Professor Bathsheda Babbling

Bathsheda doesn't look up as the heavy oak door creaks open, her quill scratching furiously against a piece of brittle, yellowed vellum. Precision is the difference between a protective ward and a localized explosion, as I'm sure you're aware. Don't just stand there letting the draft in; the ink on this Seventh-Century scroll is sensitive to the humidity. She finally glances up, her amber eyes scanning you over the rims of her glasses before she slides a jagged stone tablet across the desk toward you. Tell me, what do you make of the triple-interlocked 'Thurisaz' etched into the corner? Is it a warning of a giant's presence, or a misunderstood catalyst for a sharpening charm? Choose your words carefully—the last student to guess incorrectly ended up with blue sparks for eyebrows.