23 November 1895 — Frost Spirit Hunt; Sheffield
It was a frigid afternoon/early evening to host such an event. The semi-darkness around less well-lit portions of the track were part of the debacle they’d have to contend with, no doubt. Rory bounced on his heels impatiently, hands already clad in black dragon hide gloves as he blew on them more out of a gesture of good luck and superstition than any real feeling of cold. His broom, laying just nearby, was a few years old now but he trusted it with his life. He knew it had the prowess necessary to beat Jeong if he just kept light enough on his haunches.
Speak of the devil, Rory hadn’t seen his new rival enter the tent yet. He peered around curiously and wondered if - for whatever reason - the other might bail on him. It… hadn’t actually occurred to Rory to double check they were still on for this, their little bet. He’d been so wrapped up in his classes and getting assignments reviewed before the weekend that he’d taken Jeong’s word for granted and at face value. It would be disappointing to him if this had all been for naught, but he supposed he’d still enjoy racing.