YoTS January ~ 29!

CHAPTER 29

The door to his private suite closed with a thunk, and Grant stood in the luxuriously appointed room. He looked around, almost scandalized by the sheer wealth on display here. “It’s just like the one in my dream, only without the beauty bearing donuts.”

To be fair, there were donuts on the sideboard, along with a dazzling array of sweets and deserts. Everything a Noble would need to tide him or her over between meals. Surrounded by the luxury… he felt more alone than he had since he lived on the farm. Grant couldn’t help but think of his friends despite trying to put them out of his mind. Up until recently, his only friends were Daisy the dairy cow and the other farm animals; but he’d doubted they would hang around if he’d stopped feeding them. That… that might be true of Skinny as well, but maybe not Fergus or Red.

With a sigh, Grant jumped on the bed, sinking into the thickly padded mattress. He instantly fell into a deep slumber, the sweet aroma of pastries and other treats lingering in the air influencing his dreams. A tinkling bell awoke Grant from a troubled sleep. He pulled back the drapes and was greeted by the bright light of mid-morning streaming in, and the immaculately manicured gardens stretching into the distance.

After freshening up, he left his suite and almost collided with a servant hurrying through the halls, heavily laden with dishes. “Sir! Pardon my clumsiness! Good morning. The dining hall is this way. Please follow me. Second breakfast has already commenced, I fear they could not wait for you.”

Grant followed the scurrying servant, almost offering to carry the plates but remembering how the worker in front of the pavilion responded. It wasn’t his ‘place’, as a Monday, to carry dishes. Double doors swung open, and Grant’s mouth dropped at the sight awaiting him. He was trying to play it cool, dance along the strings required of a Noble gentleman, but… crystal chandeliers containing hundreds of candles lit the room, and the massive table was at least fifty feet long. Every inch was covered by rich food, most of which he couldn’t recognize. There were trestles stacked on top, each containing an assortment of exotic fruit of every color imaginable. In fairness, the perfectly stacked fruit looked like it hadn’t been touched, and a good amount of it was on the verge of becoming over-ripe.

Dozens of sleepy Nobles and Vassals sat around the table, yawning and chatting away. Grant walked towards the only free seat he could find; which just happened to be beside Sir Friday Twenty-ninth. An army of servants scurried around, refilling half-full platters and topping up crystal glasses. Sir Friday waved for Grant to sit. “I’m so pleased you could join us. You missed last night’s feast; but as you had fallen asleep in the carriage, I thought it best not to disturb you last night.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve had a challenging few… days. Decades, almost. I don’t even recall falling asleep.” Grant’s stomach rumbled. Nearby Ladies laughed at the sound, and - from the way their eyes washed over his body - his armor and lack of girth.

Grant’s face reddened in shame. Sir Friday noticed and tried to quickly move past the poor behavior of his guests. “Dig in, Grant, sample our wonderful delights from as far away as March! First though, let me announce your arrival to the group, who should remember that their actions reflect on their host.”

Grant nodded as the room went silent, wondering how the assembled members of House Friday would react to having a Monday in their midst. Sir Friday stood and clinked his glass. “Please friends, welcome my cousin Grant Friday. He has had an arduous journey, travelling all the way from February to be with us today! Make him feel at home, and do remember that customs are different across the barrier.”

“Grant Friday… what?” Grant opened up his status sheet, deeply confused by yet another name change. The guests lifted a glass in welcome, before quickly shifting to stuffing their faces once again.

Name: Grant Friday (Updated from Grant Monday)

(Identity hidden. Potion effect will remain active until it is dispelled. Click here to end potion effect: Hidden Identity)

“Sorry about that subterfuge, old chap,” Sir Friday whispered, “I had to hide your identity on the way here. It’s a simple, if expensive potion. We don’t want an idle gossip spilling the beans on our arrangement, do we?”

“I suppose not.” Grant looked at his name once more and smiled wryly. If only he had been able to afford that potion as a Leap!

“Don’t worry, it can be dispelled at any time, but I strongly suggest you don’t. If you do, uncomfortable questions will be asked. Please, eat!” A starving Grant couldn’t hold back, and dove into the food; filling his watering mouth and aching gut. He tried not to eat too much of any particular dish, instead sampling as many delights as he could. At first, he felt guilty for eating and wasting so much, but he just couldn’t… help himself. Luckily, he wasn’t alone.

<Portion control module activated.> Sarge spat into his mind, the first words he had spoken today.

Warning: Daily calorie limit intake exceeded.

“C’mon Sarge. Just one more eclair…” He ignored Sarge again, taking one more bite into his gullet. His hunger well and truly satisfied, Grant slumped down in his chair beside the other Nobles. By now, most were practically sleeping in their seats, though a few continued to slowly shovel in mouthful after mouthful. Grant reached for another dish, but a spasm of pain from his swollen stomach stopped him.

<You’re not going to listen? Then suffer the consequences.>

Training program locked until current caloric intake is offset.

“S-Sarge!” Grant stared at the message in horror. “What’s a caloric?”

“I’m glad to see you have a strong appetite, Grant,” Sir Friday commented from his slumped position. “Strong appetite, strong contender.”

Grant could only nod. Talking required too much effort right now.

“Train hard, lad. In two days we leave for Castle January. Even now my servants are making the final preparations. Hmmm. The training yard is at your disposal.” Sir Friday hesitated and looked out at his guests. “I didn’t want to mention it, but while you are at the dining table, it is appropriate to wear more… formal attire. A clean suit has been pressed and left in your room.”

Grant groaned at the thought of training with a full stomach. He decided to wait, and joined the others in a food-induced sleep. An unknown amount of time later, he awoke with a start. From the position of the sun streaming through the glass ceiling high up, it was already early afternoon. He groaned and considered going straight to bed, but instead got up, collected February Twenty Nine from his suite, and headed out to train.

“Sarge? Let’s get to training!” Nothing happened, and there was no response from his Wielded Weapon. After waiting a few moments, he opened the training Tab and attempted to start the training manually.

Training is locked until caloric overage is balanced. Caloric overage: 800. Recommended actions: Running, weight training. Weight training is optimal for fastest usage of calories.

“What does this mean?” The only ‘weight training’ that he had ever heard about was sitting at a table and trying to increase your weight. Yet, somehow, he did not think that was what this message was telling him to do. Since he only understood one of them, Grant started to run laps around the training yard. Once, twice around, and Grant nearly stopped. The only thing that kept him motivated was the notification that appeared.

Current weight: 330 pounds.

At current walking speed: 60 minutes for a 786 calorie reduction.

“I’m not walking, I’m running.” Grant grumpily told the notification. It didn’t answer him, so he assumed that it took his complaint under advisement. Half an hour passed, forty-five minutes, an hour. At an hour and twenty minutes, he heard a chime and Sarge began speaking to him again.

<I hope you learned your lesson. It will become harder and harder to reach a goal like this as you become healthier. At a hundred and eighty pounds, you would need to walk for nearly two hours for the same benefits. This is the first time that your lack of health and weight is actually beneficial for you.> Sarge paused, then growled at Grant. <My goal is to make you the most effective warrior I possibly can. I am not going to allow you to disregard my training. You want to become deadly? You want to survive the year? Do not try me again.>

The regular training module was now unlocked, and Grant threw himself into it. Bells tinkled at regular intervals throughout the day, signifying the next mealtime. Since breakfast, he’d counted at least four bells. He practiced the moves Sarge thought were the most important, focusing today on dodging blows rather than parrying them. He’d discovered that each parry used a large chunk of stamina; once all his stamina was depleted, the dummy targets could easily land a painful hit.

“The energy from the food was needed,” he informed Sarge with a groan. “How else could I train hour after hour?”

Sarge ignored him, though the next dummy tackled him; looking suspiciously like Lady Vivian. At the end of the session, the sun was low in the sky, and delicious aromas were wafting from the kitchens. A bell signified the next meal would be served soon.

<Grant… you need very little food right now. I can monitor your body. You can have your dinner, but you will eat what I tell you to eat.> Grant took that as permission, and raced to his suite to freshen up. After washing, he donned the suit that was waiting for him and admired himself in the mirror. The tailored outfit fit perfectly, and it appeared to be made from a highly stretchy fabric; a necessity when attending a Noble banquet!

After rushing to his previous position in the dining hall by Sir Friday Twenty-ninth's side, he ogled the sheer abundance of food. All manner of succulent meat was stacked on the banquet table, from wild boar, to pheasant, and steaks the size of small children. Half-jokingly he muttered, “I hope they weren’t really children.”

An overeager guest was tearing directly into the side of a roast pig with his teeth. Despite Grant’s shock over the matter, no one else seemed to care. No one stopped him, and everyone else was focused on either piling their plates high or stuffing their faces. Grant took a bite of a rich looking sausage, its smoky smell intoxicating. As he bit into it, the soft meat melted in his mouth. Grant finished the oversized meat and rubbed his stomach. “Ugh… so good!”

<That’s enough. Get up and leave.>

“Are you kidding me, Sarge? What will they think of me?” Grant was horrified at the thought of leaving at the start of the meal.

<Does it matter what they think of you? These people have no goals in life beyond filling themselves just one more time. They lead empty lives, with no virtue or redeeming characteristics. They help no one without looking for profit, they laugh at others for being healthy, they eat themselves to death. I ask you again, are these the people that you want to impress?>

“Sarge…” Grant looked around, feeling dozens of eyes on him. How was it that someone could tear into the side of a cooked pig, but the only thing they noticed was someone not eating? He reached for another plate, and just as his fingers brushed it, a notification appeared.

Warning: Daily recommended calorie intake exceeded (2nd and final warning)

With everyone looking at him, Grant ignored the warning and eagerly dug in, devouring as much as his protesting stomach could handle. Sarge didn’t say a word, no matter how much he ate. A Noble guest slouched at the table paused in his feasting to talk to the young man. “So Grant, what brings you to January all the way from the District of February?”

“I want to take part in Lord January’s tournament. The prize is a set of Mid Spring Heavy armor.” Grant began to sweat, and not from eating all the meat. He realized that he and Sir Friday had not gotten their story straight.

“You came all this way, for a lowly set of armor?” Another Noble asked him quizzically.

“I… of course not. I come to bring honor and glory to House M… Friday.” Monday almost slipped out. He wasn’t used to his new identity. The guest was apparently satisfied with his answer and went back to eating. At the end of the meal - after hours of ingesting - Grant went to lie down, but his heart… hurt.