Creatures...under his feet? With more than a hint of concern, the colt lifts each feathered hoof in turn as though expecting these fabled creatures to be hanging underneath them, burrowing into his legs. "Creatures? Like us?" He's picturing horses like themselves breaking upwards out of the soil to join their land-walking brethren; it's a rather worrying concept, even if the boy struggles to understand the full depths of this worry.

The giantess smoothly corrects him and Vulkán hangs his head, somewhat abashed. Her explanation causes him to frown with concentration, trying to put together the event and the affect inside his mind - his dam saw his leaking lava, and assumed that the dead birds caused that particular emotion. The volcano-boy shifts awkwardly. If he was capable of lying, he'd agree with his mother, say that he was quite perturbed by the deaths and that's what caused his lava to betray him. Alas, like his father, the colt seems incapable of lying, even if he can see the benefit of doing so on this occasion. If he tells the truth - that he was more upset by waking up a few minutes late than he was by the deaths of two birds - then his mother might think him odd, bordering on sociopathic.

He reminds himself that she is his mother, thus morally bound not to judge him too much. "No, the birds did not trouble me. It's just...." He averts his gaze from her own. He doesn't like eye contact at the best of times, but usually forces himself to maintain it in a vain attempt to pick up any of those none-verbal cues expressed in other horses. This time, though, he stares pointedly at the floor, and his lava bubbles a little bit more. "I rose late from my bed this morning. It has...disturbed me." It is not a lie, but nor is it fully the truth. No words exist to describe the sheer panic that the bay foal feels whenever his order his thrown out; it's crippling, making him want to curl into a ball and sob until somebody makes it better. He cannot possibly vocalise that, so he leaves it as it is.

The mare begins to explain the concept of death, and Vulkán listens keenly. Any knowledge is eagerly digested by him, absorbed like a sponge into his depths so he can repeat the interesting facts at random intervals. He hums slightly, pondering the question at the end of his dam's explanation. "What I have seen leads me to believe that it is a bad thing. I've seen animals crawl over themselves to try and avoid it, and if the screams I heard last night are anything to go by, these particular hatchlings fought hard against it." He'd assumed it was a nightmare, those screams - the hatchlings had thrashed, calling for their mother, calling for salvation. Nothing had arrived, and now they are...no more.

"But it seems to me as though it is something to be embraced, not feared. If it will come for us all one day, then it is quite normal, as normal as eating or sleeping. It is routine." The smallest of smiles begin to edge across his face - there's little emotion in it, save for an odd, manic sort of happiness at the thought of death being something that grips them all. It is orderly, it is routine, it is unavoidable. It is something that can be truly relied on, far more than waking up based on a notch on a rock, or sleeping beneath the same tree under the assumption that the tree will always be there. "Do you think it is bad?" He thinks of the mother-owl trying to defend the eggs from the snakes; is it a mother's perogative to loathe death and try to defend her children against it?