urial
The urials—once considered a subset of the Mouflons, specifically the Armenian Mouflon—have always existed in a shadowy corner of history. Often divided into categories like European, Mediterranean, and Asiatic Mouflon, their taxonomic status was a tangled mess of uncertainty. Recent scientific studies, however, revealed something shocking: the forebearers of Ovis orientalis (the wild sheep) were a hybrid—a mix of ancient Mouflons and feral domestic sheep. Alongside this revelation came the recognition of a new group entirely: the urials.
This discovery resulted in the splitting of the old classifications into eight distinct species. The Mouflons were reduced to three under Ovis gmelini, while the urials expanded into five under Ovis vignei. These changes shook the very foundations of sheep taxonomy.
Despite these findings, urials remain understudied and underfunded. Their culture is quietly fading, a long-suffering casualty of the dominance of their more prominent Western relatives. Found primarily in Central Asia, stretching to Pakistan, the urials have played an underappreciated role in sheep domestication. Their contributions to historical battles—both literal and symbolic—against goats and other wild sheep species go largely unrecorded. Even within the secretive "inner circles" of hoofed society, urials were known as one of the most steadfast members of House Mouflon—until the split, that is.
However, Ovis orientalis may yet be recognized as its own hybridized population. The mix of urial, Mouflon, and early domestic sheep DNA forms a unique cultural and genetic tapestry. Their population remains relatively stable, concentrated primarily in Iran, and they occupy a distinct niche among the sheep species. Scientific evidence of differences in chromosome numbers supports their classification as a distinct group. Yet, in today's world, science is rarely the deciding factor. Politics, media, and public perception hold far more sway—and the urials know that better than anyone.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm of her nervous fingers drumming against the wood of the desk was as relentless as her thoughts. It had been a stressful first few days, and Urial's nerves were frayed to their limits. This sense of wealth and prestige—the gilded walls, the expensive fabrics—felt like a suit two sizes too big. It didn't fit.
The soft clothes she wore, imported silks and velvets, made her skin itch. She longed for the rugged materials of her homeland, where every thread bore the weight of survival on the steppes. She missed the feeling of calloused wool and wind-worn leather. This wasn't Turkistan anymore.
Urial stared out the rain-speckled window of her room. The air here smelled wrong, artificial, like someone had doused the city in pine-scented chemicals and called it nature. Even the grass grew differently, as if it, too, was under orders to conform.
"This place," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the hollow quiet, "it reeks of something… evil."
There was something oppressive about this port town. Once a hub of European colonial trade, it had long since fallen into decay before being resurrected as a playground for the rich, the elite, and the popular. The castle fortress, now converted into student housing, felt more like a mausoleum.
For generations, her family had lived in the shadow of more powerful groups. For a time, it was enough to thrive under the collective sheep umbrella. Better to be under the same roof as the Mouflons and domestic sheep than to face the outside threats alone. Hoofed animals had always been surrounded by predators—wolves, lions, bears, with their sharp tools and sharper minds.
But that time was over. Urial and her family had grown tired of being dismissed, ignored, and ruled by the increasingly bloated domestic sheep estates. The Mouflons, who were supposed to guide and control their domesticated descendants, had failed. Worse, they had taken all the credit for shaping sheepkind while conveniently erasing the contributions of others.
Her family's role had been significant. Over half of the Arab and Asian sheep breeds carried traces of her lineage in their blood. Five out of eight Mouflon estates had sided with the urials in their bid for recognition, but it still wasn't enough. The domestic sheep controlled everything: the narrative, the resources, the future.
Bitterness burned in her veins. It was their inability to break free that had driven the urials to rebellion. They had fought back, aligning with goats and even the hated bovines in a desperate bid for freedom. It was a gamble, and one that came at great cost. But freedom was worth any price.
Freedom. She was free now, wasn't she? The money was hers—finally theirs to spend. The properties her family had toiled for, only to see taken from them, were back in their hands. The world should have felt wide open.
Instead, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.
She ran her fingers over the polished wood of the desk. "What now?" she whispered.
There was no one left to tell her what to do. She'd spent her entire life fighting for approval—from the Mouflons, from the domestic sheep, from her own kin. Now, with no one watching, she felt lost.
The girls in the common room didn't help.
They were domestic sheep, all of them—pristine cotswold with their perfectly coiffed wool, sharp-tongued rambouillet, and smug corriedale. Their laughter was as polished as their designer shoes.
Urial hovered at the edge of the room, her fingers gripping the straps of her bag. She felt their eyes on her, assessing, judging. Her horns, smaller and rougher than theirs, made her stand out. Even her wool, a sun-bleached caramel that spoke of harsh climates, marked her as an outsider.
"Are you lost?" one of the cotswold girls asked, her voice like sugar laced with poison.
Urial forced a smile. "No," she said, but her voice betrayed her unease.
They didn't say anything outright, but the way they turned back to their conversation, deliberately excluding her, cut deeper than words. Urial clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She hated them. She hated their smooth wool and their easy laughter, their world of comfort she could never be part of.
Her room became her sanctuary. It was luxurious in a way that made her uncomfortable—everything soft, spotless, and impersonal. The bed was too plush, the sheets so white they seemed to glow. She sat on the edge, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
The loneliness was crushing. At home, she had been surrounded by her family, her herd. Here, she was utterly alone. Even among the wild herds of re-feralized sheep back home, there had been camaraderie, a sense of shared survival.
She tried to remind herself why she was here. The urials had always been more independent, more in touch with the wild than the Mouflons. Their willingness to mingle with the feral sheep herds had made them stronger, even if it meant bending the rules of purity that the urials held so sacred. She muttered under her breath, "dirty peasant lovers."
But here, purity was everything. The domestic sheep's obsession with perfection—genetic, aesthetic, and social—was suffocating.
The isolation drove her to desperate measures.
It started small—a designer scarf, then a pair of shoes. She spent hours scrolling through online catalogs, her heart racing as she added item after item to her cart. When the packages arrived, she felt a fleeting rush of satisfaction.
She dyed her wool, polished her horns, and practiced smiling in the mirror. She learned the domestic sheep's slang, their mannerisms, their jokes. She bought their approval, little by little, with drinks, gifts, and compliments.
It worked. They started to include her in their conversations, inviting her to sit with them. Their laughter, once cold, now warmed slightly when directed at her.
But it wasn't real. Every smile felt like a mask, every laugh an act. She was a stranger in her own skin, pretending to be someone she wasn't.
One night, alone in her room, she stared at her reflection. The girl in the mirror was unrecognizable—her wool dyed pastel, her horns polished smooth, her makeup flawless.
"Who am I?" she whispered.
Her phone buzzed with a party invitation. She stared at it for a long moment before tossing it aside.
She missed the steppe, the rough clothes, the wild freedom. But she couldn't go back. Not now. Not ever.
Her ancestors had fought for recognition, for freedom. And here she was, trapped in a gilded cage, pretending to be one of the sheep who had oppressed her kind.
"I'll survive this, maybe..." she muttered.