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Description
The following story is mostly fiction. However, something like this went down.

...

The sun lazily retreats, signaling the daily transition to dusk, dragging away the day over the horizon. The light is filtered through a haze of sand miles away. A male Protoceratops raises his bony, fortified head, peering at the sunset. He then heaves himself up and turns away, plodding over the sandy hill. As he summits the peak of the sandstone crest, he gazes down and surveys his domain. Dozens of chattering females and hundreds of peeping nestlings in the shadow of the hill raise a din competing with the blustering desert wind. The male slides down the sandy hill, letting out a low, booming squawk that captures the attention of most of the attendees, including lesser males at the edge of the colony. Raising his flaglike, multicolored tail and swaying his head with its resplendent crest, the pig-sized dinosaur trots confidently, as if to give the signal that the coast is clear to begin foraging for the night.

But the coast is not clear.

Harsh wind and annoying hunger pangs both motivate a male Velociraptor to sample the air for basic necessities like food and shelter. With twilight fast arriving, his emerald eyes settle upon the hill. His head lowers and he sets off in a quick dash through the dry scrub. Suddenly, the chatter of the Protoceratops herd catches his ear over the wind and biting sand in the air. Like silent liquid lightning, his body hunkers down and he slips through the surrounding plants until the colony's sound is too loud to understand. Inching forward, he at last gets a view of the gathering before him. Making a kill here is not an easy task, but such is life in the desert. And he's been here before, living up to his name of swift plunderer, never passing up an opportunity. His feathers ruffle to gather warmth in the failing light. One silent step in front of the other, he slinks toward the edge of the colony most obscured by bushes. A mother squabbling with a neighboring female, ignoring her thirteen screeching hatchlings. An easy, though earned, buffet. Picking out an offspring, he is primed for a kill. A primordial twinge in his brain's reward center fires, that impulse familiar to all hunters.

Lunge.

Crash.

Velociraptor's cunning nocturnal instinct is catastrophically thwarted by another's equally watchful eye. The male Protoceratops headbutts the lithe raptor with a solid impact, sending the hunter flying into a rock. In the space of a second, the raptor rolls and recovers. He shrieks, completely dumfounded, previously honed senses thrown into disarray. He dashes at the bull, quickly feinting out of the way of a head swing and leaping into the air, slashing the bull's pebbled hide, drawing blood but no fear from his adversary. As the bull swings around, the raptor turns on a dime to make his escape. Another failure. In the face of distracting battering wind and sand, the Proto has him pinned against another rock face. Fighting is the only way out. But the raptor is not unprepared.

Setting the interloper in his sights, the male Proto charges blindly. Once again the Velociraptor dodges, but the combat area is closing in. He zigzags around the Proto, and they exchange blows. However neither fighter does significant damage or takes full advantage of his evolutionary gifts. This is about to change.

The wind enters the fray fully as a third contestant of nature, whipping and beating the two animals. Blinded to anything beyond a few meters, the Velociraptor and the Protoceratops are unaware they have moved well away from the Proto colony. The bull Proto could turn back to his domain, protected from the storm by the hill. The raptor could bolt away and take his chances finding shelter in the elements. Neither one does so. The bull's body is flooded with testosterone; he loses all consideration of anything but the killer who must be killed. The raptor is rapidly losing the flight concept of fight or flight instinct.

A final charge. Without making a sound, the bull charges like a tiny battering ram. The raptor's lightning-quick spatial calculations take place for a dodge-and-strike. A final miscalculation in an evening of miscalculations. Anticipating the predator's patterns, the Proto transitions from a charge to a diagonal upward swing, catching the birdlike raptor in the stomach with his nose horn as the raptor leaps, flipping the raptor into the ground. Struggling to retain a foothold in the loose sand and coughing out granules even as a profusion of sand belts into him from all sides, the raptor attempts to locate his rainbow foe, such is the fury of the sandstorm. Fueled by rage, with a toughened exterior breaking the storm, the proto blasts through the amber curtain of sand into the raptor's view. The conditions rob the raptor of his agility. The Proto bears down on him. Both animals' honed brains perceive the final impact in slow motion. The bull's central nose horn shoves the raptor into the dirt once more. Using his superior solid bulk, the bull pushes the raptor into the soft sand as if to drown him.

All he wanted was a meal. Just a little one. As if to take part in some mutual understanding of balance, a trade made in the unforgiving world of the Gobi Desert. But no such agreement exists between predator and prey other than preparing for each other, and no communication is possible. The Velociraptor bears no ill will for this beast. He tried to exit. Now there are no more options except to open his final toolbox for which he is currently known and would still be known for 75 million years later. Swinging his wing-like arms with their grappling hook claws into the Proto, he attempts to twist away from the monster, only sinking further into the sand. Sand which is rapidly accumulating.

Darkness.

A furious whirlwind of sand engulfs them. There is nothing else but these three fighters of nature. Predator. Prey. Environment. Three factors in a process billions of years in the making. A process occurring currently. But none of that matters now. Incurring slashes to the neck and head crest, the male Proto rears up for another body slam. But the raptor is hanging on. Nowhere to flee. If this is the way it's going, this is the way he's going. Until now, the Proto has been literally pressing his advantage. The battle has been one-sided, but only because the fury has been one-sided.

There were no hard feelings. This has changed. The claws of the Velociraptor's left hand dig into the skull crest of the Proto, raking open the skin. They will never let go again. His right hand tries to wildly grab anywhere. Yet another miscalculation as all he finds is mind-splitting pain. The protoceratops is not a killer, he is a herbivore. His attack is not guided by instinct unlike the Velociraptor. Yet his chomp with his massive flinty beak on the raptor's thin arm is effective. The raptor instantly ignores the pain, though it drives him into a frenzy as he finally gives everything he's got, like the bull and the storm. His legs were previously kicking randomly to regain balance along with his rod-like, horsewhip tail. Now his legs swing under the body of the scaled wrestler currently holding his arm and thrashing back and forth. Each second toe is armed with an infamous sickle claw 4 inches long. A not-so secret weapon.

The velociraptor's brilliant green eyes bulge open. He begins kicking with manic but guided precision. His sickle claws gash through the bull's leathery throat and stomach over and over, a bicycle kick of death. Laying open a quarry who has long-since abandoned pain. The Protoceratops ignores the blood spurting from his wounds, and crushes the arm of the Velociraptor with his axe-like beak. His red, beady, parrot-like eyes stare down at his enemy, who stares back, unblinking. The Velociraptor is almost completely buried in sand. He will never stop gripping and slashing, his killing instinct completely unbridled, unfurled, unleashed. The well-contained box of savagery has been opened. For a moment as they stare at each other, clamping down unforgivingly, they remember fear again. They are covered in sand. Now they can't see anything. They can only feel an impulse that may be considered regret. Regret that they veered off course of their daily routine, a routine maintained for survival. Now, survival is not possible. They can only feel now, body and mind. The outside world is gone. Darkness takes them into the unknown. What is known, however, beyond a doubt, is that both these dragons felt respect for each other. Whether as fighters, respect for each other as biological hazards of their environment, or anything else. Respect, primitive or not, of another who can bring death. Another warrior. Another survivor of the desert.

75 million years pass.

In 1971, the "Fighting Dinosaurs" fossil was unearthed in the Mongolian Gobi Desert (still a desert) by paleontologists Tomasz Jerzykiewicz, Maciej Kuczyński, Teresa Maryańska, Edward Miranowski, Altangerel Perle and Wojciech Skarżyński, and analyzed at length by Mongolian researcher Rinchen Barsbold. It is now a national treasure of Mongolia. For decades, it has ignited theories and interest in paleontology and dinosaurs. Pseudo-mythological dragons who we for some reason cannot let stay buried and resting. Creatures that cannot be observed, and must be imagined. Entities who seem fantastical and are long gone, but refuse to die.

Also ignore that my story takes place at night but my drawing takes place during the day, thanks

Description
The following story is mostly fiction. However, something like this went down.

...

The sun lazily retreats, signaling the daily transition to dusk, dragging away the day over the horizon. The light is filtered through a haze of sand miles away. A male Protoceratops raises his bony, fortified head, peering at the sunset. He then heaves himself up and turns away, plodding over the sandy hill. As he summits the peak of the sandstone crest, he gazes down and surveys his domain. Dozens of chattering females and hundreds of peeping nestlings in the shadow of the hill raise a din competing with the blustering desert wind. The male slides down the sandy hill, letting out a low, booming squawk that captures the attention of most of the attendees, including lesser males at the edge of the colony. Raising his flaglike, multicolored tail and swaying his head with its resplendent crest, the pig-sized dinosaur trots confidently, as if to give the signal that the coast is clear to begin foraging for the night.

But the coast is not clear.

Harsh wind and annoying hunger pangs both motivate a male Velociraptor to sample the air for basic necessities like food and shelter. With twilight fast arriving, his emerald eyes settle upon the hill. His head lowers and he sets off in a quick dash through the dry scrub. Suddenly, the chatter of the Protoceratops herd catches his ear over the wind and biting sand in the air. Like silent liquid lightning, his body hunkers down and he slips through the surrounding plants until the colony's sound is too loud to understand. Inching forward, he at last gets a view of the gathering before him. Making a kill here is not an easy task, but such is life in the desert. And he's been here before, living up to his name of swift plunderer, never passing up an opportunity. His feathers ruffle to gather warmth in the failing light. One silent step in front of the other, he slinks toward the edge of the colony most obscured by bushes. A mother squabbling with a neighboring female, ignoring her thirteen screeching hatchlings. An easy, though earned, buffet. Picking out an offspring, he is primed for a kill. A primordial twinge in his brain's reward center fires, that impulse familiar to all hunters.

Lunge.

Crash.

Velociraptor's cunning nocturnal instinct is catastrophically thwarted by another's equally watchful eye. The male Protoceratops headbutts the lithe raptor with a solid impact, sending the hunter flying into a rock. In the space of a second, the raptor rolls and recovers. He shrieks, completely dumfounded, previously honed senses thrown into disarray. He dashes at the bull, quickly feinting out of the way of a head swing and leaping into the air, slashing the bull's pebbled hide, drawing blood but no fear from his adversary. As the bull swings around, the raptor turns on a dime to make his escape. Another failure. In the face of distracting battering wind and sand, the Proto has him pinned against another rock face. Fighting is the only way out. But the raptor is not unprepared.

Setting the interloper in his sights, the male Proto charges blindly. Once again the Velociraptor dodges, but the combat area is closing in. He zigzags around the Proto, and they exchange blows. However neither fighter does significant damage or takes full advantage of his evolutionary gifts. This is about to change.

The wind enters the fray fully as a third contestant of nature, whipping and beating the two animals. Blinded to anything beyond a few meters, the Velociraptor and the Protoceratops are unaware they have moved well away from the Proto colony. The bull Proto could turn back to his domain, protected from the storm by the hill. The raptor could bolt away and take his chances finding shelter in the elements. Neither one does so. The bull's body is flooded with testosterone; he loses all consideration of anything but the killer who must be killed. The raptor is rapidly losing the flight concept of fight or flight instinct.

A final charge. Without making a sound, the bull charges like a tiny battering ram. The raptor's lightning-quick spatial calculations take place for a dodge-and-strike. A final miscalculation in an evening of miscalculations. Anticipating the predator's patterns, the Proto transitions from a charge to a diagonal upward swing, catching the birdlike raptor in the stomach with his nose horn as the raptor leaps, flipping the raptor into the ground. Struggling to retain a foothold in the loose sand and coughing out granules even as a profusion of sand belts into him from all sides, the raptor attempts to locate his rainbow foe, such is the fury of the sandstorm. Fueled by rage, with a toughened exterior breaking the storm, the proto blasts through the amber curtain of sand into the raptor's view. The conditions rob the raptor of his agility. The Proto bears down on him. Both animals' honed brains perceive the final impact in slow motion. The bull's central nose horn shoves the raptor into the dirt once more. Using his superior solid bulk, the bull pushes the raptor into the soft sand as if to drown him.

All he wanted was a meal. Just a little one. As if to take part in some mutual understanding of balance, a trade made in the unforgiving world of the Gobi Desert. But no such agreement exists between predator and prey other than preparing for each other, and no communication is possible. The Velociraptor bears no ill will for this beast. He tried to exit. Now there are no more options except to open his final toolbox for which he is currently known and would still be known for 75 million years later. Swinging his wing-like arms with their grappling hook claws into the Proto, he attempts to twist away from the monster, only sinking further into the sand. Sand which is rapidly accumulating.

Darkness.

A furious whirlwind of sand engulfs them. There is nothing else but these three fighters of nature. Predator. Prey. Environment. Three factors in a process billions of years in the making. A process occurring currently. But none of that matters now. Incurring slashes to the neck and head crest, the male Proto rears up for another body slam. But the raptor is hanging on. Nowhere to flee. If this is the way it's going, this is the way he's going. Until now, the Proto has been literally pressing his advantage. The battle has been one-sided, but only because the fury has been one-sided.

There were no hard feelings. This has changed. The claws of the Velociraptor's left hand dig into the skull crest of the Proto, raking open the skin. They will never let go again. His right hand tries to wildly grab anywhere. Yet another miscalculation as all he finds is mind-splitting pain. The protoceratops is not a killer, he is a herbivore. His attack is not guided by instinct unlike the Velociraptor. Yet his chomp with his massive flinty beak on the raptor's thin arm is effective. The raptor instantly ignores the pain, though it drives him into a frenzy as he finally gives everything he's got, like the bull and the storm. His legs were previously kicking randomly to regain balance along with his rod-like, horsewhip tail. Now his legs swing under the body of the scaled wrestler currently holding his arm and thrashing back and forth. Each second toe is armed with an infamous sickle claw 4 inches long. A not-so secret weapon.

The velociraptor's brilliant green eyes bulge open. He begins kicking with manic but guided precision. His sickle claws gash through the bull's leathery throat and stomach over and over, a bicycle kick of death. Laying open a quarry who has long-since abandoned pain. The Protoceratops ignores the blood spurting from his wounds, and crushes the arm of the Velociraptor with his axe-like beak. His red, beady, parrot-like eyes stare down at his enemy, who stares back, unblinking. The Velociraptor is almost completely buried in sand. He will never stop gripping and slashing, his killing instinct completely unbridled, unfurled, unleashed. The well-contained box of savagery has been opened. For a moment as they stare at each other, clamping down unforgivingly, they remember fear again. They are covered in sand. Now they can't see anything. They can only feel an impulse that may be considered regret. Regret that they veered off course of their daily routine, a routine maintained for survival. Now, survival is not possible. They can only feel now, body and mind. The outside world is gone. Darkness takes them into the unknown. What is known, however, beyond a doubt, is that both these dragons felt respect for each other. Whether as fighters, respect for each other as biological hazards of their environment, or anything else. Respect, primitive or not, of another who can bring death. Another warrior. Another survivor of the desert.

75 million years pass.

In 1971, the "Fighting Dinosaurs" fossil was unearthed in the Mongolian Gobi Desert (still a desert) by paleontologists Tomasz Jerzykiewicz, Maciej Kuczyński, Teresa Maryańska, Edward Miranowski, Altangerel Perle and Wojciech Skarżyński, and analyzed at length by Mongolian researcher Rinchen Barsbold. It is now a national treasure of Mongolia. For decades, it has ignited theories and interest in paleontology and dinosaurs. Pseudo-mythological dragons who we for some reason cannot let stay buried and resting. Creatures that cannot be observed, and must be imagined. Entities who seem fantastical and are long gone, but refuse to die.

Also ignore that my story takes place at night but my drawing takes place during the day, thanks