Sellsword’s Venture Pt.2

Ledram clung to Tors desperately, his knees failing and his strength abandoning him. The sellsword was in agony, each laboured step driving stakes of pain into his guts. The world spun around him in a maddening blur, and he felt the blood leave his face.

“Just a little further,” he heard Tors call, the voice nearly drowned out by the pounding in his head. “Just hold on.”

With one final heave, Tors propped the fading Ledram against the railing of the ship. The sellsword grabbed the sun-worn timber tightly, his nails digging into the surface. He lolled his head over the edge, and wretched. Through tears and mucus he let loose the pressure that had built in his guts, tainting the emerald waves below a rancid shade of brown.

“This thrice-damned boat will be the end of me,” he sobbed between bouts of sickness. “Haven’t kept anything down since-*urp*- since we left bloody Anwex.”

“Look on the bright side,” Tors hummed, scanning the horizon, “a few more hours and we’ll be in sunny Telucia.”

“Shove your bright side,” Ledram hissed, wiping his mount with the hem of his tunic, “I’ve already lost three teeth puking my guts out, now all I have left are the -*hurp*- lead ones.”

“We’ll get you new ones,” Tors chirped, filthy locks of hair waving in the breeze, “and besides, we’ll be rich enough to afford gold ones. Not just the missing teeth, the whole bloody lot!”

“Gold teeth are for thugs and -*urg*- priests, I’ll stick with lead ones.”

“Whatever you say, lead man.”

Ledram was about to scold his comrade when another wave of nausea threatened to topple him over the railing. He wrapped his arms around the wood, and let loose another stream of foulness.

A tap on his shoulder brought him back to his senses. “Sod off, Tors,” he bubbled, “just let me die in peace.” Tors did not relent, grabbing the back of Ledram’s mangy hair and lifting his head to face the horizon.

Ledram’s jaw dropped. Ahead danced a jewelled spire, a pillar of alabaster glowing in the rays of the midday sun. A radiant dome of the deepest green capped the monumental tower, and along its sides ran lines of jade and emerald.

Soon the great spire was joined by its lesser kin, and though they were dwarfed by the great ivory pillar, they lacked none of the intricacy. A complex, mesmerizing pattern played out before Ledram, the peaks of the towers rising and falling like waves in a soft wind, flowing like water as the ship rose and fell.

“Beautiful,” Tors sighed, “an emerald set upon an ivory crown, wreathed in jade and malachite. It as as though the heavens have manifested upon this earth, in all-.”

Tors was cut of as Ledram expelled one final stream of sickness.

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