Little Goat Mountain eyetooth

Mountain goat was not a meal he reveled in often—but the few times he had partaken, he had always been impressed by the beast’s horns and the sinew within their compact forms. Bruised, likely, but at least not his ego, the man trailed after the scent of the ivory maiden, casting the fallen goat closer to the hollow entry in which she had found them.

Tongue curling to pull the blood from his lips—he paused to catch breath from lugging such a creature—despite flashing her a cheeky grin as he maneuvered closer. “May it’s strength become ours and prepare us to deal with those who believe themselves Gods,” he murmured, nudging the carcass toward her before sitting down swiftly, his own form bending down to inspect what he assumed was a bruised rib from a wayward horn.