Hoshor Plains Blacks and bays, dapples and greys

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While he was known to most of the herds, there were still those who did not see him as being a benign scout, in spite of his gentle disposition and kind features. He didn't look too long at any mares in particular, so that the studs would simply let him pass by and scope out the flatlands in peace, but every now and again, he would get pinned ears or bared teeth and a low, snaking head from one of the herd stallions to keep him away. Grassdancer, nimble-footed, slyly stepped further away from the old, bad-tempered studs. They would be the ones who would fear most being usurped in the Spring. Younger stallions would challenge them this year, and more than a few of them would lose their mares. 

Grassdancer moved, scanning the area to see if it was at all pock-marked by divets or holes dug by little, tunneling creatures. Instead, he caught wind of something that made him stop and raise his head. He stomped one foot, and stared hard into the distance. He flared his nostrils, and moved forward a bit, waiting for a change in the breeze. He'd caught just a hint of wolf-scent- but wherever the creature was hiding, he did not see it yet. 

He snorted, a sharp exhale of breath that was almost dragon-like, signalling to the herd stallions to pull their mares closer together, and to pool their foals and yearlings toward the centres of their bands. He remained where he was, scanning the area, and inhaling the breeze, searching for any sign of fur among the roughage.