Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Xan had been silent whilst observing the other two, which wasn't at all normal for him; not that they'd know that. When the female of the duo had started to rise, his ears fell back upon realizing her inability to really use her right forelimb. There was a brief feeling of guilt that had crept out of the depths of his mind, but it hadn't survived long as his own inability to recognize it left little to cling to. It wasn't his fault that she'd fallen, but her own for having run off in the first place. It was easy to convince himself that he'd played no part in her face-plant, for all he'd done was stop. He hadn't tripped her or run forward in some mock game of chicken, he'd only stopped and stood there. What had followed had been an event that he'd had no control over, thus eliminating his contribution to it—in his mind, at least.

Her having said for herself to be fine had been enough for the Inuit, and so he'd not pressed the matter. Whether it was a lie or not, he'd not picked through the statement enough to really tell. Her words had been accepted as the truth for the time being, meanwhile his attention was drawn towards the newest of arrivals. The latter question hadn't been understood, but the one before it was, just as well as the insult. "I'm not a dickhead," he'd said first, his body having shifted back in the process whilst his posture became defensive. "I'm Xan." Alexander, actually, but he'd made the mistake of introducing himself with his full name one too many times, so it was left at that. Following his answer, he'd turned the question back towards the both of them, asking, "What about you two?"