Yeah, that line feels like a breath of air slicing between trunks, a promise of motion. Sketch it first, see how the wind shapes the shadow, then let the words fall into place.

The wind screams, slashing through leaves, and the chase starts in a blur of bark and dust. Every footstep is a thud, every breath a ragged gulp, the air thick with the scent of wet pine. The pursuer’s silhouette flits like a shadow, the prey’s heart pounding, a drumbeat against a backdrop of snapping branches. It’s raw, it’s furious, the words hit like claws—there’s no room for politeness, just the brutal, jagged pulse of pursuit.