[ P ] too good not to

ooc note: Ainsley exclusively speaks and understands Scottish Gaelic, feel free to assume she's always speaking in her native tongue.

Everything about this place is foreign. From the language to the villages; the way some women simpered about and some men begged on the street corners. The way they all walked around with an air of superiority. A large part of her is thankful that she decided to spend a few weeks acclimating to the new environment before heading to the college. It isn't just a new forest or a new valley. Their society as a whole is so outlandishly different she can barely wrap her mind around it. But this is also the whole reason she'd come here. Whispers had begun to spread of a land not as unreachable as they thought, that offered more.

So here she is.

Wandering the halls, she struggles to understand where she's going. The only language Ainsley knows how to speak is her native tongue - Scottish Gaelic. So far, nearly ever wolf she's met speaks a tongue she can't even begin to understand. Her lack of understanding is usually followed by an impatient sigh from whoever she's speaking to before they switch languages, if they are even able to speak her native tongue at all. The entire journey has not only been exhausting, but disheartening.

She had hoped to come here to learn something. To expand her knowledge beyond the limitations of the forest back home.

Rounding a corner, she doesn't see the wolf coming towards her, not with her eyes wandering the walls in search of something that might point her in the right direction. Instead, she runs face first into the chest of another, the earthy tones of his cologne immediately invading her senses. A sound of surprise escapes her lips as she back pedals away from the stranger. She makes it a habit to not run into total strangers. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you." The natural rasp in her throaty voice doesn't waver, she doesn't even look flustered as she regards the unnamed man before her. Quite the opposite happens.

Her face tips slightly as she regards him with sharp, fiery eyes, drinking in his appearance. His soft grey eyes. The warm tones of his coat. The unassuming way he stands taller than her. He's just as different as any other wolf she's met here. Triangular ears tilt towards him, giving him her full attention whether he wants it or not. Her nostrils flare gently, committing his signature scent to memory in an instant. In her world, unassuming gets you killed, so she is anything but. While she's non-confrontational, there is an air about her that promises more than anyone bargains for, a confidence in the way she addresses him. Ainsley doesn't wilt simply because she is a foreigner. She is sure of her place in the world, no matter where she stands. And everything about her screams just that.

Scottish Gaelic

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Macallan Abernathy watched as his students filed out of class, their soft murmuring fading in nearly an instant. He did not take offense to how quickly his classroom vacated when his lecture ended. He remembered being in their positions, and how eager he was to get to the next subject. Some of them likely were just eager to be done with his subject, but he could not help but romanticize the educational experience from time-to-time. He did not fool himself: ethics was not the sexiest of subjects, but, as he'd said many times before in lectures, it was one of the most essential.

He waited dutifully by the door till they all filed out, and then he organized his space quickly before following them out the door. He did not have another lecture until that afternoon, so he had some free time. He preferred to wander about the grounds on occasions like these, though sometimes he felt the need to lesson plan. Not today, though. Something about the outside world called to him, and he was drawn from his classroom into the bustling hallway. Distractedly, he rounded a corner, and immediately ran into someone.

That someone felt like a solid stone wall, and Macallan, less athletic by nature - and, later, by choice - glanced off of her body like she was an immovable object. A few seconds later, he recognized that this immovable object stepped backwards, and that said immovable object was not an object at all, but a woman. The first thing that struck him after the sheer strength of her stature was her scent: jasmine. He had always liked that smell. Florals were not uncommon around campus, and they were part of the reason he liked his walks between classes.

The third thing he noticed about her came immediately when she spoke: "I'm sorry, I didn't see you." Macallan was a man of many learned talents, one of which was, blessedly, a fluency in Scottish Gaelic. His brain automatically registered the language, though it caused a brief flash of surprise to cloud his quartz eyes. Despite the fact that many Rionnach citizens spoke the language, it was somewhat rare to hear it in the halls of the college, something he was disappointed in. His brain immediately switched fluency, and when he responded, it was in near-perfect Gaelic himself: "It is my error. I was too excited to be done with class, it seems." He offered her a small smile, noticing the way she was staring at him with a little more heat than he had expected, like she was thinking he might say or do something stupid. There was a good chance of that, but likely not in the way she thought.

He was about to speak to her again, to politely sidestep around her and let her be on her way, when something stopped him. He could not say exactly what. Perhaps it was the fiery way she stared at him, or the perfect pitch of her Gaelic. "Are you...a student here?" he asked, once again in Gaelic. He did sidestep a moment later, but it was to allow a throng of students to pass them.

He's softer than she expects. In more ways than one. When she speaks, surprise registers on his face. Not judgement. His answer is perfectly spoken, without skipping a beat he's telling her that he speaks her native tongue fluently. Maybe if she'd met him earlier on in her travels, she'd be more relieved by his reaction. But she's not. The stranger takes the blame for their collision, claiming to be overly excited about his departure. Her head tips in silent question, as if she doesn't understand why he'd be excited to leave something he signed up to learn. Shouldn't he be excited about the information he's learning? All those questions never leave the confines of her mind and she just as quickly brushes them away.

She's not here to worry about his education.

A small smile lingers on his mouth, one that is oddly friendly. Almost inviting and it keeps her eyes on him. It keeps her from sidestepping him to be on her way. Those few moments buy him the time to keep her here, to ask a question. "Trying to be." She answers, her tone leaning more towards a discontented grumble. Its proving a feat to find the classes she'd been assigned. Finding the admissions office had been a task too. Its aggravating and yet a small part of her wants to return his smile, but she hesitates, she keeps it locked away, unwilling to share it.

He takes a step to the side then, allowing a group to pass them by and continue their way down the hall. Her orange gaze doesn't follow them. "Are you?" She inquires a moment later. Perhaps he could be an acquaintance that could help her. Deep down she knows her life would be significantly easier with some sort of ally. Even if its only temporary while she's here. He looks young enough to pass as a student.

Scottish Gaelic

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"Trying to be." She spoke with a level of consternation that intrigued him. Was she having a difficult time assimilating into the College? She must be new, then. Students had very vastly different experiences in their first few weeks and months as students, he'd come to learn. Judging by the fact this woman spoke to him only in Gaelic, and not English, he wondered whether she was from deep in the Highlands, or perhaps even Éireland, where Gaelic was the dominant language. "Are you?"

"What?" he answered automatically, once again in Gaelic, taken aback. Then he remembered, a moment later, that she was likely new - and would not know. "Oh, er, no, I am not. I teach here." He offered a somewhat self-deprecating smile. "I have the fortune, though some may say it is a misfortune, of spearheading the ethics program. It is not the most scintillating of subjects, but I have found that ethics -whether interpersonal, legal, geopolitical, or wartime - is a most...wide-reaching topic." He gave another tight smile to a passing group, side-stepping once again to stay out of their path. He was now pressed tight against the stone wall to the side of the passageway, trying not to look too awkward, and glad he had not thought to bring any books or papers with him that would have further muddied up the little space they had to converse.

"I guess you are very ethical already, or else I would have seen you in class." He laughed slightly. Her eyes were an arresting shade of orange, and she was staring up at him with a certain level of ire that made him wonder whether he had made some sort of social transgression. But no, he did not think he had. She may not be frustrated with him at all. She did not look any younger than him, and she carried herself with a certain gravitas that led him to believe she was not a fresh-faced youth. But he knew next to nothing about her, which reminded him: "I am Macallan Abernathy, by the way. Professor Abernathy, if you were in my lectures, but as we've already covered..." He trailed off, shrugging slightly. He felt a little out of his depth. He was not sure what to do with her.

Perhaps it better, than he's a professor and not a student. Surely that put him in a position to help her better than any of the baby faced students she's been passing. Talking to some had gone even worse; their wide eyes stares when she spoke to them a language that either never bothered to learn or weren't taught. There is a small flicker of surprise though, learning that he's a professor in a position of authority and yet he still bends to the whim of those who don't even see him standing here. Ainsley watches, and listens, raptly. Not because what he is saying is overtly fascinating -he is rambling on about ethics after all- but because of his mannerisms.

Pressed against the wall, he has shuffled out of the way of the masses while she hasn't moved a muscle. No one has bumped into her. They've all simply skirted around her when she refused to move. I guess you are very ethical... For once, she actually cracks a smile. Amusement softens the hard lines of her expression and dulls the edge of her stare. "Maybe, but its mostly because I haven't yet started any of my classes." He's a mere stranger, she has neither the desire to be judged by him, nor the time to waste waiting for his judgement when she's likely to never see him again.

"I'm Ainsley." She doesn't offer her last name, not because she's attempting to conceal her identity, but because from where she hails, its not important. She is neither royally bred nor has she married into it. Her family name means nothing. It's her name, Ainsley, that carries the most weight. Thats how she is known. Not by Tobin.

A casual shift in her weight as her paws moving a step or two under her. But beneath that casual shift is something deliberate in the way she moves to block the next wave of students, forcing them to once again move around her if they wanted to pass. It's not herself she's moving for though, and she tells herself its because she can't stand to watch him awkwardly press against the way, that she forces everyone else to give them both space. She does so wordlessly, with not even a flicker of acknowledgment for what she's doing in her eyes.

Scottish Gaelic

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