Post by Willow on Dec 17, 2012 20:11:33 GMT -6
On the meadow, a small herd of iguadon were grazing lazily with little attention to the spaced trees or tall grass. They meerly ripped at the greenery with the sun shining on their deep hides, one occasionally rising upon their hind legs to get a view of the group so as not to stray too far. Little ones were packed into the center of the herd while the adults milled around them just for proctective measures, unaware of any danger lurking in the shadows.
Off under a small group of tall pines, Demissie watched them with a rare glint of contemplation in his bright green eyes. He was not thirsting for blood, he was not hungry for flesh, but boredom was beginning to get the better of him. Taking down at least one of the spiked-thumb brutes would be enough entertainment for the spinosaurus, but would it really be worth leaving behind a carcass just to rot and be fed upon by the various avian life? With a broad-toothed grin, he concluded yes.
Built of endurance and strength, the black-striped spinosaurus began thundering towards the herds right side, throwing them into confusion and hysteria. The sharp scents and howls of warning were indulging the beast, pushing him onward and throwing his pale boned head in the air with jaws wide open in a spliting roar. Flanking the herd, he managed to drive some off back to their starting point while the rest hollered off into the jungle. To make a long gorey story short, a pair of young iguadon lay with broken necks, mouths open in their last screams. Barely breathing hard, Demissie crouched over them with his head tilted to inspect every wound he had made, watching as their eyes glazed over and the light of life fell from them.
Placing a three-toed hand on the largest of the two, Demissie prepared to make a deep incision in down the side. A flash of yellow caught his green eyes and the dialted to slits as he watched a fraile butterfly land on his black claw deemed to draw blood. Instead of snapping at the fluttery thing, the spinosaurus waited with unusual patience, pupils widening and becoming focused solely on the thing on his claw. It was so tiny, oh so tiny, and such a tiny thing that could not even speak did not need to die. But it would not come off his weapon etheir, and he was eager to see scarlet rivers run. With a gentle shake of his fore-claw, Demissie managed to get the butterfly to filt off and over the meadow, lifting his head to watch until the pretty little thing disappeared.
Off under a small group of tall pines, Demissie watched them with a rare glint of contemplation in his bright green eyes. He was not thirsting for blood, he was not hungry for flesh, but boredom was beginning to get the better of him. Taking down at least one of the spiked-thumb brutes would be enough entertainment for the spinosaurus, but would it really be worth leaving behind a carcass just to rot and be fed upon by the various avian life? With a broad-toothed grin, he concluded yes.
Built of endurance and strength, the black-striped spinosaurus began thundering towards the herds right side, throwing them into confusion and hysteria. The sharp scents and howls of warning were indulging the beast, pushing him onward and throwing his pale boned head in the air with jaws wide open in a spliting roar. Flanking the herd, he managed to drive some off back to their starting point while the rest hollered off into the jungle. To make a long gorey story short, a pair of young iguadon lay with broken necks, mouths open in their last screams. Barely breathing hard, Demissie crouched over them with his head tilted to inspect every wound he had made, watching as their eyes glazed over and the light of life fell from them.
Placing a three-toed hand on the largest of the two, Demissie prepared to make a deep incision in down the side. A flash of yellow caught his green eyes and the dialted to slits as he watched a fraile butterfly land on his black claw deemed to draw blood. Instead of snapping at the fluttery thing, the spinosaurus waited with unusual patience, pupils widening and becoming focused solely on the thing on his claw. It was so tiny, oh so tiny, and such a tiny thing that could not even speak did not need to die. But it would not come off his weapon etheir, and he was eager to see scarlet rivers run. With a gentle shake of his fore-claw, Demissie managed to get the butterfly to filt off and over the meadow, lifting his head to watch until the pretty little thing disappeared.