Day 72: War

Writing prompt playing with styles, with the idea in this instance to describe something mundane about your day in the style of an epic fantasy.

Robb, son of Jack, rose gradually from the depths of his slumber. Night clung to him like an encasing shroud. He struggled to free himself, up, out of the hypnotic bindings of sleep, into the light.

He blinked and looked around. His chamber was the same as ever. His low bed, in the "futon" style popular in the distant lands of the Orient, dominated the south-facing side of the room. His writing desk, littered with papers and many virtual games of dexterity and skill, stood beside the bed. His robes were slung over a chair next to the desk. Beyond that: his guitar, resting on a machine for amplifying the ornate instrument's sound, a dressing mirror, and a collection of books, ancient tomes of wisdom and erudition from the four corners of the globe, with titles such as "Infinite Jest", and Batman: The Killing Joke".

The sun was already half risen in the sky. Robb guessed the time to be nine in the a.m., or thereabouts.

He made his way to the privy and splashed cold water on his face. The water was fresh and invigorating. Robb stared at his reflection in the looking glass on the wall, and blinked.

The witch's curse had worked its black magic once again in the night. Each evening Robb went to bed in high spirits, and each morning he awoke, dazed and morose, having been subjected to some kind of terrible affliction in the night that left his wits torn and his senses stupefied. It was as if a dark beast of some kind, terrible and unseen, was ravaging his mind as he slept.

But who was the witch that had cursed him? Robb could not recall. He could not recall anything, now he thought about it, outside this room. How long had he been in here? How many nights had passed? A thousand, all identical? Or one long and ceaseless night?

Had it perhaps been Robb's own avarice, his own experimentation with powers outside of his control, that had led to his current predicament? Or was there yet a malevolent presence outside his own comprehension casting a cruel hand across his life?

Robb did not know. But he knew he had to escape. He was a man of the North, and the blood of the first men flowed through his veins. He could sit idly by no longer. No more the many procrastinations of his life. It was a time for action. A time for fire. A time to ride!

Just then a knock came at the wooden door to his chamber.

It was his housemate.

"Kettle's on. Fancy a brew?"

He did. Robb did fancy a brew.

First, a good cup of tea. And then: to war.