Watch Your Step!

Here, Whittaker thought he'd never see the day that Scavar's pride got him into real trouble. Styracosaurus were practically built to endure, sporting thick muscles and sturdy frills the likes of nothing else dwelling within the Kiama Islands. That was why he was so headstrong in the first place. That was also why he was the one tied to this tree, and Whittaker wasn't!

When a midday stroll in search of mice lead the young Cryolophosaurus to his friend—Scavar, who was very unfortunately, yet fittingly strapped to a tree—he had no choice but to stick by his side, as he often did. Whittaker supposed it wasn't just every day he'd get to see someone like Scavar fall to nothing more than a flimsy twine rope.
Soft footsteps resounded through the thicket as he teetered about the felled beast, shorter and stockier than himself, circling him like sharks with prey. In typical, Whittaker fashion, he couldn't quite find it within himself to be overtly concerned for Scavar—only a little. It was just a harmless, little trap after all! How bad could it be?

"Have you even tried, Scavar?" Squeaked the carnivore, annoyance riddling his rasping tone. "You don't know 'til you try." Whittaker's darkened muzzle tipped towards the ground, nosing the dirt just out of reach of the latter's hind paws so he could avoid any unforeseen kicks.
The bull intercepted before his scrawnier acquaintance could bark out any more orders.
"Don't see you tryin' it either, rat. Why don't you get to gnawing?" Scavar was looking at Whittaker as though he'd just suggested an alternative to breathing. Thinking an herbivore could chew through some rope was a perfectly justified thing to think! He thought so anyway.. this particular Styrac was about the only herbivorous specimen willing to interact with him, so he wasn't quite as versed in their biology as he'd like to think.

With a look of offense, the carnivore wrenched away from his friend, nostrils flared to further indicate what was supposed to be distaste. "Uck— me? Never! You're being absurd!" Exclaimed Whittaker, claws twitching. Scavar thinking he was capable of chewing through ropes like these was a crime in and of itself!

Whittaker should have known better, his burly friend was too proud to render himself to chewing through his bindings like some sort of over sized, demented rodent. The bachelor cocked his head, narrowing his eyes with a snicker. "Hah! The 'Prince' would prefer his father come help, wouldn't he?" After a pause, thin pupils darted elsewhere in the canopy, taking note of the frantic birdsong overhead. A warning, the second that had been uttered, and the second that he wouldn't heed.
Perfectly satisfied with the silence Scavar returned him, Whittaker craned his neck and pattered a half step away from him. "It can't be helped, can it? I suppose it's my duty—as your friend—to go fetch your father for help!" Squealed the Cryo, lilting on his words. Before the herbivore had even a moment to reply; protest; dissuade him from doing something so rash, Whittaker was already padding off in what might have been the direction he'd come from.

Perhaps, somewhere deep down, this selfish little scavenger did care for Scavar. This bull, despite his brash intensity, was his only friend. The only other creature Whittaker had invested his trust in, save for his pack. That was why he'd proposed he call the herd for help in the first place, even though he knew he wasn't welcome.

Within all of thirteen steps away from the bull, the Cryolophosaurus' impulsive generosity landed him in a world of more trouble than his greed ever had. The surface of the jungle floor gave out from beneath Whittaker in a leafy green flash, loose fronds and petals cascading in all directions as he collapsed. A frail form careened downwards for what felt like miles (only a few meters), thudding when it hit the ground far below.
Erupting into something of a primal screech, a reaction quite a deal more visceral than what was really necessary for falling into a hidden pit, down Whittaker tumbled. His belly collided with the unforgiving, rocky 'floor' first, taking the brunt of the impact as all his limbs crumpled to the ground alongside him. An abrupt collision was bound to hurt—and it did, leaving an ache where there had been none previously—but he was startled by the abrupt fall more than he was pained by it. Such was made apparent by the puffing of his doe-brown feathers, as well as the frantic turn his breathing had taken as a result.
When those sharp, green eyes peeled open, following a brief moment to recuperate after his unexpected plummet, the golden glow of sunlight filtering through the canopy above was gone. The pit was dark, every wall lined with packed mud—still damp from the shower of morning dew that had recently evaporated from the surrounding brush.

Trapped. Being trapped was another thing Whittaker had yet to experience in all his youth. Older packmates regaled stories of escaping bamboo prison cells, quicksand traps. Warned against visiting ruins and whatnot due to the ancient traps which may be sprung within. What could have prepared him for this predicament? Fallen into a deep pit with no way out in sight. With a whine bubbling up in his throat, the young male quietly called,

"Scavar?"

He was pleasantly surprised when the herbivore readily replied, his voice still gruff, but betraying a hint of care just below the surface. "You.. alright?" Scavar himself sounded unsure. Just how were they supposed to get out of this situation now?

Whittaker's form, trembling now, rose up off the ground. Clearly, he'd taken much too long to confirm the bull's query, so another question swept his way.
"Can you get out?"

What was easier to escape? A rope snare, or a concealed pit trap?
"I-I'll try," Stammered the Cryo. He sure hoped Scavar couldn't hear the tears threatening to burst from his eyes. If he could, he spared him any teasing about it. Whittaker wasn't sure if he should be grateful, or call him out for being so gentle in his approach.
Right, well. First order of business: attempt escape. Judging off of how tactical their new arrivals—the Court—had proven to be thus far, a pitfall trap like this should have been nearly inescapable without help. Just nearly. Mighty Cryolophosaurus like himself were supposedly known for their cunning guile, and uncanny ability to weasel out of any hairy situation. This should have been a breeze!

On unsteady hind feet, Whittaker approached the rounded walls with caution, as though they themselves would jump out and bite him at a moment's notice. The clay was packed tight, formed into a rudimentary cylinder, forming the interior of the trap. Nothing within grabbing reach, even when he stood up tall and stretched his neck in an attempt to nip at the grass above. Options were dwindling, but one stood above the rest— the mud! The morning fog might have softened it?
After a long moment to gather his courage and strength, Whittaker flung himself at the far end of his cell, throwing his claws upwards and attempting to scale the vertical plane all in one go. The ferocity with which he clambered up its surface was so intense that thick gashes were left in his wake, scoring the packed dirt walls with jagged clawmarks. Up, up he went, before.. the mud gave beneath his back feet, and he fell to the ground again with an audible cry.

"I guess.. I-I guess we're both waiting then, huh?"

Scavar laughed. Not with intent to scorn his friend, but to lighten the air again.
"Hey, least we're waitin' together and not alone, right?"

Hesitant to accept their predicament at face value, Whittaker grumbled.. but it gradually built up to a boisterous laugh of his own. His lower jaw flopped onto his claws as he lowered himself to a lay, and he said, "Hope your dad's feeling generous, for once."