James remained silent, sighing. While he would gladly die for the academy, you couldn't train a warrior in an environment without danger. A fighter, yes. One could become the most skilled swordsman in the world, and yet they still would not be a warrior. James knew very well what it was like to confront the fear of death and mortal injury, and the sooner these students learned how to do that, the more of them would live. He was growing especially worried, as recently there had been stirrings among the Undead. Although James was not popular among his kin, many did not care about allegiance as much as the offer of money or food. Something big was happening, and although he hadn't voiced his worries, he knew the headmistress was aware of them.
Quietly, James pointed out each child. The dragon-boy, the first target on the battlefield. He would attract the most attention, and be the focal point for the enemies attacks. He'd die before he made it into melee range with the enemy. The drunkard, a great fighter, who knew nothing of deceit or trickery. He'd fall to his ignorance and naivety, a dagger in teh back or poison in his food. The ladies man, too arrogant and self-confident. He'd get into a fight with someone stronger than himself, and be struck down by either spell or blade. The eager young lad, who had not faced his fear of death, and would panic when faced with a more powerful opponent. He'd either attack with reckless abandon or flee, inevitably dying in either situation.
Calmly, James pointed out each student, calmly pointing out their weaknesses, and how they would die. In a normal conversation, he would have spoken, but James saw breathing, and thus speaking, as something unnecessary that got in the way of communication. The headmistress, he knew, would know what he meant. He had yet to find a shielding method that prevented her from reading his thoughts, and had given up a long time ago.