Overture Downs a haunt of roulette dares

He felt the wind whipping at the fur of his chest, at his face, coursing across his shoulders if he turned his body. The sound of someone on approach wasn't missed but he didn't appear to register it, and instead kept his pace until his limbs burned from activity and he was gasping for air. Kuyuk began to slow after that, and rounded upon the figure that pursued him. His thunderous run became a jog, then ambling, until he was all but stopped with his body squared off in opposition of the running girl. For a moment all Kuyuk could do was breathe and feel the pulse of his blood beneath his skin; his mouth was ajar and he was panting in an ugly manner, huffing and puffing despite his fitness.

When he realized it was Tashkent that had been running with him, very little changed. His heart rate had begun to ease, and he licked at his lips and snout in order to initiate saliva flow, but otherwise he was too winded to speak. After a bit he could at least advance towards her, nosing around near her shoulder and neck fur, and chuffed against the dark growth there. She smelled good — like the wind, but with a familiar sharpness.