Roberson's Report, Feb 6: 3,231 words

I was able to get a few hours writing in today, in amongst other things, but not quite as much as I'd have liked, thanks to Google Docs crapping out in the middle of the day. I've gone back to trusty old Microsoft Word, not ready to make the leap until they work out the bugs. (Is that thing ever going to move out of beta?)

Here's a sample of today's work, a chapter from an epic fantasy I'm working on (the same one featured in Monday's sample).

The galleon was a little more than a month from making landfall on the shores of Khend. After a journey of months since setting sail from the white cliffs of Albelund, the days remaining on the journey could be counted on the knuckles of a man’s two hands. The lion’s share of the distance was already behind them, with their destination almost within reach.

At least, that was what Pol Ravenstone continued to tell himself, as he gripped the salt-slicked rail and vomited the half-digested contents of his dinner down the side of the ship. Months at sail, and the sea-sickness had yet to abate. At this rate, it didn’t appear that it ever would.

He’d tried sleeping, but had found the strange dreams waiting for him again—heat and lightning, movement and pain. They seemed to come more often, as the trip wore on, and he hoped that he’d sleep soundly once he was back on solid ground. Waking on his narrow bunk in a cold sweat, he’d risen, dressed, gathered up his instruments, and returned to the deck, to while away the small hours of the night studying unfamiliar skies. He’d scarcely had time to measure the declination of the first star in the first constellation, though, when the nausea had overtaken him, and he had only narrowly avoided spraying the contents of his stomach all over the planking. He’d had a difficult enough time getting on with the ship’s crew as it was, and could ill afford to test their patience even further by requiring one of them to swab his sick from the deck.

“Ravenstone?”

Pol turned at the sound of the voice, trailing ropes of bile-laced spittle from his lips. He wiped his mouth on his doublet’s sleeve, nostrils stinging from the gastric juices which had forced their way out through his nasal passages. There were bits of food stuck in his neatly trimmed beard, but he hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.

“Commander mag Donnac,” Pol managed, voice straining for all that he tried to sound composed and casual. “Good evening.” Of course it would be the gruff leader of the Highland Scouts who would come upon Pol in such a state of distress. He’d been the butt of the soldiers’ jokes ever since they’d first massed on the Albelund docks, and while Pol had yet to interact with their commander, he could only imagine how the Highlander must look upon him. Barely at the beginning of his third decade, short of stature with a slight build, a natural philosopher of all things in the company of courtiers and soldiers. Pol had no illusions about himself, and knew that hardly presented an imposing figure—especially not when half-covered with his own sick.