Hello once more. Here goes another story, this time a little more action-y than the previous ones, I guess.
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
The Fast Words
In the open day, there were two figures running down a street. However, it wasn't a friendly jog; if anything, it was a chasing.
The first man, clothed in some dark garments, was running like his very life depended on it. His short tunic and cape swayed, following his movement pattern, and his hood threatened to fall back, pushed by the wind. Althought he wasn't strong, one could see his athletic muscles highlighted by something that looked like a bodysuit.
"Stop!"
The pursuer was a mage; this, however, could only be deduced from the way his hands acquired a distinct effulgence, from time to time. He wasn't wearing the clothes of a spellcaster (notably the trademark pointed hat, so famous on this country). Thankfully he wasn't wearing long clothes (one could barely walk on them, what about running?); his orange thin tunic and pitch-black pants were fit for the pursuit, his red hair cascading in the air behind him.
"You'll never catch me, bastard!"
The pair was running non-stop: from street to street, alley to alley, none dared to interrupt them. The unfortunate ones that occasionally got in the way were brutally shoved aside, without apologies or the like. The truth is, both men were completely immersed on the simple act of escaping/chasing. So, between the crowd staring, the coldness of the air, the tiredness of the body, the occasional volley of firebolts from the mage, and the sense of the urgency in the soul, both were in a strange kind of trance.
"Can't keep up? I can go all day like this!"
"When I get my hands on you..."
In any case, it was a really strange situation to be in. At this rate, one would already start to think about what the passersby were thinking to themselves. Were those two men playing catch? Was it a theft case? A grudge that escalated into violence? The aftermath of a bad prank?
"A tortoise would be quicker, ya know."
"Shut up!"
Did they even know at all why they were running?
"Did your mom teach you how to run?"
"I'm only behind you because I tripped over yours!"
The race doesn't stop. Likewise, the two men don't show the slightest trace of withdrawal. The first one even started to laugh. He clearly enjoys messing with his pursuer, being always one step ahead. The second one smiles, tirelessly waiting for a slip of the hooded one, watching for a haphazardly motion that will betray the fugitive. Nevertheless, such a mistake is never made.
"Come on, slug! I'm starting to think I'll have to teach you!"
"Moron. I'll see you try with a smoking head!"
And yet, amidst the living kaleidoscope of colors, faces, breezes, flooring, walls, explosions, emotions and thoughts, they can't help but discover a bizarre feeling... something akin to a fellowship, a sense of camaraderie, even. Only if they would stop...
But they won't.
Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment or post any positive criticism, if you wish!