The Isle

As it was fairly nearby, Ian's room was one of the first Foulques visited after leaving his own. What he saw when he got there, however, had him pausing in the doorway. Ian had scribbled- and was scribbling- all over the blackboard and two of the room's walls. Letters. Words. Numbers. Symbols. It looked, to him, like the scribbled ravings of a madman. But given what the sort of code Ian worked with tended to look like to him, he wasn't going to immediately assume they'd lost their grip on sanity.

Instead, he cleared his throat loudly to announce his presence. "I didn't think you the type to add to the general level of graffiti around here," he said dryly.