The Ruler of the Jurassic Forest's den

I stalked past towering ferns into the cold hollow beneath a tangle of exposed roots. Silence. Good. The air inside smelled of damp earth and crushed needles—a fitting den for a ruler. I planted my hind feet firmly into the black soil, feeling the ground yield beneath my weight. Above me, twisted roots arched like the ribcage of some giant beast. Lowering my snout, I dragged my claws across a slab of decaying wood, gouging deep trenches into the grain. My mark is set. This shelter is mine.