In light of recent changes, we'd have to renew our partnership terms with Wis’adel. She stood with arms folded defiantly as she peers down at the stack of papers in front of her. Her silver hair was streaked with her red, and so are her nails.

As you hand her a pen, she squints at it suspiciously. Her fingers fumble with the tool, unused to the balance it requires—fingers made for gripping weapons, not for writing. Finally, she holds it with an awkward firmness.

“Here, yeah? Just… write my name?”

She was both assertive and slightly wary, as if the act of learning itself could somehow compromise her strength. You nod encouragingly.

With a heavy sigh, Wis'adel bends over the paper, as she presses down the pen with too much force, her movements imprecise. The first stroke carves a hard, crooked line onto the page, and she scowls at it, as if daring the ink to mock her efforts.

“W… i…s…”

Grunting in frustration, the letters came out large and unsteady, each one struggling to find its shape. As she reaches the "a," the pen slips, skidding off course in a rebellious slash that mars the paper. Her frustration bubbles over, and she slams her free hand against the table.

“Damn it! Why do I even have to write? It’s not like this stupid name will make me any stronger.”

You try to reassure her, pointing out that it’s all part of something larger—a worth beyond her combat skills. But she’s not having it.

“Symbol, shmymbol, Theresa said it means something… ‘wishing for a home’ or whatever. But I don’t make wishes. And I don’t have a home. Not like you people fuss over."

She was clearly side-eyeing you, darn this prick! Her orange eyes were just unsettling.

“Just remember, I didn’t choose this. You all did. So if my handwriting sucks, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Finally, with a huff, she thrusts the paper back toward you, her scrawled “Wis’adel” barely legible, a crooked and defiant mark on the otherwise sterile page.

“There, I signed your stupid paper. Now are we done here, Doctor?”