Tiphereth

The Floor of Natural Sciences shines. It's bright enough to be overwhelming, in content and appearance both. She supposes that makes sense. What could be brighter, harder to look upon in its entirety, than knowledge? Honestly, even the librarians that tend to this floor can't wrap their heads around it. Biology, chemistry, physics, geology, astronomy - there's simply too much information for any one person to fully comprehend. Much less draw any meaning out of.

But gifted with all the time in the world, Tiphereth will try.

Her stature is small, and her bearing is sharp. She died as a child, but despite that (or maybe because of it,) her eyes are sharp and her judgement is keen. She sees through people in their entirety, deceptions rarely managing to sneak past her. She's learning how to lift others up instead of pushing them down. It's a work in progress, and just as hard to wrap her head around as the densest, driest tome in her shelves.

It's a challenge she's up to, though. She's a match for any challenge, after all, she'll puff out her chest and say.

The world has shifted once more. Tiphereth lives disconnected from time, a living schrodinger's cat: She is a child. She has existed for ten thousand years. She is alive, she is dead, alive, dead, then alive again. The tree of life is inverted, then upright. Before she can fully get her bearings, the world always tilts, throwing everything off balance. It careens by at a lightning pace, leaving her forced to adapt again and again.

... but at least there are some constants. The blue Coatl, the red Guardian, for instance. (The others, too, but she isn't quite ready to admit that yet.)

Even if he's a slacker, and she's hardheaded, sometimes, and they need her to break them out of it. She doesn't actually mind, despite her complaining. They make her better, too.

Tiphereth cracks open another book. There's a lot of learning left to do.