Redhawk Caldera I'll let the waters still

His brow twitched, as though he'd blinked in acknowledgement of her insult, though he said nothing in reply. He'd settled comfortably, as comfortable as he could get with his wounds throbbing still. He could taste the musty aftertaste of the herbs and swallowed a couple of times, hoping to get rid of it but he found that his mouth was dry. His tongue felt sticky and thick and while he frowned as she spoke, it wasn't because he was taking in much of what she'd said. His mouth tasted bad, and he felt an ache in his stomach. 

He needed a drink of water. Fennec said something about bad luck and he scoffed quietly. Was she trying to say he was out of luck? That wasn't fair. There was snow everywhere- and the lake was nearby, and he needed a drink. So he lifted his head and moved one forepaw as though to push himself up but found himself too weak. He uttered a groan, unsatisfied. His thirst motivated him to want to try again, but he didn't have the strength to do so. He licked his lips, which were leathery and dry; his tongue did little to soothe them. He could smell the fresh air, and the crisp scent of snow- but he couldn't reach it, and that was frustrating. "Thirsty, Fennec," He complained, frustrated not with her, but with himself- and at the fact he couldn't simply walk to get what he needed.