Each night, Vulkán sleeps beneath the same tree. It's a large palm tree which stands alone a short distance away from the Throat's oasis, and its fronds are large enough to give the colt shade during the day and shelter during the night. When he lies curled up in the faded brown grass that denotes his sleeping spot, he can see a rock in the distance. There's a notch just about visible on this rock, and he knows that when the sun hits it, that means it's time for him to get up.

Getting up at the same time every morning is just...good sense, isn't it? Routine is what the world is built upon. Even if the large foal happens to wake up before the sun hits that notch, he'll remain lying down until the designated time. Only then will he rise to his stout little legs and begin his day.

Today, he's overslept. By the time his eyes open, the sun is already a fraction past the notch on the rock, and with a loud bleat of horror Vulkán clambers to his hooves. He shakes the night's detritus off himself, but he's quivering with an odd tension that he can't shake off. "No," is all he can mutter. "Wrong." The colt shudders, his entire body radiating with spasms of anxiety as he stares accusingly at the notched rock, as though it's the rock's fault that he's missed his chosen waking time.

Borne of his frustration and worry, a few thin streams of lava begin to trickle down his right shoulder.

He needs something to distract himself, else he dwell on this break in his routine for so long he'll go mad. He glances to the side, and there's...something that isn't usually there. Frowning, the colt leans down to sniff this odd object, his pain momentarily forgotten. It's a nest, far smaller than the one Otem had found her egg in, and it's shattered on the floor. Ah, yes, it was quite windy last night, waking the colt up several times, which is probably why he'd overslept.

Next to the nest are two dead hatchlings. They're so small and fragile that Vulkán wonders if they were ever actually alive, as their tiny little wings and shrunken beaked heads just seem too miniscule to survive. Unsure what to do, the quad-horned boy just stares dumbly down at the nest and its expired inhabitants, and there's a strange chasm in his chest where he thinks there should be an emotion. But there isn't.