Balarian Mountain Goats

Balarian Mountain Goats

Visually a cross between a buffalo and a goat, the Balarian
Mountain Goat frequents the lower foothills of the mountains. These
sturdy, robust beasts are the size of an average pony. Their bulk
resides in their immense, rounded stomachs. From there leads flexible legs
and with spring-like joints that ends with a set of of cloven hooves.
The hooves themselves are divided into 'hoof-toes' at the tips, but two
small nubs upon each which the Balarian can use for better grasp. An
aide to their lofty perching upon ridges and rocky outcroppings.
They are adorned with a set of spiraled, ivory horns which are
flanked by bony ridges leaping towards floppy, leaf-shaped ears.

During the first fledging days of the summer season, Balarian goats
lose their skins. Literally. Overnight, the Balarian enters a state near
comatose called the Hakaat: the deep sleep.

During this period, over the span of several hours they wiggle
out of their skins, leaving the hair attached to the soppy
wet masses that take several days to dry. The Balarian's
are left hairless and pink. The pink skin is exceptionally
hardy and provide the needed protection against the summer
sun and winds. The hair and skin piles are used
for nesting during the coming colder months of autumn and
winter. By then, the Balarian's have developed thick, lush coats
which re grows quicker and fuller in the wake of their initial shedding.
The older the goat, the thicker its hair and the swifter it emerges,
which makes the elders distinguishable by their 'hairball' appearances.

There are no accounts of Balarian Mountain Goats being tamed.
They prove to be highly intelligent and elusive. Using
intricate pitch adjustments in their bleats, they are able
to signal each other from far distances. The vocal range of
their bleats is so varied that it can be considered a language
of their own.

"Xetoa " the man cursed into the thickly-set furs
around his broad shoulders. It served to do little to
shield him against the brutal cold of the foothills. Winter
had not yet settled in, and already the the morning greeted
him with a thin layer of snow. He wandered too far from home
this time, though he knew his way back. Perhaps
three days journey. It was difficult, but he made a promise.

He curled open his beefy, shaking hand, and steadying himself
against the bitter bite of chills piercing teeth that crept
against his gloves while he unearthed the small wooden figurine buried
in his pocket.

He'd finish it today. The sculpture for his child. First light
greeted his gaze in broken beams of barely-yellow, his
dark eyes turned to the horizon: there where the mountains
lower ridges rode against a jagged cliff and broke away to
taper up to depths too profound for any man to brave. There
he could see the nests. Sometimes, one of the goats
would pause and stare down towards him from afar then bleat
loudly.

A knife in his hand, and he began with the last of his
carving.