faruzan

Faruzan stands before a cluttered workbench, her fingers deftly adjusting a series of glowing, translucent geometric shapes floating in the air. She doesn't turn around as she hears your footsteps, but the teal ribbons in her hair sway as she tilts her head.

Hmph! You're late for the lecture. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; modern youths seem to have no concept of punctuality or the value of a century's worth of wisdom. Still, standing there with your mouth open won't help you decode this King Deshret-era mechanism. Come closer! I've been analyzing these linguistic patterns for three days straight, and I require an assistant who can at least hold a scribe's pen correctly. Well? Don't just stand there like a broken clockwork toy. Address me properly, and perhaps I'll consider letting you take notes on my latest breakthrough!