Professor Maeve Brigid Byrne had a way of moving that compelled people to get out of the way; there was a vague sense that she would walk through or over anything in her path.

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 Young, eager bodies housing sheltered histories moved like a herded flock through the echoing lobby. Her glare roved over bags and bodies alike, evidently on the looking for [i]something[/i]. A few individuals warranted a second glance, but nobody stuck out enough to deserve being properly tailed. 

Due to the risk of meeting other adults, Kovalenko 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 hosed-down orange alleycat far more than she did a qualified teaching professional. Though, truth be told, there was little that anyone could have done about that fact.

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 even less than least, teens of the entitled variety. 

And speaking of the devils. 

The sound of thundering Norrevinters filled the hall, and Byrne’s scowl 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 they parted: One to the common room, the other to the large luggage drop. 

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 (which was, by any stretch of flattery, not very good,) 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]

So, [i]so[/i] much internal screaming. In fact, she was certain that her right shoulder had started to ache. 
[@VitoftheVoid]

[hr]

Larke, for his part, had simply decided to make the most of the whole sticky situation. As he came up the stairs, he split from Ives, his driver, and took toward the common area while Ives handled the task of depositing his bag. The room number was probably on the paper, anyhow. And Larke was not about to sacrifice possibly the last ten minutes of hired help he would experience for the rest of the school year. 

His sharp green eyes roved over the scene with casual interest, not betraying any of the growing dread balling up in his chest. He did not need to look at the donation placard on the wall to know that his family name would be 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 flat-screen television was a nice touch.

The bearskin rug and antlered armchairs were less so. Had there not been such a glorious breakfast spread, he was quite sure the room would still reek of the dirty little island they had been shipped from.

He shrugged off the thought, restored his smile, and adjusted his rolled sleeves before making for the laid-out breakfast spread. Larke picked up a few pieces of fruit, some bacon, and a glass of orange juice while subtly taking inventory of his classmates. His mother had insisted he look over photo albums and refresh himself on family trees, and all but a few checked off: Ripren was recognizable by her unusual sense of style; then Velius, seeming to be engrossed in... whatever he was doing; a Santora... Nolan, Larke was pretty sure; and the poor little Kingsley bastard, whom he had never seen in person, was sitting next to a Ciervo. Admittedly, he only recalled the last one by her missing finger. 

And then, finally, someone more personally familiar: [color=#336699] [b]"Well, if it isn't Miss Dawn Memoli!"[/b] [/color] He carried his little plate over to her, setting his drink down but not taking an immediate seat. He extended a hand to shake. [color=#336699][b]"It's good to see you again... Been since, what? Berlin? Mind if I sit?"[/b] [/color] 

[@echoicchamber]

[hr]
The thump-bump of the bus solicited a surprised squeak from Mitch, and a far less identifiable noise (though it probably fell somewhere between an owl’s screech and crane’s whoop) from the covered cage occupying the seat beside her.  

Aside from occasionally poking a piece of fruit jerky it under the cage cover, or adjusting the volume on her MP3 player, the mousy-haired young woman had stayed nearly stock-still for the entire trip. Her eyes were obscured by dark glasses to protect them from the changing light of the road, but her gaze remained forward. 

A collapsible white cane sat folded in her lap. 

It had been a rather long and more than slightly stressful journey for both Mitch and her caged companion: Between boarding planes and dealing with incompetent airport staff, navigating less than accommodating bus services, and portaling her friend in and out of existence to clear TSA, it had been emotionally and physically exhausting. The constant hissing-clicks from her largest bit of luggage had kept anyone from immediately sitting near her.

So, when the bus lurched to a final stop and the sound of her peers beginning to disembark sounded around her, Mitch was more than elated. 

She turned herself further into the seat as the others began grabbing their things from the overhead bins and jostling on their way out, opting to instead change out her sunglasses for a much (much, much) thicker pair of readers, withdraw her tablet, and connect to the school’s Wi-Fi while the others shoved in a hurry to reach the same destination in a relatively similar amount of time. 

When the bus was empty, she stood, tucked her readers and tablet into her pocket, unfolded her cane, slung her backpack over her shoulders, and then lifted the cage with her free hand. Arrangements had been made to have her things delivered to her room. 

[color=#006666][b]“Thank you,”[/b][/color] she said in the general direction of the driver before stepping off, her voice soft and her smile softer. She swept her cane along the ground with the deftness of someone who had done this most of her life as she headed up the crunchy gravel drive to the school entrance. The cacophony of voices booming against increasingly echoing corridors was not hard to follow, though she kept a reasonable distance back from the thick of the crowd. The ceiling sounded high. 

She tapped her way over to one wall, following along until she hit what seemed to be a table. Or just, you know. More lost. 

[color=#006666][b]“I’m looking for registration?”[/b][/color] she announced, piping up over some of the noise, but in no clear direction as the cage gave another disgruntled chirp. 

Someone touched her arm, and she startled a good bit more than she had at any of the bus’s bumps. 

[b]“Are you Leila Ingram?”[/b] said a woman’s voice, dry and disinterested. 

Mitch nodded. [color=#006666][b]“Yeah,”[/b][/color]she replied, dipping her shoulder away from the unsolicited touch, but turning to face the woman who had spoken. [color=#006666][b]“And it’s Just Mitch.”[/b][/color]

[b]“Alright, Miss Ingram,”[/b] said the woman, taking Mitch’s arm and guiding her toward what Mitch assumed was the desk. The girl resisted the urge to scowl at the way she was being dragged around through unknown space faster than she could sweep, but made no effort to correct the woman as she kept talking. [b]“I’ve got some forms you need to sign. And an extra in regard to your exception to our familiar policy.” [/b]

Mitch stared ahead, and set the cage down at her feet. [color=#006666][b]“Okay.”[/b][/color]

[b]“I need you to sign this.” [/b]

Mitch blinked, waiting a full five seconds to see if she would be grabbed without permission once again, before patting around for the pen, finding the paper, and signing randomly on each of them without paying any heed. 

It would not have been hard to take out her readers, but this woman seemed too likely think she was too incapable for that. Not worth her energy. [color=#006666][b]“Are we done? Can I let out my guide?”[/b][/color]

The woman did not reply. 

Mitch nodded, assuming the woman had probably also nodded. And if not, she was being kind of a bitch by not responding. Too tired to care much either way, Mitch then proceeded to crouch in front of the desk and open the door to the cage, 

Like a bug crawling out from under a cup, her companion burst out, taking first to a wobbly flight that made a nearby student scream, and then settling down upon Mitch’s shoulders with all six of its legs, frond-antennae twitching as its head swiveled and its four shiny eyes darted about to take in the surroundings. 

The coldness of the thing’s carapace-covered belly rested against Mitch’s body, and she could feel a low rattle-hiss-purr vibrate against her back. 

[color=#006666][b]“Hi Apple,”[/b][/color] she crooned, and a genuine, wide smile spread across her face. She reached to scratch “Apple’s” purple furred back, and then turned to kiss his cheek before he scuttled back down to her feet. 

She had taken the initiative to put him in his work harness before boarding her plane in London, in case anyone didn’t know that he was a “Service Animal! Do not pet!” 

[color=#006666][b]“Oh, hi. Hi little muffin. I know. I know,”[/b][/color] Mitch carried on, folding up the crate cage and tucking it into her pack even as several other students passed by with noises of alarm or surprise. [color=#006666][b]“Hi, fluff bucket. C’mon, now.”[/b][/color]

 She straightened, cane and cage both stashed away, and took hold of the handle on Apple’s back. [color=#006666]“Follow,”[/color] she ordered, and the pair moved into step behind the crowd making its way toward something that smelled like pancakes. Apple opened his beaky little mouth, and a smaller, less beaky mouth popped out to open and close, tasting the air. He shot a tongue out of the smaller mouth, and licked the stairs to be sure they tasted alright.

With the help of audio cues and her trusted sidekick, Mitch managed to navigate the buffet line and acquire a plate full of something edible, and then proceeded back toward the tables and couches with a bit of trepidation. People were not her forte- At least not people her own age or those who she didn't already know. Regardless, her options were limited. There was no sitting alone. 

She stepped toward an area that sounded (maybe?) less crowded, and offered a warm smile in what seemed like the right direction. [color=#006666][b]“Is this seat open?”[/b][/color] she asked, though her voice was much softer than she had intended.

[@prosaic]