He lived here, once. He was born here. Well; now he knows that other people are born; he hatched. The young stallion remembers the taste of the salt in the air, the smell of the sulfur.  He remembers that he’d heard his mother and father’s voices many times from the cocoon inside his egg, but that when he’d woken, he’d been alone. Not for very long – the nice black mare had found him, and his parents had been along shortly. But he remembers the feeling of being lost until they came, and it wasn’t a good feeling.
 
So even though he knows that mother and father check the egg every day, he sees them sometimes and he catches their unique scent all around, Grye checks too. Twice a day, sometimes three times, sometimes he spends all day watching it carefully. He can’t wait to be a big brother – to introduce her to grandfather, and the cousins; maybe to teach her to fly?
 
But he’s not an egg anymore, and he doesn’t like to sleep on the volcano, so he’s wandered back down towards the base, to the nest he’s created in a tucked away nook, and tries to settle down. It’s lonely, though, the nest, and he doesn’t like it. It’s hard to sleep. Tephra isn’t home; Nerine is home. Nerine, with the big family. Not here in his lonely nest.