Flint's eyes scanned the horizon, examining every minute difference in the clouds or bit of movement there might be. He was no dragon-slaying knight, that much had been made clear days earlier, but the Archranger was no stranger to tracking a beast. He had spent the past three days chasing the dragon, and had come close enough to send an arrow into its belly twice. Though the dragon still lived, both opportunities were met with relative success -- The creature knew Flint was tracking it by either sense or some sort of magical intuition, and had not once stopped flying north for food or water. Having flown nonstop, the dragon would stop every few hours for rest, with each brief period bringing the now-sleepless Flint a bit closer than he had been able to reach before. Twice, he had been able to reach the dragon and shoot it with an arrow, and twice, the dragon took off into the air before Flint was able to fire another.

Having spotted the black speck just above the silhouette of a mountain range he had been chasing for days, he took off once again, leaping from tree to tree. By then, most men would have died, though the Archranger was not like most men. He sometimes wondered why that was, if his wordless thoughts could really be taken for [i]pondering his existence[/i]. Maybe there was a fire inside of him. Maybe the dragon [i]had that too[/i]. He recalled his youth for a moment -- which was rare for the man -- and was sitting at a chair in his family's one room cabin. His father spoke with a man in a grey hood, worriedly glancing back and forth from the man and his son. He remembered his father. He was a bald, plump man with a long brown moustache and furry eyebrows. He had given Flint his first bow. Flint paid little mind to the two, but was eager to be let outside. Outside was where the [i]trees[/i] were. He did not know why, though he sometimes felt close to them, sometimes closer than his family. Sometimes, he heard them.

Flint shook his head. The dragon had not slept for four days, though neither had he. He was able to occasionally pluck a few mushrooms or berries during his pursuit, and had quickly filled his waterskin many times, though the stress was beginning to take a toll on his mind. His lungs heaved with cold, dry air, and his throat burned like it never had before. The sickness he had picked up days ago had filled his nose, giving the man an unpleasant pounding in his ears and forcing him to breathe through his mouth, which was now mostly covered in snot. As cold as it was, his body felt increasingly hot, and his legs burned and wobbled and shook with every step. He hoped the dragon would stop to rest soon. He was malnourished, sick, sore, and [i]tired[/i]. The only advantage he held over the beast was that two arrows weren't sticking out of his side, though he wondered how much that had affected the dragon.

As if his prayers had been answered, the speck on the horizon dipped down into the trees. Flint noticed that they were now far enough North that below him on the ground, and on the branches of shorter trees below him, there was snow. Flint continued his pursuit, hopping from branch to branch like a shadow, staring at the snowier pass ahead.

[hr]

Flint dropped from the treetops, landing on the ground with both feet and a hand to steady himself. The dragon had landed somewhere up ahead, and was likely resting by now. Flint knew little of dragons, though he knew it would find someplace warmer than the cold northern forests to sleep. Flint knew not to follow a bear into a cave. He suspected for the same reasons, it would be unwise to follow a dragon. Still, he hurried on. The snow covered the dirt and dying vegetation of wherever Flint had found himself, and the sky was a haunting grey. Snow fell onto the skeletal, greying trees. Flint felt as if he were being watched, or [i]warned to turn back[/i]. He trudged on through the snow, notching an arrow onto his bow. He was close to the dragon. He could [i]feel it[/i].