Little Goat Mountain bewusstsein

Wylla wasn't sure whether to be a little creeped out that Mahler had a nickname for her daughter or not. A younger her would've raged against such a thing, reminded him that he was not her father and had no right to offer nicknames, but now she knew better. A nickname was not harmful, and Tiercel had no father to defend anyhow. She said nothing on it, only allowing a thoughtful lift of her brow.

She wasn't expecting Mahler's answer; like so many things about him, he remained an enigma, and unraveling the tapestry of his mind was always surprising. A father, but his kids had died of the fever he escaped. She had nothing to compare the loss to, and as she settled briefly on her belly to gnaw the wrist bone of whatever animal died here, she tried to imagine losing Tiercel that way.

That must have been very hard, she told him, a brief condolence before he answered his question: No. I didn't want to be a mother and it wasn't planned, it just happened. Which said little about her self control. As did her next question, which was delivered in a cheeky effort to redirect from these sorrowful subjects:

What does it feel like, she wondered, pausing dramatically to crack the bones with her teeth, to have a cock?