The world was swaying.
That was Not Playing If I'm Not Having Fun's first impression upon stepping onto Casarina Island.
To him, the game world had become strange. It felt as though cotton covered the entire ground, soft and yielding, leaving his feet nowhere to find purchase.
Every step made his knees feel weak. The ground seemed to have come alive, stubbornly, relentlessly rising and falling to the rhythm of waves lingering in his memory.
The reason and knowledge of Not Playing If I'm Not Having Fun told him this wasn't dizziness. It was a betrayal of his senses.
His eyes told him the wooden dock planks beneath his feet were solid and rough, but his inner ears and every nerve in his body protested loudly, insisting he was still aboard that battered, endlessly rocking ship.
His stomach clenched in waves, and acid surged uncontrollably into his throat. Not Playing If I'm Not Having Fun had to grit his teeth and force it back down. Fine beads of cold sweat soon covered his forehead from the effort.
"I... fucking hell..."
A player beside him had barely taken two steps before pitching forward onto the ground and vomiting a puddle of clear liquid. Though his stomach had long since emptied, he remained sprawled there, dry-heaving violently and cursing between retches.
The entire disembarking group looked as though someone had cast a mass weakness spell on them, all staggering and stumbling.
Some clung to the ship's rail or their companions like drunks, swaying three times with every step. Others simply dropped onto all fours and practically crawled forward. Many more stood frozen like Not Playing If I'm Not Having Fun, their faces deathly pale as they struggled to readjust to land after so long away.
The jeers from the Makon Alliance soldiers