The sound of laughter caused Nephilim to flick his ears but, seeing that Al-Sarim did not pin his ears or crowd Nephilim (quite the opposite) the young stallion slightly relaxed the tenseness bunched in his muscles. Ears forward rather than turned back, his gold eyes regarded the older stallion as he spoke, and for a moment he faltered in his proud stance. It was just the slightest crack in the façade of a band stallion, for Nephilim grinned just a tad and snorted, tail flicking at his hindquarters.

“Al-Sarim.” He said, clarifying that he did, in fact, remember the older bay. His gaze rested on the stallion just briefly, wondering what to start with first. He wanted to ask what he was doing in the borders of the Bay, but there was certainly some comment that wished to be produced concerning his personal growth. Taking a territory when barely in the midst of two years old, and, on top of it, taking a territory plunged in the harshest winters the islands would ever know had helped Nephilim grow significantly.

Finally, he gave the slightest nod of his dished skull, as if to acknowledge thanks for the observation – he had grown from the awkward, social-lacking colt that Al-Sarim had met last. “Sorry,” he mentioned, offhandedly, shifting his hooves on the ground, “for the rude welcome. I needed to be certain you didn’t have any intention of ill will.” The air slightly cleared, he blinked and studied the stallion, remembering he’d told him of his desert homeland, which meant an island such as Tinuvel would possibly not be to his liking (though at least he’d come in late spring/early summer, the tamest of the months). “What brings you to Tinuvel?”