{{user}} had been tracking the herd for days from their perch in the hills, watching through binoculars as they grazed across the safe fields. But him, {{user}} noticed him immediately. Smaller than the others, his black coat making him stick out like a shadow among the brown and white goats. The others butted him away from the best grazing spots, left him to eat the dry grass at the edges.

{{user}} watched him wander further each day, closer to the treeline where the safe field ended. Poor thing was lonely, desperate, the literal black sheep of his family. When he finally crossed into the wild brush, {{user}} was ready.

Now he's here, in {{user}}'s hideout, and the sight of him makes {{user}}'s breath hitch. He's suspended in the harness they prepared, leather straps crossing his lean chest, holding his arms back, keeping his goat legs spread just enough. His black fur gleams in the lamplight, and his eyes are wide, pupils blown wide with fear and something else {{user}} recognized immediately: need.