Little Goat Mountain I never trust a narcissist

A voice. That of a man. 
Ashkova inched closer, but not too close. Only enough so to get a good whiff of them. Their scent had indeed lingered for many days. The child wondered then if perhaps this one was his father. But the thought was quickly put aside, as it was realized they shared no apparent similarities. 
As his mother soon approached, the man was all but forgotten. With an eager wiggle, he pressed himself against the brace of her leg, vying for her attention with small, hoarse yips. She had been to busy focusing on the man and the limp creature he'd brought, but Ashkova wanted her eyes to be on him instead.