A pirate life is NOT for me
starter for @therapardalis. have a seasick Witcher because I’m evil.
It wasn’t that Witchers didn’t belong at sea. It wasn’t that.
The sea was fraught with monsters just as much as the inland was, if not more, so there were Witcher Schools in the south who specialized in that kind of hunt. Qui-Gon had even met a few Witcher from those Schools and they were alright.
It was simply that Qui-Gon of Jinn didn’t belong at sea.
He was from the School of the Griffin, damn. He was born in the mountains. Every part of him hated the sea.
His stomach especially.
The Witcher stared miserably at the line of the horizon, draped heavily over the parapet of the ship, chin over his crossed arms - he’d already learnt the lesson that if he looked straight down the flank of the ship, where the waves crashed against the hull, vertigo would only make him more sick.
Seasickness wasn’t news to Qui-Gon. Over the course of his very long life he’d had to step on a boat a few times, and he’d been sick since the very first time, when he was a green Witcher who’d only just stepped on the Path.
However, Qui-Gon was ashamed to admit that he’d forgotten just how horrid it felt. He’d managed to avoid sailing for more than forty years, and time had blurred his memories. So, when a friend of his, a powerful mage, had sent him a raven requesting absolutely urgent help, the Witcher hadn’t hesitated to take a ship from Pont Vanis to the city of Cidaris to make the journey as fast as possible.
Thing was, Qui-Gon had been aware that he suffered from seasickness, but the voyage wasn’t very long, so it couldn’t be that bad, right?
It was that bad.
A wave slightly taller than the previous ones hit the ship, making it lurch a little bit more sideways, and the Witcher moaned in pain as his stomach roiled. He managed to keep it in, by squeezing his eyes shut, forehead pressed over his crossed arms, and taking huge gulps of air - he’d already thrown up all he had in his stomach and he was getting tired of the burning taste of bile.
The peak of nausea passed and the Witcher was able to open his eyes and look up at the horizon again, feeling absolutely miserable.
The only bright side of this was that the crew wasn’t scared of him anymore. Sure, now they mocked him, calling him ‘weak’ and ‘landlubber’, but mocking was still a step up from outright hostility.
(Qui-Gon was positive that he could fight even like that, but please, please, let it not happen. Please.)
