You are in the volcanic forested lands of South Africa, 199 million years ago.

The air in the early Jurassic valley was thick, humid, and smelled intensely of crushed ferns. You pressed yourself behind the massive trunk of a conifer, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The ground began to vibrate—a rhythmic, deep thud that you felt in your chest before you heard it.

A herd of Vulcanodon appeared. They weren't the largest sauropods to ever walk the earth, but witnessing six of these early long-necks up close was breathtaking. They were majestic, with relatively long necks for their time, moving with a surprising, quiet grace despite their immense bulk. Their skin was a tapestry of dappled browns and greys, blending perfectly with the foliage.

One adult, likely the matriarch, stopped not thirty feet from you. It stripped a tall fern with a single, sweeping motion of its head, its long neck counterbalanced by a muscular tail. You could see the texture of its skin, light and rugged. For a moment, its large, dark eyes turned in your direction, regarding you with a calm, alien intelligence. There was no fear, only a profound indifference from a creature whose size kept it safe.