He'd been expecting that outrage, this time. It lost a little of its effectiveness, admittedly, with the way she had to give up and cling to the taffrail like she was going to die from it, but one had to admire her commitment. And nothing had come back up yet, as far as he saw, so that was something. All the same, he remembered the sensation, somewhat. From the crossing to Canada years back - though never after that again. (Conall wasn't even sure that it had been seasickness, that tumult in his insides as soon as the ship had left Ireland. It might've only been nerves, that fear of going halfway across the world into a whole life that was new, or perhaps that fear of that girl aboard the ship and having to talk to her, with his tongue in as many knots as his stomach.)

It was nature, now, adjusting to the ship's rocking rhythm, letting the weather carry you. Conall let his eyes fill with the ocean and then glanced back at her, mostly to check that she hadn't actually started retching. She had one eye open, looking uneasy. The outrage, yes, but what he had not been expecting was her changed tone. A kind of plea for reassurance. Funny, that.

He thought he'd spotted his bags out of the corner of his eye but, perhaps against his best interests, Conall ventured towards Fairchild and the rail, coming up a little along from her to lean on it. "Mhm," he said in answer, and then, belatedly considered that mhm was probably not as descriptive as it could be. "Always does," he added. "All sorts of cures to chase it off sooner," he said, with an almost-grin, "but everyone swears by a different one. I take it praying's not getting you anywhere?" He was asking for it with that, he didn't doubt it, but apparently he couldn't help himself.

With any luck, she wouldn't feel up to letting go of the rail just yet.

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