You are in the floodplains of South Africa, 248 million years ago.

The air in the Early Triassic was thick, hot, and smelled of sulphur and dry dust. As you crouched behind a rocky outcrop, the sound reached me first—a rhythmic, shuffling noise, punctuated by the occasional low grunt.

A herd of Lystrosaurus was passing through the ravine. There were hundreds of them, no larger than pigs, moving in a tight, shambling single file across the desolate landscape. They were the undisputed masters of this post-apocalyptic world, barrel-bodied, tusked survivors, moving with a semi-sprawling gait. Their shovel-like faces dipped constantly, rooting through the sparse vegetation that had managed to return after the Great Dying.

Their skin was a mottled grey-brown, covered in a light fuzz, and their eyes seemed to constantly scan the horizon for danger. Despite the heat, the herd didn't stop, driven by the need to migrate for fresh food. A juvenile, trailing slightly behind its mother, stopped for a second, peering toward your hiding spot with curiosity before hurriedly snapping back into line.