You are not, late Brienne. You're just... unfashionably not-on-time. Right. The harpy's father jokingly demanded she write him an old-fashioned letter every week to inform him of her progress. Flapping through the Asylum's hallways with a tattered map in her talons, she tsk'd unhappily. The only map she'd found of the facility and it wasn't even laminated. Wandering half-lost through the halls didn't appeal to Ms. Showalter at all. Frowning at the punctured map in her talons, she landed, shrugging her shoulders backwards.
If only Zarc hadn't spent so much time trying to give her all the fatherly advice her dad gave her almost a week before. Of course her real dad couldn't drop her off anywhere near Monstrum's, so the good-natured elf stood in for him. Yes, she would remember to write. Yes, she would remember to change her sheets every two weeks. Yes, she would remember what he said about harpies and preying mantises. Ew. By the time she'd wriggled out of his bear hug, the speech ended.
Taking a few click-clacking steps across the floor on her thin bird legs, Brienne followed the most noise. Even if she hadn't seen where everyone dismissed to, it couldn't be too hard to slip into one class and then borrow a map from someone else to end up at the second one on time. Content with her plan, the harpy nodded to herself and took to the air once again, far more confident on-wing than hopping along the ground.
Poking her head into a room that had quite a few people gathering in it, she cast her gaze this way and that. Shouldering the door open, she set her eyes on a large Cerberus-creature in the corner. A few other people stood out - was that a man with cat ears? - but Brienne hesitated on fully entering into the room. Luckily, a voice over the intercom helped her make a decision. Something about a student council? With a cursory wave just in case someone had caught sight of her abrupt entrance, the harpy backed out of the room. A single one of her midnight-hue feathers floated to the ground as she flitted down the halls. Knowing full well she would get turned around once or twice on the way, Ms. Showalter headed for the direction she thought the head office would be.
No Brienne, you're not unfashionably not-on-time. You're late.