Stop Being Dramatic

Saying that Kite felt sick was an understatement. A massive understatement. He'd eaten that snow mashed with various garbage that he'd picked up on the way and, by the time he made it back to warmer climes, he had vomited several times. His stomach was still rolling and he heaved drily. There was nothing left in there. If he could turn green, he definitely would have.

The tiny man's head was spinning and his vision had begun to blur long ago. Once, on his way south, he'd fallen in a stream and couldn't tell which way was up. Luckily the water was only up to his knees, so he rolled and found up before he drowned. Now, soaking wet, blurry eyed and stumbling, he shambled aimlessly. The diminutive lad couldn't even smell the border. There was nothing in his nose but the taste and smell of vomit and the herbs that he'd ingested.

Gods... was he going to die? A loud groan pulled from the tailless wolf as he continued shakily on. As he walked, one paw caught on a root and he upended, falling flat on his face. Rolling onto his back, the cream and russet man began to cry. Curling up into a tiny ball, he buried his face under crossed forelegs. He was going to die. That was it. Ah, but he was so young!

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