Olaf was lounging beneath one of the ironwoods - back hoof cocked and caramel eyes lazily watching his women mill around – when an unfamiliar and decidedly masculine scent drifted in on the arid breeze. In an instant all four hooves were planted firmly on the ground and nostrils were flaring wildly. He gave an almighty, deep, resounding scream and charged off in the direction of the offending scent. Sand and chunks of grassy earth flew up in his wake, a cloud of dust shrouding his departing form from the mares he left grazing and lounging at the oasis.

Sand which would normally be displaced by his weight barely had time to shift as his gallop at up the distance between himself and the intruding stallion. When he spotted him, his head dipped lower and he put in a final burst of speed to cover the gap. A flurry of sand and grit flew up to shower the two stallions as he slid to a halt, hooves digging a furrow through the loose substrate. His caramel eyes burned with fury as his muzzle was thrust at his rival’s, nostrils quivering as he breathed deep and agitated breaths at the other male. ”Why are you here?” he barked gruffly. Olaf was ready to fight unless the other stallion could ease the tension.