Having had enough of failures, of the burning sun, of the damned old man meditating on his rock, of all the sweat and tears he had to go through during the 'training,' Quinlan rushed after the lizard with all he had.
The mad chase began.
He didn't think. He just moved. His legs burned, each step sending pain lancing up from his earlier exercises, but he leaned forward and sprinted. Hard. Fast. Wild. It wasn't a hunter's movement. It wasn't elegant or graceful.
It was the sprint of a man who's had enough.
The creature darted left. He followed. It zipped right, scaled a small ledge, but Quinlan threw himself up with a grunt, with his arms screaming in protest. A protest that was thoroughly ignored. Sand and dust filled his mouth, his eyes, and his nose. His footing slipped.
Still, he chased.
"Stop running and become my meal, you shitty budget dragon!"
