February ~ 21!

“We could have spent the night at House Wednesday’s estate, you know.” Waylon pulled a warm wheatgrass shot out of his pack and downed it with a grimace. Wiping his mouth, he continued with, “The chefs would have cooked us up a tasty breakfast. As monster hunters, we usually have access to a wider range of food, including meat from all over the District.”

“You’re telling me this now, Waylon? Hours after we left?” Grant honestly considered turning back even though they were finally approaching Valentine proper. He was unable to keep the wistfulness out of his voice, “What kind of… does it taste good?”

“It’s amazing. Sometimes you can eat a single bite, and stay full for days if the meat you eat is potent enough.” Waylon sighed at the fond memory. “But, I realized you needed to get to Valentine, and I just didn’t have the heart to stop you.”

“I might hate you a little right now, but it’ll pass.” Grant stomped his feet extra-hard as he walked. “I assumed that all you guys ate was horrid wheatgrass shots and bark-like protein bars.”

“Well, we do have those, too. Mainly for guests we don’t want sticking around.” Waylon shrugged and paused to set his wagon down, taking a long moment to stretch. “It’s only illegal to sell unverified food, you can collect and eat all you want. If I recall, the plan for the night was crispy barbecued beast-fowl. Delicious!”

“I’ll barbecue you, if ya keep this up.” Grant muttered darkly.

Waylon was trying to hold back a laugh as he looked over knowingly, “What was that? Didn’t catch-”

“I said… I hope there’s not a queue. You know, to enter the tournament, and we should keep this pace up.” Grant silently thanked his increased mental cultivation, promising it that he would learn how to read a book in thanks for the excuse he had just been able to come up with.

“No line? Doubtful. It’s still the qualifier for the main event, but the road will still be utterly stuffed with both competitors and spectators.” Waylon’s words gave Grant pause.

While he hadn’t actually been planning to set up a strategy right now, Grant started considering options. He looked at the road, and the huge wagon they were going to be pulling by hand. “We could always travel off-road to avoid the crowd? This was the final stop for the wagon, right?”

“True… but that opens us up to all sorts of nasty stuff, Grant.” Waylon was apparently not on board with discussing this right now. “Hey, I’m pretty beat. Why don’t we stop for the night? We can stay at an inn, my treat.”

The thought of a soft, warm bed in a safe location made Grant’s inner lazy man squeal with joy. He tried to feign disinterest, “If you insist, I suppose.”

“Then we can say that all between us is settled.” Waylon nodded sincerely. “Finally, I can pay off my life-debt!”

“How expensive is this hotel?” Grant pretended to be aghast, while actually delighted with the prospect of resting his feet. “Or is it just so rough in there that you think you’ll need to save my life for us to get some sleep?”

Waylon didn’t answer, merely laughing and speeding down the road. A short while later they arrived at the door of the inn. The warm glow from within was enticing, and filled Grant with joy. He hadn’t realized how weary he truly was. It had been an endless trudge without much of a rest, and the sleep he had gotten had been constantly interrupted by nightmares and the assault of orange attackers so that Grant would ‘get used to fending off nighttime assassinations’; according to Sarge.

They went inside, and Grant sat down at a round table by the open fire while Waylon got them a room and ordered food. The warmth of the fire against his face and the chatty banter from the inn’s patrons soothed away his fears and worries to the point that he almost didn’t hear Waylon sit down beside him.

“We got the last two rooms. Two Jiggity Jogger specials on the way.” Grant smiled and nodded, and licked his lips in anticipation. A nudge from Waylon awakened him a short time later, and he pulled his tongue into his mouth and wiped his chin. He looked down at the plate of oats and wheatgrass shots before him and couldn’t stop himself from letting out a moan of frustration.

“No! I’ve had enough of this horrid food!” The banter and conversations around them died, and many eyes turned towards the pair at Grant’s outburst. “Is it so much to get a grilled steak? A bowl of stew?”

“Keep your voice down!” Waylon hissed at Grant, full-on smacking him in the face, and getting nods of appreciation from the voyeurs, who turned back to what they were doing. “This is an establishment set up to furnish the needs of runners, and it's one of the better ones. Grant, you’re in the Capital City. This is the seat of Lady February’s power, don’t get us tossed in a jail cell.”

“I can’t help what I want.” Grant snapped at Waylon, his eyes locked on the oats that were slowly sucking all the moisture out of the dish. “Back in January-”

“You whine about that place a lot, kid.” Waylon’s heavy tone left no room for humor. “If you want January, you could always go back.”

“No. It’s a long story, and not one I feel like explaining right now, but January is lost to me.” Grant reluctantly grabbed the spoon and pulled out a glob of oats. He munched on it, not really wanting to admit that with the cinnamon… it wasn’t half bad.

“Then I’m off to bed. Here’s your key, your room’s upstairs, third on the left. When you get up tomorrow, be the young man that saved me. Not the soft brat that whines about his vegetables. You don’t have a monopoly on suffering.” Without another word, Waylon got up and left the table.

“Where did that come from?” Rather than sit there and have people whisper about him, Grant decided to retire for the night as soon as he finished his meal.

The following morning, following a much-needed rest, they were on their way. Waylon was his usual upbeat self, the previous night apparently was forgotten. Grant knew that he needed to be more mature, so he put his pride aside. “Sorry about last night. I was tired and grumpy. Thanks for the food and room, it was very kind of you.”

“You’re a strange man, Grant.” Waylon replied with a non sequitur. “When we’re in danger, or in hard situations, you’re ready for anything. You rush into danger, and put yourself out there hard. Yet, as soon as you’re offered a modicum of comfort, you become… whatever that was last night.”

“That…” Grant felt deflated as he really thought about it. “Comfort sends me right back to being a proper Januarian. When we have fun, it’s supposed to be leisure. When we eat, we feast. When something isn’t perfect… we complain. I wanted to be like them so much when I was growing up, but my worldview was shattered. Now I’m in a place that despises that lifestyle, and I’m just… I’m trying to adjust.”

“I can’t say I understand.” Waylon told him not unkindly, “I know you’re trying, and most of the time you do excellently. Listen, today’s an easy day. We just need to get near the assessment fields, which means we’ll walk for another four hours, then set up camp. All the fun starts today, which means you only have a few hours to get your head on straight.”

“Some time to myself would really help.” Grant admitted while wondering if Sarge would be so lenient. A sharp increase in the pain from Spark Shield gave him his answer. “I knew this was big, but I still didn’t expect so many people.”

The road ahead was filled with throngs of people. “So I have to beat all of them to progress to the main tournament? I only have a few weeks-”

Waylon let out a bark of a laugh, “Do you even understand how tournaments work? If it is like previous years, the top twenty-five that makes it through all three stages will go on to the main event. One of those spots is mine, so you’ll have to fight for one of the other twenty-four.”

That brought Grant up short. “You’re competing? Why didn’t you say so?”

“Wasn’t it obvious? I want to win as much as any Vassal or Wielder in February.” Waylon grinned at his travelling partner, “Had to scope out the competition. Let’s go and pick up our entry tokens.”

He waited with the wagon while Waylon went to buy their tokens. The super enthusiastic people of February still freaked him out. They had perpetual grins plastered across their faces, always stretching and smiling… it just wasn’t natural.

“Two tokens. One for me…” Waylon appeared next to Grant with a shout, almost getting an Iaijutsu to the throat for his trouble. The chipper man withdrew his hand, leaving a shiny token behind. “One for my good friend, Grant Monday. Don’t lose it. If you do happen to make it through to the main tourney, don’t lose the token they give you. You can only receive them from coming in the top twenty-five here, and are used for your entry to the main events.”

“Understood.” Grant stuffed the token into a small belt pouch, tucking it under his waistband directly after.

Waylon hefted his cart and jerked his head to get Grant to walk alongside him. “I was told there are three parts to this tournament. Endurance, skill, and then a fight for the finish. Anyone with a token from one of the previous small tournaments can choose one of the first two events to skip, but no one can get out of the fighting.”

That was certainly news to Grant. “Really? I assumed gaining a token from one of the smaller events guaranteed entry to the main tournament?”

“No, but think about how much fresher those people will be by getting to skip a full third of the trials.” Waylon stated knowingly. “That’s almost as good as a guarantee. The first test begins at noon sharp, today. If you’re not there, they start without you. Take the time between now and then to prepare. Guard your purse well, there’re plenty of people that would happily vanish your bounties.”

“Thank you, for everything. I guess that we’re against each other from now until this is all over?” Grant bowed to the man that had gotten him this far. “If I don’t see you, I’ll meet you at the winner’s tent after the event.”

“That’s the spirit!” Waylon looked much more happy after Grant started showing him the proper respect to which he was accustomed. They parted ways, and Grant went off in search of a vendor. The narrow streets were lined with stalls made with anything the vendor could use to draw the eye. They contained all manner of goods, from sickly sweet honey, to wheatgrass shots, and protein bars.

Competitors and spectators pressed in on him from all sides. He quickly became disoriented, and moved to put his back against the wall. Double-checking that a pickpocket hadn’t gotten the better of him as he was gawking, he started moving along the stalls once more until he finally found what he was looking for: a full blown armor merchant. After hurrying over, into the tent, and looking at the gear and prices, he was nearly sick.