i know i'm not the center of the universe
-but you keep spinning 'round me just the same
Though Ivar has met a handful of other children his age, it has not been in Sylva. He is the youngest in the fiery woods by several years and has had to venture outside the confines of the realm to find company his own age. The other children he has met have been most agreeable (he’s rather biased towards pretty Kylin and bold Castille, but the others had been wonderful as well), but the yearling has spent most of his time in the company of adults. As a result, he is more reserved than most youth his age, but like his earlier exclamation has proven – his age still shows from time to time in more than just his lanky looks.
His curiosity has never hidden well however, and he listens intently as Warrick describes the wildlife of Tephra. His brown eyes turn up at the macaws, watching the brightly colored birds as they disappear into the greenery. He has seen a few small green parakeets while on Ischia, but they were dull compared to the brilliant ruby and sapphire of the birds overhead. “Woah.” He mumurs quietly to himself as he follows Warrick. The vine covered rocks are inspected with a curiosu sniff of his pale muzzle. tHey remind him of the erupting rocks in his own home, but the vines are a novelty, as is the idea of a jaguar.
“That’s a cat, right? Like a lion?” He’s heard mother mention jaguars before in her descriptions of the old Beqanna kingdoms. They’d lived in the Amazon jungle, and he wonders if any of the women of Nerine had seen them before. He’d like to see one, he decides, and is indeed inspecting the shadows in the hopes that one will appear. He looks up to see Warrick watching him and grins a bit guiltily – he has seen that expectant amusement in his sire’s eyes more than once.
The forest around them is thinning, and Ivar brushes against a saw-leaf palmetto with a surprised yelp. They do not have sharp plants in Sylva, he thinks as she scowls at the low-growing plant.
They also don’t have views like this in Sylva.
In front of them, the sea waves tantalizingly, separated from him only by a bit of white sand. He steps forward tentatively, unsure of the difference between this pale sand and Nerine’s grey, but finds that it is much the same. Ivar follows the navy-haired stallion’s gaze up the volcano, where the dark rock is split by streams of red hot magma that steam into the sea. He watches it, both awed and suspicious, and listen to the story that Warrick tells him.
It is not one that he has heard before (and Mother has many stories). When Warrick finishes, Ivar is quiet for a while before he turns back to the older stallion. “Have you ever seen her?” He asks, “Pele, I mean?”
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