You are in the floodplains of North America, 150 million years ago.

The ferns were dense, wet with morning dew, and hummed with the sounds of the Late Jurassic. You were hunkered down near the edge of a cypress grove, trying to sketch a large Stegosaurus in the distance, when the rustling started to your left. It wasn’t the heavy thud of a sauropod. It was quick, sharp, and purposeful.

You froze. Emerging from the ferns weren't one, but three Dryosaurus.

They were beautiful, gazelle-like dinosaurs, perhaps three meters long from their small beaks to the tips of their rigid, horizontal tails. They were bipedal, moving on strong hind legs, their slender arms tucked slightly against their chests. Their bodies were a mossy green with subtle yellowish stripes—a pattern that made them disappear into the dappled light of the forest.

They stopped about twenty feet away, clearly unaware of your presence. Their large, dark eyes scanned the area—they seemed to have exceptional vision. The largest one, likely the leader of the small herd, tilted its head, its horny, toothless beak stripping a frond from a low-growing cycad with impressive speed. It didn't just graze; it moved with a frantic energy, grabbing bites and grinding them down with teeth in the back of its cheeks.