Icarus has been busy lately as well — but, then again, when isn't he? The sun-striped feline cannot let his paws grow still for long before they begin to itch with the urge to search once more. He knows not for what he looks, and yet he finds himself scouring every inch of heaven and earth alike for answers. Each time he is led back here, to this wasteland of a desert that he's come to call a home. So he searches here, too, devouring whatever books he can get his paws on, exploring ancient ruins of camp, and carefully observing the stars that hang over the sun-scorched expanse. Between it all the tom tends to forget to catch up with his clanmates — he generally enjoys their company, but he's often lost in his own world of constellations and myths and grand, unanswered questions.
But this call is an intriguing one; Icarus has never learned much about the musical arts, nor the visual, for that matter (his own skills lie more within the literary when it comes to creative pursuits). Nevertheless, like with most things, the idea piques the golden male's interest. He approaches on graceful ivory paws, his glittering emerald eyes first flickering across those gathered. These are faces he vaguely recognizes, and ones he admittedly does not know well. His attention first finds itself focusing on Zin with an amused twitch of an ear. Icarus doesn't know much about instruments, but he knows for certain that what the young boy holds is no crushed flute. "I don't know of any elephants in Solaris," he advises casually, not even looking at the spitfire serval but instead picking his way over towards the collection of instruments as he speaks, "Maybe you should try blowing into it."
Once more his focus drifts, a knife-sharp gaze whetted by curiosity. A guitar here, a drum there — but that which catches his eye is something else entirely. Something ancient, not unlike a harp, but with a smaller, more delicate frame and fewer strings to strum. He knows it to be a lyre, if only from the tales of Orpheus he knows so well. The tabby notes the its shape with familiarity, lovingly tracing the stars of Lyra across its wooden body. Icarus lifts a single claw to pluck at a string, eliciting a sharply out-of-tune sound that brings a twitch of a smile to his lips nonetheless. He peers at the strange instrument for a moment longer before slowly dragging his gaze upward to focus on Marigold. "Do you know this one?" he asks now, mild in tone and yet with a quiet excitement blossoming in his spring-green eyes.