With the dunes now secure, Olaf needed to put the feelers out for allies. In a few years, he would probably have daughters in need of homes and it stood to reason that he should find good onea for them all (and give a good home to his allies’ daughters in return). He wrestled briefly with which island to tackle first but eventually decided on Tinuvel, mostly due to the fact that the longer he left it, the colder and more intolerable it would become. No matter what season he chose to go however, it would be a difficult transition between the heat of Salem and too cold of Tinuvel.

Clenching his strong jaw against the biting cold of the ‘still warm for Tinuvel’ wind, the dark stallion emerged from the swelling ocean. The water clung desperately to his hide only to be forcibly dislodged with a shake of his head. Damp, black strands of hair draped over the skull-shaped marking that adorned his otherwise dark face while caramel coloured eyes gazed over the frosty domain that was the bay.

Olaf’s nostrils dilated, sucking in a deep breath and with it, a familiar scent. His hard gaze turned to the bleak-looking terrain that opened out in front of him, probing the distant figures for any sign of the one he knew well. A single fore hoof stamped into the pebble lined shore and he sent out a loud whinny. Tinuvel had definitely been the best idea.