She had wandered and wandered until the floor of the earth tilted, lifted, angled in ways that were unlike the flat lowlands she knew. She had no eye for beauty, but she did have a nose for curiosity, and a scent had drifted to her during her wanderings, pungent and promising, luring her deeper into the hills and shelves of rock. Winding through passages rarely trod by her kind’s feet, the stink beckoned, an invisible finger, waving—wafting—“Come hither.” And there, in a bend, lodged between rocks, broken and dead, was another wanderer, a titanosaur, its neck lodged strangely between two boulders. Had the rocks fallen? Or had the beast fallen from a greater height? It mattered not to the rajasaur. The flies and small pterosaurs had taken little of the carcass’s flesh, so the theropod fed and fed until her stomach ached and she wandered again, this time into the deep valley.