The Gray Tower (Being Rewritten as The Erstwhile Druid)

Chapter 1: A Good Morning

Seattle, Washington, Year 2090

Luke let out a loud groan.

Three months since I've slain a monster. He'd dreamed again, of his first days in Tralheim.

Sunshine was the bane of sleep. Huge beams of sunlight seared his face, courtesy of the open window. A light breeze blew, hairs on his arms standing. On his cabinet was an alarm, one that he left unused. When was the last time he'd set it? One month ago?

Luke rubbed his eyes. He reached out, smoothing his mane. Just as he'd suspected, a few strands stood at attention, product of a morning case of bed head.

A blue ceiling greeted him. His eyes meandered, trying to focus on something, anything. Vision swimming, he noticed the poster above him, the one he'd placed over two years ago. Ancient, the poster was faded, resulting in a dull mix of color. Its top left corner drooped, tape peeling off. Flaky material fell from the ceiling, peppering his face. This. This is why you never get a ceiling with these little white balls that always come off, Luke thought.

On the poster were two figures. Crossing their blades, both of them stood tall as they faced a far-off spire in the distance. The ominous tower rose up into the gray sky, its pinnacle obscured by a tide of rolling clouds. It called out to him, clouds flowing on paper.

He glanced outside, shifting his head a few inches. Seattle, the same Seattle he'd seen for the past two decades or so. Outside, verdant greenery soothed, constant rain misting from the clouds.

Luke yawned, mind still fuzzy. Tralheim was just waiting to be explored, but first he had to go through his mental checklist.

The previous day’s dishes, dirty laundry, vacuuming…

He stopped counting. His mind had sprung a leak, jammed full by things he'd put off. Just do, don't think, his mother always said. But she didn't understand. The hard part was finding the motivation, that drive to move forward.

It didn't help that his bed was a monster, one that held him hostage, unwilling to grant his freedom. Five uneventful minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. He sank farther and farther into the mattress, motivation diffusing from his body.

No, he told himself. I will be productive today. Not tomorrow, today.

Luke threw off the blanket covering him in one wild motion and stumbled to his feet, stretching out his arms.

A few quick stretches never failed to provide an energy boost. But no matter how hard he tried, he remained inflexible. Even his mother loved to call him an old man, laughing at his inability to reach his toes. He'd point out that she couldn't touch her toes either, but she'd always respond the same way: I'm old and you're young. What's your excuse?

I don't have an excuse, he'd always reply. It was good to be honest.

Even with no results to show for his dedication, stretching was serious business. Luke's father had neglected it his entire life and it showed. Years of wear and tear on his body, courtesy of the hard labor synonymous with construction, had served to exacerbate the situation.

Now, his father had difficulty raising his shoulders, stalking around the house with a perennial slouch. Luke wanted to avoid that, if he could. After all, he was still young.

Luke was far from old — still in his prime — though some of his habits lent to his mother’s theory. Coffee? He could drink it like it was water. When he wasn't drinking coffee, he liked to read books while peering off into the silhouette of Mt. Rainier in the distance. The days that I can do both at the same time? Heaven.