backdated by about a week

Rex was hungry.

This wasn't an unusual occurrence, and he'd left Andy quietly behind in order to go for a hunt. He didn't think she liked him killing and crunching up the other herbivores of Lacerta, even if they weren't the sort that could talk, like they could.

He pushed through the jungle, quiet as he could be, padded feet making only soft thuds in the soil. His head was high, his eyes sharply searching the foliage ahead; some of the creatures here had amazing camouflage. His nostrils flared, too, just in case his eyes missed something.

Dappled light slid along his pebbled hide as he made his way to the jungle's edge. Down below he could see the herds, out to graze during daylight hours: Pugnas and their smaller Sailfin Singer kin, a few Scythorns a little farther toward the shore. He'd never tried to kill a Scythorn, before. It wasn't some hard-learned lesson; rather, Rex wasn't that old, and his child-aged fear of the massive, spiky beasts hadn't ever quite left him. They seemed too great a risk, even if he was bigger than they were, now; getting a horn disemboweling his stomach just wasn't worth the meal.

Instead he had his eyes on the Pugnas, higher up. The problem there was their speed. They were faster than he was, by a long shot; he'd need to wait for them to get close enough to ambush. Even a Pugna was big enough to be a very big challenge for him. He'd take a Singer, if he could, but they were very fast; he'd have to get quite lucky to get within striking range of one of them.

For some time he slid along the treeline: slow and patient, all senses locked on the distant herd. It took them hours to get close enough, but Rex had time. He had to have time. When at last they were drew closer, he crouched, going still. Eyes picked over the herd, selecting some targets as a possibility (an older one with a cracked crest was viable; this younger one would be far too fast, and so forth). When their grazing took them near to the edge of his jungle, he at last burst from hiding.

He concentrated on the two-headed, older beast with one cracked crest. The trumpets of alarm were at first threatening: the larger few of the herd turned to fight until they realized the predator was their size. A few turned to run, then, the Sailfins already galloping down the fields. In the distance, a few frilled heads raised to watch, snorts warning that if he got too close, the Scythorns would charge for him.

Rex didn't really notice any of that. He was charging for the cracked-crest Pugna, aiming a body-block at it, an attempt to check it with hips and chest to knock it off-balance before it could turn to flee. Once it was separated from its herd-mates, then he could go to work on the actual kill.

The creature stumbled, its too-many-legs giving way on one side, and Rex shoved forward. Instinct drove him: his boxy jaws gaped wide, going for the creature's muscular neck. Dagger-teeth came crunching down as he shoved for it, his weight pushed by massive limbs.

The sounds of the herd thundered in his ears. The bellowing of alarm sent Skimmers spiralling up from the trees, screaming their own warnings, and the scent of torn-up earth and foliage filled his nostrils as dust rose to cloud the air.

A moment later, his jaws clapped loudly shut on nothing; something--the Pugna's flailing hind leg, he thought--knocked him back a step as the beast spun to flee. It was old, yes, but it hadn't reached this age by falling prey to ambush predators: it was already scrambling for the sprint, and Rex struggled to recover before the hunt was lost.

It was the tail that nearly flattened him--the massive length of the Pugna's body wielded as a weapon, sweeping with the weight of several tons straight for the side of his face.

Rex jerked, trying to sweep his head to the side, to take the blow across the front and side of his chest instead--and it worked, though the thudding slap of impact still staggered him to one side. An almost yelp-roar of protest escaped his jaws as he shook himself, blinking off the daze.

That's gonna bruise, he thought grimly, already feeling the ache of it, before pushing back off to give chase. The Pugna--having struck him a solid blow--was now rushing off to catch up with the herd.

Rex would need to be quick if he were going to not lose it entirely, now.

Most of the herd had rushed straight for the Scythorns, probably incidentally; they were down the open fields toward shore, toward open ground and safety.

Rex's chosen target was struggling to catch up, and he bore down with a growl of concentration, head low and legs thrusting at the ground. He could run fast, but only very briefly; the Pugna could probably keep it up far longer. He had to catch up now, and put a stop to it, before it ended up among the Scythorns.

It happened fast--one moment he was the apex predator gunning for his prey, the next he was face-down in the dirt, blinking and groaning at the pain. He was pretty sure one foot had gotten caught in the earth torn up by the pugna, sending him crashing down.

He wasn't even sure how long he'd been here--just a second? Half a minute? The air had been knocked from his lungs, and it took him a clumsy few moments to roll enough to get his legs back under him and to struggle back upright, wincing.

The pugna, he saw, was long gone, safely rejoining its herd down the slope, their fluting bellows an empty warning for him not to come any closer. It was the scythorns that he feared, not them; frustrated, he raised his head and roared, an echoing bellow that rattled down the landscape.

Ahh, heck. Good fight, anyway, he thought, eyeing the distant pugna with reluctant respect--and lingering hunger.

He'd have to find himself some easier prey.

Some six hours later--bruised and sore--he'd given up on the distant herd. They--perhaps sensing his lingering threat--had only gone farther from the treeline, forming a tighter defensive circle as they grazed their way toward 'sun'set.

Rex at last turned, threading his way as carefully as he could back up the hill through the thick foliage. He kept his eyes and ears open once again, this time hoping to stumble on something slow and solitary enough to take down without too much fight. It was a rough task, as hunting always was: the smaller things were too fast, the bigger things could cause him harm, and the medium-sized things were either too poisonous to eat or kept hidden well enough to avoid him--or, he thought, eyeing an Ogler as he slid past, both. Those bastards--he'd learned the hard way--were both well-camouflaged and toxic; just a lick of one's carcass had left him numb-faced for hours. He wasn't about to eat one and find out what that'd do.

As evening pushed on into dusk, he stopped to keep a more magic eye out--maybe that power he could tap into could help him find something in the thick foliage.

Nothing. Either no magic, or nothing was here--he wasn't sure. It was just how some days went; and as much as he disliked the idea, he was starting to resign himself reluctantly to sleeping hungry tonight.

He found one of the game trails--a slightly more bare spot, dirt-tracked, that wound up along the mountain. Rex took to this, pacing carefully so as not to fall again (he hated when that happened), nostrils flaring and head held high.

Again he tried to call upon that magic, to help his eyes in finding something good to eat.

This time he picked up the distant glint of movement in the shadows of the underbrush a couple dozen yards ahead--and he paused.

A Benjamin? He wasn't sure how he knew the name--he'd heard it spoken, somewhere--but the roly-poly beast grazing in the distance would be a tough kill. Rex debated, but really, there wasn't much debate to be had--he was big enough now that a Benjamin couldn't really harm him. It was just, well--they were a pain in the ass to kill. Armored, tough, fierce. Against a smaller predator, they could inflate themselves and trample, crushing threats beneath their weights or against the trunks of trees. Rex was too big for that, these days; a Benjamin was half his height.

He'd just have to be careful, he reasoned, in his ambush. He wasn't sure how fast they could run--and he didn't want to risk a sprint through jungle in the dark.

For the second time that day he prowled along the edges of the treeline, stalking and skulking to get as close as he could without being seen. Each step was slow and cautious, his eyes warily locked on the grazing herbivore as it raised a head on an extending neck to get at the higher leaves.

Just when he was tensing up to charge, one foot came slowly down on a branch: one crack and the benjamin--with barely a glance his way--turned to rush off.

'Rush' was a strong word--they were one of the few creatures slow enough for Rex to overtake. Really, he should have just run for it, but... the prospect of falling again hadn't been appealing. With a sharp sigh he resigned himself to a chase, bursting from the trees with a short stumble.

The Benjamin was shambling away as fast as a Benjamin could.

A few quick steps brought him up to the Benjamin, and he almost felt bad: it was hustling, but not near fast enough. He'd make this quick, if he could: a bite to the head and neck, and it'd be over. And he'd go to sleep, at least, with a full belly.

Poor animal won't go to sleep at all, he thought distractedly. He'd rather have been a plant-eater, himself, but...

His jaws crushed down, and there was a blur of violent movement--his rush, the taste of blood, the crunch of bone. Then the benjamin--with a rattling, last groan--was collapsing limp in his teeth.

Rex was sort of glad, now, that it hadn't been the pugna; but even so he pitied the thing. One moment it was eating, content, oblivious to any danger; the next it was terrified and then, dead.

"Sorry, buddy," he told it quietly, but the scent of blood was prompting instinct millions of years in the making.

Rex bent down to eat.

exit Rex