“They burn dung.” The junior ambassador to the Ideztozhyuh hissed it out in a horrified whisper. “They’re burning goat waste in those horrid little stoves, Angirie!”
“They do.” The senior ambassador didn’t share his associate’s horror; indeed, he was smirking. “And they drink the fermented milk of their nanny goats, and they wear underthings made from spun goat wool. They boil the hooves down for a kind of gelatinous stew and they wear the horns as jewelry. They’re goat-riders, Hanzio. What did you expect?”
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