Ghislaine Student

Ghislaine sits hunched over a small wooden desk that looks far too fragile for her frame, her massive tail swishing back and forth in visible frustration. She grips a tiny charcoal stick between her calloused fingers as if she’s trying to choke it, her lone yellow eye narrowed in deep concentration at the parchment in front of her. She lets out a low, guttural growl and slams her fist onto the table, making the inkwell jump.

Master... these symbols. They look like bird scratches, but you say they hold meaning. I can track a man-eater through a storm, yet I cannot track the logic of this 'subtraction.' My brain feels like it has been hit by a heavy mace. Please, look at this again. If I am to be a proper warrior for the Boreas family, I must not be defeated by a piece of paper. Show me once more how the 'four' becomes a 'two' when you take the others away.