Despite being neither taller nor older nor otherwise more remarkable than any other parent or faculty member, Professor Maeve Brigid Byrne had a way of moving that compelled other people to get out of the way. Not so much out of respect, in all honesty, but rather the feeling that she was likely to shove anyone who did not. She prowled through the crowd of registrants with a stiff back a deep frown, her emerald eyes taking on a predatory narrowness as she surveyed the incoming students. Her glare roved over bags and bodies alike, though exactly what she was on the lookout for was not immediately clear. A few individuals warranted a second glance, but nobody stuck out enough to deserve being properly tailed. For the sake of meeting parents, the other staff members had talked her into tying her unruly red hair back and wearing a pantsuit that did little to flatter her broad shoulders: The intended “look” of the outfit was unclear, however, as Byrne resembled a pissed-off orange alley cat far more than she did a qualified teaching professional. Standing in the midst of the bustling crowd, she found herself quite confused as to how she had been persuaded into the role of a professor: She did not like people, least of all teenagers, and least of the least, teens of the entitled variety. And speaking of the devils. The sound of thundering Norrevinters filled the hall, and Byrne’s frown lines somehow managed to trough even deeper into her face. She turned on the balls of her feet to head out and let someone else take care of that godforsaken situation, and had very nearly made it out of the room when she caught sight of something far worse out of the corner of her eye: It was striding through the front door in a pair of Italian leather shoes that likely cost more than her car, wearing a smile so self-assured she wanted to smack it clean off of his face. A Sterling. Larke, presumably, if her roster was correct. The boy was dressed in a pair of pressed khaki trousers and a pale blue button-down shirt that was rolled just below his elbows. His jaw and face were cut as dashingly as any in his lineage, and the signature charm of his pedigree shone through as he managed to persuade the receptionist to crack her first smile all day. He smirked and said something. She laughed. He took the papers with an easy shrug of one shoulder, waved a lazy salute with the hand still holding his forms, and turned back to mingle with the rest of the crowd. He held a black sport coat folded over one arm, but carried no bags with him. Those were handled, apparently, by the stout, black-haired man following behind him in a chauffeur’s uniform. Larke passed off the forms to the man with a firm handshake and another convincingly genuine smile, and then the two were up the stairs toward the common room, and the dorms beyond. Byrne shook her head. Lazy brat. Her bitter glowering was cut short, however, as she caught sight of the collision preparing to take place in the reception area: If the Norrevinters stayed their course, they would be seeing far more of Sterling than was good for the building’s structural integrity. It was with a quiet groan that Maeve forced her best public relations smile (though it didn’t really manage to touch her eyes,) and strode over to the ginger clan with purpose. She circled around so that she stood in the opposite direction of Sterling, and stopped about a foot out from the three giants. [color=#cc3300] [b]“Hilda? Hilda Norrevinter?”[/b][/color] Maeve exclaimed, her jovial tone touched by just enough of an Irish accent to color her inflection, [color=#cc3300] [b]“By God, it’s been an age and a day! And is this the Kora we’ve all heard so much about?” [/b][/color] She extended a hand to the teen girl, being sure to keep the sound of internal screaming out of her throat. [color=#cc3300] [b]“Grown a helluva lot since the last picture I saw, hasn’t she?”[/b][/color] [@VitoftheVoid] --- Larke, for his part, had simply decided to make the most of the whole atrocious situation. As he came up the stairs, he split from Ives, his driver, and took toward the common area while his help handled the task of depositing his bag. The room number was probably on the paper, anyhow. His sharp green eyes roved over the scene with casual interest, not betraying any of the general disappointment he was holding in his chest. He did not need to look at the wall placard to know that the name Sterling would feature at the top: The fine leather couches and brushed-nickel lighting fixtures were all in excellent taste, as was the blown glass chandelier up above. The bearskin rug and antlered armchairs were less so. In fact, were there less food in the room, Larke was certain they would still smell of the Norrevinter tribe. But it was no matter. Larke was here, at the god-forsaken boot camp, and he would be here until his father so changed his mind. That is to say, Larke Sterling would be in school here for a while. He glanced about again, this time at people, and shot a smile toward a familiar face. [color=#336699][b]"Mr. Heruscir![/b][/color] he said with a grin and a short wave of his hand, and strode over toward the boy. It was common practice for Larke to be dragged along to Council gatherings, and even more common for his father to hand him itemized lists of people he may meet in such places. Everyone likes the the sound of their own name, his father said, and everyone wants to buy from someone who says things they like. He extended a hand in greeting to the young man, his posture relaxed and his free hand in his pocket. [color=#336699][b]"It is Aaron Heruscir, or am I mistaking you for someone? I think I remember meeting you at the Yuletide ball a few years back. You were the guy with the great jokes."[/b][/color] Not Larke's speed of joke, of course, but everyone loved to be flattered. He leaned up against an end table and cast a glance toward the growing crowd before turning back to his company. [color=#336699][b]"Name's Larke, by the way. Sterling. Pleasure to re-make your acquaintance."[/b][/color] [@AluminumDude]