Gilded Bay always had high, high hopes

For a beat, there's no reaction to the poke. Then, a violent coughing fit suddenly takes hold of the dark wolf, rousing him with its intensity. He starts to retch a few moments later, bitter warm saltwater pouring over the sand. It hurts. He's blessed enough to be without thought beyond breathing between waves of coughing and gagging for those moments — he doesn't know how long it goes on, but it feels like hours.
Consciousness is slippery and fleeting when the coughing subsides. He manages to get a look at the presence at his side, a ball of flame in the early morning light, but he can't make much sense of it. He coughs again and lets his head fall back. Hallucination? Imminent death? Does it matter at this point?