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[div style="width: 300px; max-height: 100px; height: overflow; overflow: scroll; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -5px; font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt; color: #152232; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align: justify;"]He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.

Ivan, for his part, thrived with the great amounts of independence that he was given Perhaps the personality of some children necessitated a constant watch, Ivan was aware that Aurum's children were a particularly rowdy bunch. But luckily Ivan was low maintenance and did not show a desire to do anything bad, not because he would be punished for it, but because he just simply was not interested.

Ivan found that the only person who could truly entertain him was himself and unfortunately while it did make him an easy kid, he often found himself without friends. He was easily bored with other things, but could stand still for a long time just thinking, or brushing his paws over the pages of books he wanted to read but didn't have enough experience to properly read.

The young black cat was returning from one of his little walks — sometimes he thinks better when he is moving — pushing the door open haphazardly because he knew that when he left, there was nobody there. So, he was quite shocked to see his father standing up at the bookshelf. How long had he been there? And whenever books were concerned, Ivan was desperate to be in on it. He had one thing to be grateful for, being born in a family that appreciated that hobby.

"Dad?" He meowed inquisitively. "What are you doing?"

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[div style="width: 300px; max-height: 100px; height: overflow; overflow: scroll; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -5px; font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt; color: #152232; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align: justify;"]He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.

Ivan's large ears pulled back against his head, suddenly put on the spot. His claws nicked the floor as he unconsciously unsheathed and sheathed them. He padded forward, drawn by his own curiosity, but he noticeably trembled over looking good in his father's eyes. The young cat raised himself on his haunches and scanned his eyes across the bookspines, only gathering bits and pieces of what he was seeing. His memory was somewhat photographic, and he could usually memorize the scrawled lettering to mean something whenever someone read in front of him.

Ivan reached forward to touch his pawpad to a slimmer book and trailed it across the others, his seafoam eyes squeezed shut. His heart pounded against his fragile ribcage as he wondered when to stop. He didn't like to believe in fate, but for one millisecond of a lifetime, he wondered if something perfect would happen. "Yes," He answered finally, opening his eyes. He paused to sneeze as he withdrew his paw. "I'd like to help. Which ones where you thinking of?"

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[div style="width: 300px; max-height: 100px; height: overflow; overflow: scroll; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -5px; font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt; color: #152232; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align: justify;"]He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.

His short duration on this radioactive town left Ivan without many life experiences. The dullness of the town, the peace, was almost frightening because Ivan sometimes worried that he didn’t have character. It was a terrible thing, to think you were as stiff as a board. The reason for this was that he couldn’t quite find something he loved. Apart from the stars and sky, of course, but he remembered how he trembled when Beck told him to collect something. There was this feeling of not fitting in, and he felt it the most when he was around his father. Maybe he was just afraid of what he was. Maybe that’s why he admired his father so much.

”Oh,” Surprise leapt to Ivan’s face. ”Well, things that are fantastical. Not fantasy like knights and dragons, that’s eh, what do you call it, sort of like a clique, no a cliche. I-I can’t put my paw on it. I don’t suppose anyone’s written stories about space.” He faltered, feeling that he hadn’t given much to work with. Sometimes he was just so picky that nothing could catch his attention. ”Maybe about someone who’s brave.”