A Lesson in Aristocracy

I - Promotion

H. Reinbach,

Mother Nefrine cordially requests your attendance to Manor Nefrine at three quarters days end for a night of festivities, food, and wonder. Only the finest of folk will be attending, among yourself.

Arden gripped the parchment lightly, his left tail hanging over the side of the tub. He was rather tired, at least at the moment, and it was mere hours before he had to be there.

"I hate nobles." He grumbled, letting the paper fall into the water.

Arden picked himself up, grabbing a rather large towel and wrapping it around himself.  He shook his head, letting water fall all over the floor. Soon he made way to the stairs, entering his room and setting clothes out for himself. He didn't really want to go, but - when Lady Nefrine requested your attendance, you attended. Everyone knew she had the king wrapped around her finger. He was probably wrapped around every one of her fingers.

It was quiet in his house. The little wind-up music box on his nightstand had been dormant for years. He often preferred the silence anyway. Leaning towards the mirror, he adjusted his still soaked hair, figuring it would dry in a nice way as he began to don his outfit. A large blue overcoat, adorned with golden buttons, boots that went perhaps too high up his legs - dark leggings, large leather gloves. He looked like a military officer. But that had always been his brand, anyway. The impossibly intimidating, charming, beast-tamer.

No one would ever guess that, under all that, was still just a scared little kid.

"Whoa. Okay. Not the time for that."

He flicked himself in the forehead, turning on his heels and heading for the kitchen. He never left the house without his cigarette holder. Or his cigarettes. Or matches. He fiddled with the little papers for a moment, sliding one into the end of his holder and lighting it. He took a small drag, holding it as he looked out the kitchen window before letting the puff out. It tasted bad.

He strolled out of his house, cigarette holder still in hand. He could hear whispers all around him; whispers of "oh my god, that's Him," "Now that's a handler," "it's Handler Reinbach!" He didn't understand why people idolized him so much. He didn't look up to himself, to be sure.

"Sir?"

Arden stopped, looking down at the little Aralfi boy that had tugged at his coat. The kid was small - understandable, considering that Aralfi were a small race, but still - and the wonder that filled his eyes almost made Arden's heart melt.

"Yes?"

"Are you Handler Reinbach?"

"I am."

The kid seemed even more excited, his tiny wings fluffing out and his antenna perking up.

"I- I wanna be just like you! You're my hero!"

Arden paused, staring at the kid as smoke continued to pour from his cigarette. The word hero rang through his brain, over and over again. He could hardly stand it.

"Oh." Was all he could manage to say, the kid's wings drooping just a bit before his mother could grab him, dragging him away from Arden. He shook his head, continuing his walk and bearing through multiple assaults from adoring fans and angry protesters alike. He knew anti-handler sentiments existed, but they seemed to be on the rise lately, especially with the Velaris Times' article on Capital Penitentiary. It seemed people spit on him as much as they asked for his autograph anymore.