He burped embarassingly, shaking his head. Leaning over, he spit again, mostly mucus, trying to get the taste of bile out of his mouth while his stomach lurched and rolled in an attempt to remove something it did not contain.
"No joke, not funny," he agreed to Dublin's quiet protest. Her hand on his back was soothing, partly just because it distracted him from focusing his attention on his innards. The wordplay of the others, and the little machinations of dominance and diplomacy were lost on him. When your life revolved around some innate instinct of eat or be eaten, overturned by a more humanesque sort of mentality when everything was calm...little things like social hierarchy were something you took little notice of. For all he cared, the rest of them had disappeared, leaving he and Dublin alone again as usual.
"Make'm stop starin' at me, don't let 'em lookit me, luv." Again he spat, and the string of saliva dangled from his lips a moment before dropping to the dried grass between his feet. "I'm thirsty..."