The fennec kit felt absolutely terrible.
She lay in the shallow dip she'd dug out beside a large rock, panting as the heat made her nausea grow worse by the second. She'd already thrown up twice that morning, and wasn't looking to have the experience again. Her stomach growled, mourning all the half digested food that had been so cruelly snatched away from it, and she ignored the organ, instead rolling over to face the rock. No. More food would just mean more throwing up. It was bad enough that the femme couldn't keep down a single morsel, no, she couldn't keep down water either. Dehydration and nausea weren't a good mix at all, and then the pounding headache came along and she reached a whole new level of misery. Faith coughed, before going back to her system of taking shallow breaths. A single breath too deep meant a particularly painful fit of coughing that she would do her best to not go through again.