While Olaf had fought and won against two opponents before, Valve’s almost suicidal attack had caught him off guard and stacked the odds firmly in the desert horses’ favour. Olaf and Valve were both left pained by the attack but Gabbar was still in pretty good shape; Olaf would have been a fool to continue. The Arabian stallion had wrangled A’idah away, but Bloodmane had managed to get the rest of the herd far enough away from the scuffle for Olaf to drive them from the new danger in the dunes. On the shore, the two stallions parted ways.

With wounded pride (and body) Olaf wanted nothing more than the comforts of home so he drove the mares away from the heat of Salem, and across the water to the sandy shore of the forest; the place of his birth. The smoky black didn’t know or care who he would find there, he just knew that the forest would be his as it was always meant to be.

Driving the mares a little further up the short beach and into the cover of the trees, Olaf left them here locate the current lead. He hoped that Warsong or one of the other mares would step in to keep the herd together during his absence. Warsong had been quiet and reclusive since the birth of Gravewolf and Olaf wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she was making up for the problems she had faced with her other foals or maybe she just didn’t care about asserting her dominance anymore. Whatever the reason, she had relinquished her role as boss mare and fell in line with the rest. He wondered silently if Chianti would stick with group, by his estimations she was due, or perhaps even overdue, to give birth and seemed to be eyeing up the exits. Hopefully all would go well as he couldn’t expect a newborn to make the swim if they had to move again, this one had been hard enough for Gravewolf.

A familiar scent caught in his nostrils as he thundered through the trees and he soon came upon his daughter with yearling and another foal who couldn’t be more than a week or so old – both were clearly hers despite their differing colours. He stopped only briefly to speak with her and found it was her son who held the forest currently. A mere two year old would not be able to keep control of it. Leaving Jörmungandr to join his mares, Olaf set about finding her son.

The older stallion found Joukahainen by the stream and charged him with pinned ears and flared nostrils. He did not need to do anything more than posture and stamp his hoof before the boy caved with a clack of his teeth. With politics out of the way, they spoke briefly as they made their way back to the herd. Joukahainen slipped away, out of sight. His pride as wounded, perhaps more so, as his grandfathers, he made his way back to the lagoon.

With the forest now firmly his, Olaf moved back to his herd. The adrenaline of everything that had transpired over the day was finally beginning to wear off and the aches and pains were starting to set in. Olaf would not let his battle wounds or exhaustion keep him from his family however. When he reached them, he stamped his hoof firmly in the soil with a sharp snort and let his gaze drift over each of them, noting who was here and who was missing. ”Welcome home” he told them. It was good to be back.