Until today, trips outside the Throat have been few and far between for the young colt. He might be growing remarkably fast, but he doesn't yet feel confident enough with his wings to fly out of his homeland, and it is quite a bind to have to wait for somebody with a key to open the bridge for him. That's not to mention the fact that he needs to return home by his designated time so he can get to his sleeping spot and keep to his precious routine - after much thinking he's decided that he will have to try and get different sleeping spots that he alternates between (in an orderly fashion, of course) so he is not restricted to returning to the Throat every night, as there must be more to life than the rolling desert sands of his birth-herd.

The idea of so much change is mildly frightening, however, so the volcano-boy has kept his exploring to a minimum for most of his short life. He simply cannot turn down an opportunity to follow his mother on an adventure, though, even if it makes his lava bubble to contemplate the idea of not returning to the Throat in time for him to hit his sleeping spot at his usual exact moment. On the journey over he observes as much as he can, filling his young mind with knowledge until it's as saturated as a sponge in water.

His dam's comment about the World's Edge and its rulers makes him flicker his ears with evident interest, even if his white-splashed face remains emotionless and unmoving. "Why is it called the World's Edge? It cannot truly be the edge of the world....there must be other islands, like the Throat, out to sea, which means that it's actually not the World's Edge at all. It should be called Helovia's Edge, should it not?" He frowns, wondering what kind of rank stupidity would cause somebody to name a place in such an absolute fashion. Nobody can say with assertion that the World's Edge is really the World's Edge, the same way they cannot say that the Throat is the World's Hottest Land or the World's Most Southern Island. Then again, it irks him that the Dragon's Throat is called the Dragon's Throat, when it is decidedly not a dragon's throat. These odd naming conditions give Vulkán a great deal of anxiety, and he tries not to think about them for fear he'll lose his mind over the fact that almost every land is named with a lie.

As the mist causes his rich bay coat to darken with moisture, the boy glances up at his mother and across to his twin. He's not sure what else to say, so he just huddles as close to Otem as he possibly can as he seeks comfort against the unfamiliarity of this Not-World's Edge.