#alpha!blaine

Chapter 2

Blaine

"Lytton." Blaine droned, slouching onto his elbow and nudging the leg of his table with his foot.

"Lytton —" the elderly man let the name hang — urging Blaine to complete it.

Blaine tapped his desk with the point of his feather pen, "Lytton Foster the second, Lytton the Sturdy, Lord of Wasir Valley, decedent of Odon, King of too many things."

"Do you mock my teachings?" the man intoned, the white whiskers of his mustache curling down with his expression.

Godfrey was a short and stocky man, but the crows feet at the corner of his eyes and the tremor in his fingers tell the truth of his age. He snatches the feather from Blaine's fingers, "These are your ancestors we are learning about, you might do with some respect!"

"Learning about dead people isn't going to help me. Can't I go see Curtis already? I'm suppose to do bow training today."

Godfrey wraps his hand around Blaine's wrist in urgency, "But that's just it Blaine. It will help you. Haven't you noticed that Aaron Foster doesn't hold the title of Lord of Wasir Valley? That's because Lytton Foster made the mistake of investing in false hopes. He let a complete foreigner with a silk tongue persuade him to invest in a gold mine. If Lytton had heeded to his counselor's words and investigated this mine further, he would've found it was desolate. Instead he invested thousands of gold chips into a worthless wasteland. He could only return to his high form of living by selling most of his property to the other Elite families. That's why the Andersons own a third of Wasir Valley now and why Lytton the Sturdy is now known as Lytton the Fooled."

Blaine mocked a yawn, "Don't worry. Should I acquire any morsel of the Anderson fortune by the good grace of my if my elder brother, I won't be as gullible as the Fosters."

Godfrey's lips tightened, "Hush now. You shouldn't speak of your relatives in such a manner."

"You know Jeff is a dear friend of mine Godfrey, I'm just bored is all."

"Jefferson." Godfrey corrects.

Blaine rolls his eyes, "He is my friend and I call him Jeff."

"It's improper to throw around these cut-off names."

"If I find myself in a formal setting, I'll be sure to use the proper name Godfrey." Blaine assures, rising from his chair. "Now can I take my leave?"

"You may, but be back tomorrow, earlier than you arrived today." Godfrey wraps his fingers around the rail of Blaine's chair to help himself rise.

Blaine opens the large wooden entrance to his room to walk down a flight of stone stairs. His guard Donston follows loudly on his heels, metal plates clanking with every step, Blaine's already immune to the nuisance.

Below the stairs the smell of baking bread and roasting quail waft through the air. Blaine hears Rueford shouting at his apprentice cook, "This garlic is too chunky, I said mince not chop!" some muttering on the other end then his reply, "Well, someone's bound to choke on it and I won't be the one taking a whipping for that!"

Blaine enters the kitchen. Rueford is sitting on the wooden countertop, taking a swig of ale from a trencher while keeping an eye on the poor young lad sweating over a cutting board.

"Blaine!" Rueford smiles, ruffling Blaine's hair affectionately once he approaches, "Where are you off to boy?"

"The yard. Curtis should be waiting." Blaine grabs an apple from a basket on the counter, trying to move his dark curls back into place with his other hand, there was no point though, it'd always be unruly unless he smeared it with grease.

"I'm making your favorite tonight for the main entree — braised venison." Rueford reveals, his smile straightens when he sees the somber face of Blaine's guard.

"Looking forward to it." Blaine takes a bite of his apple, walking off towards the main hall then into the light of the morning.

Out in the yard he finds his combat master Curtis holding two saddled stallions with reins and two longbows tucked under his arms.

Curtis is a lean man of thirty. Younger than other high knights, but well-experienced. If you didn't believe it — he had the marks to prove it. A hideous scar across his forearm from an arrow, a slanted one across his back from an axe that grazed him, and among other healed wounds, a pale left eye from a close and personal encounter. Partial blindness might hinder any other man, but not Curtis, if anything, it made him even more battle-crazed.

Never one to linger, Curtis hands Blaine his wooden bow and quiver, and mounts his own horse. Donston, Blaines guard, is forced to walk to the stables and join up with them at a later time.

Blaine follows Curtis in silence, petting the mane of his horse to calm him a bit before trotting off. They gallop past the gardens and to the front gate, to be waved through by the two guards fully suited in armor and past the fountains at the extravagant entrance. Curtis leads him into an open field to the left of the Andersons' Castle. After a good amount of distance Blaine spots the two targets Curtis had previously set up.

Blaine tugs on his reins to slow his horse down.

While steering his horse into a half circle with his left hand, Curtis manages to pull an arrow out of his quiver. In a span of a few seconds, he drops his reins, notches his arrow, and releases it at the target.

It's not a bullseye, but stunningly close.

"Notch your bow." Curtis commands, grabbing another arrow and somehow managing to stay balanced on the back of the moving animal.

Fooled by the look of ease Curtis displayed, Blaine lets go of his reins to grab the neck of one of his own arrows. He struggles to straighten the arrow against the string with the horse's unsteady balance and nearly falls off of stallion when it makes an unguided sharp turn.

"You fail to take up proper stance, yet you've been letting arrows loose since you were weaned off your mother's milk. " Curtis teases.

Blaine grimaces, grabbing his reins once again and holding the bow and arrow in the other, "I do not know the proper stance when mounted."

"You're thinking too much, it is just unbalanced ground on which you sit. The only difference I would think is being quick to grab your reins before you tumble off."

"It is surely not that easy."

"But it is."

It takes Curtis four hours of drills to finally relent, closing their practice session with discontent. Blaine can now hit a target on a regular basis, but still misses occasionally — not to the satisfaction of his teacher.

Blaine only remembers Donston's absence when he finally sees him approaching at a leisurely pace to relay a message, "Your father wishes for your presence at the Foster's household for supper tonight. Milly will prepare water for a bath and dress your accordingly."

This was surely an unexpected change of schedule, dinner was already made for the Andersons and it was even Blaine's favorite.A pity. Blaine thought, Rueford seemed so proud of tonight's meal. What could be so important? His father, Richard Anderson, rarely strayed beyond the comforts of his own servants, preferring to thrive apart from his distant relatives.

Shrugging off the question, Blaine happily obliges to leaving Curtis' now sour mood. He'd have to make up for his "poor" performance today by hitting all his targets next time. That'd only be possible if he practiced on his own time before their next meetup.

After taking his hot bath, Milly, his servant, forces him into uncomfortable formal attire. First, a white dress shirt covered with a burgundy velvet doublet, then some night black breeches. Milly insistes he wear at least one piece of jewelry, so he complies with his elite sigil ring, a golden band studded with chips of diamonds, meant to be stars surrounding the full moon at the center.

Milly gives up trying to brush Blaine's dark hair into something that doesn't look unruly, leaving the curly locks to their nature. He's running late by the time that finishes and misses the family's carriage, he doesn't mind though, being cooped up in a small box and under his father's constant scrutiny was tiresome.

Blaine mounts his personal mare Esner for the short trip. He takes his time trotting towards the Foster's foyer, Donston following in his shadow. All of the Elite families were enclosed by a formidable wall with guards on it's perimeters. Despite being enclosed, this area dubbed Odon's Lands, was a good size. It was about a two hundred and fifty acres, leaving a good portion of land for the four families to stomp on, but it was still known that the Elite owned land across Quinton exceeding two thousand acres.

After about a twenty minute ride the mansion comes into view once he passes the trees at the front. There's the Foster's stable boy Puck to greet him and take his horse in and one of their maids to lead him into the dining room to the feast that already started.

Conversation is being passed around as servants place dishes next to primly organized eating utensils. Blaine guesses that this is the second course, being soup — a cream based soup drizzled with coarsely cut cheddar, served in pewter bowls.

Donston joins the other Foster and Anderson guards lined up respectfully against the wall, watching in silence.

Nobody pays much mind to Blaine's late entrance when he enters, except Jeff's pat on the back after he takes his seat on the table. The servants quickly accommodate him with a course too, pouring him a cup of white wine.

Blaine quickly notes that this isn't a fully fledged dinner, only Aaron Foster, Jeff, and his father. He hones in on the topic going on between the head of the house, Aaron, and his father.

"- was out in the woods in broad daylight. Unsurprisingly, some commoner comes along, sees something pretty, and thinks he can just take it — take my daughter." Aaron holds his fork and knife stiffly, his face is a picture of controlled anger framed with close-cut white hair and a trimmed beard.

"And pray tell what Casey, a twelve year old girl, was doing out in the middle of a forest, unsupervised?" Mr. Anderson questions skeptically.

One of the few admirable traits Blaine found in his father was his unfailing keen sense of smelling a twisted story — although that has worked against Blaine one time or another.

Aaron waves off Mr. Anderson's words, "Regardless of whether or not my daughter was dragging a dead body or just taking a leisurely stroll, no filthy boy has a right to lay a finger against an Elite. I'm having that bastard hung."

Mr. Anderson takes a sip of his wine before accepting the outcome, "If it must be done."

"It must." Aaron insists.

"Casey got attacked by werewolf yesterday." Jeff puts in for Blaine quietly, so as not not disturb their fathers.

Blaine knows Casey had a habit of getting into trouble and didn't doubt that the poor boy now on death-row was innocent. Blaine doesn't bother replying, opting to keep his unwelcomed opinion out of it.

Jeff senses Blaine's thought and continues after sweeping away a piece of his blonde hair out of his face, "I told my dad that Casey probably provoked him, but he won't have it, not when Casey has a scratch across her face for everyone to see."

Blaine nods, unfazed at Aaron Foster's unyielding pride. If there was anything to salvage from the Fosters it was definitely Jeff's good-nature.

When the cream soup is finishes, the servants round the table to collect the dishes and offer the next course — grilled duck with lemon dressing and thinly sliced blanched almonds. Thick carvings of sourdough bread were also laid in personal dishes beside each meal.

Aaron refuses to take his plate saying, "Bring me the next course, I hate duck." His loyal servant scatteres away quickly to the given order, returning with roasted pork smothered in sweet and tangy red sauce.

"Where's Cooper today?" Aaron inquires, to end the awkward silence that befell the room.

"He went abroad last week. We've been discussing it for awhile now." Mr. Anderson cuts a square out of his duck, "I told him a formidable ruler should be well-rounded and a worldly individual and since he is my eldest it only makes sense that he become that."

"Rightly so! I've told Jeff the same thing." Aaron takes this opportunity to eye Jeff in expectancy before turning to Blaine, "And what about you Blaine? Are you planning to travel abroad?"

Mr. Anderson sends Blaine a cold look, daring Blaine to make a foolish response.

"Yes, in two years time after Curtis and Godfrey approve." to which Blaine really means, when my father approves.

Mr. Anderson cuts in before Blaine can speak more, "We know all Elites must exemplify the highest standard whether or not they are destined to rule."

Blaine nearly snorts at his father's failed attempt to make him not feel alienated, but snuffs it out with a bite of his meal.

Mr. Anderson might've continued, but a servant hiking up her dress, so as not to trip , rushed through the entrance successfully diverting his attention.

She immediately stops next to Mr. Foster leaning forward to whisper something in his ear.

"Here? Now?" Mr. Foster nearly jumps from his seat, before coming to his senses and realizing he still has guests.

"I'm sorry Richard," Mr. Foster looks to Mr. Anderson, "It's that common boy, the guards have brought him up to the gate."

"Well now, that's no reason to apologize." Mr. Anderson smiles slyly, "We can still have our dinner, I'm curious about this perpetrator as well, let us have a look."

Mr. Foster looks perplexed momentarily, "I'm not sure if it's appropriate to bring a criminal into the perimeters of our home."

"Oh, come on Aaron, what are you afraid of? We have guards." Mr. Anderson teases.