First of Many

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The hills rolled along for miles, forming small shallow valleys between them like the dunes of a desert would have similarly made, and a gentle breeze, one barely noticeable be it not for the human touch, blew forth low to the ground. Along the mounds, and likely the lands beyond, flowed tall grasses of emerald green that shimmered and flickered in the light of day, their stalks bent and pushed along by the winds that flowed here lightly but consistently, and here and there were patches of flowers of many colors that joined in the dance that was all too familiar to these hillocks, and they too seemed to glow heavily by the sun’s rays.

It was indeed a bright day, there was nay a cloud in the sky, the warmth of the sun was pleasant to the touch, especially to those that might have been coming down from the high mountains to the West, ones that looked nearly blue from this far, and where white peaks of snow were among them all. There were also mountains to the East, high and mighty, though these seemed thinner than those of the West, where they slopped down heavily into the hilly valley, like a tree where it roots in a forest. It was near here, by the mountains to the West, that trees did root themselves. Tall pines, dull and of a healthy dark green, rested here along the slopes of the mountain sides, their tips also infected by the glitter of snow. But thankfully the cold did not seem to reach here.

Many people traveled along this route through the valley, as would be evidenced by the many roads here; though they were all, but a few, unpaved and without support for carts. However, it would seem to any wayfarer that they were travelled on well enough, just so that grass or weed did not gain a roothold on them. These roads were also without sign, so for one to travel them a map would be needed, or just a generous sense of wanderlust. But for now nothing moved outside of the birds hovering high through the cloudless sky. Though a grasshopper did jump, and the wind did blow, all was silent, and all was peaceful in this moment.

The rackety clanking of pots and pans rattled the air and reverberated on for many miles. Over a hill, where a bare dirt road lay, a figure emerged in a silhouette to anyone that would be near the bottom. Tall, and upright, there was revealed the form of a man. Though his face and body implied youth, he seemed hunched with sagging shoulders, as if a great burden was laid upon him. Though it was not known if such burden was in his mind, it was clear that the large, likely very heavy, traveling pack upon his back was surely of the physical plane. In his slightly gaunt, veiny hands he gripped a stick about twice his own height, and about as thick as a wrist of which he leaned atop this hill, breathing deep and long breaths.

With sharp eyes he gazed over the vast hillands before him, watching the waves of grasses flow like a tide over and under the mounds. Even from here he could see the vast flatlands to the south, and far beyond that the tips of more peaks, barely pinpricks in the horizon. Lovely, he thought. This moment of peace, as much as he wished it to last, was over washed as he rose up, and started down the hillside, the pans and pots and little bags swinging and hobbling behind him with every step he took, though their clanking fell on deaf ears. He had gotten used to it a long time ago.

The sun lay low in the sky now. It must have been around five or four in the afternoon. It didn’t matter to him though, but he had to admit, the low light made the plains look even better than when he had seen them before a few hours ago. ‘Least, the last time he had paid them any notice. He now stood atop a hill, as he had many dozens of times before now, though this one lowered down at a decline barely noticeable, and marked the entrance into the flatlands. The wind was not as strong here, likely from the fact that the mountains to each side of the valley had moved off away from each other for the last couple of miles, but, it was still a low gust, and the tall grass and weeds and, now, small shrubs fluttered along as they had done for some time now. He shrugged the pack upon his back, and sighed a low sigh, and started along the road again.

Dusk came quick, and his legs felt that they were about to fall out from under him, so he felt it was a reasonable time to make camp. He didn’t have any fear of bandits out here, so a fire was something he made quickly. From his orange and green travel pack he pulled a small can of beans and poured them out unto one of his many iron pans, plucking it from it’s place besides his few other handled cookware. For a while he sat there and simply watched the fire crack and snap, it’s warmth welcome as it got chilly in the night. He took in it’s streaks, how the wood burned intricate black and white patterns, the ash falling every so often from their small crevices, and the light thud on the ground as a small chunk of burnt, barely solid, wood fell away and landed near the stones of the pit, and as if to match this movement of dead wood, a much louder, audible thud came from across the fire.

“Hey there.” An airy voice greeted.

He looked up, startled, at the pegasus just across the small fire. Her fur glowed orange near the flame, or was she orange? She was wearing a coat he noticed a moment later, so maybe her coat was orange? He couldn’t quite tell. Her mane was nearly covered by the brown cap she wore; the rest of her locks, of a yellowish hue, flowed down along her shoulder. Some slightly tinted flight goggles covered her eyes. She wore a smile, a pair of saddlebags slung over her. “Saw the fire, thought I’d come by and say hello.” She said.

“It seems you have.” The man nodded, his voice was deep, and slightly rough, his vocal cords almost scratchy, likely from their lack of use as of late.

The pegasus nodded as well, “Well, figured if you’d allow it, save me some kindle if we could share.”

The man looked her up and down, “I don’t see why not. Though I didn’t prepare for any company.” He chuckled.

She smiled, “Thanks.” She reached around and unclipped her saddlebags and they hit the ground with a thud, and she sat close to the pit, nearly hugging the fire. “So...I don’t mean to be rude.” the pegasus started, “But...I’ve never seen somepony like you before.” The man looked over to her away from the beans he had been stirring, and she put her hooves up defensively, “Look, look. I’m sorry if that came off wrong, but I’m just trying to be honest with you here.”

After a moment, he brought a spoonful of beans to his mouth, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been asked worse.” He blew on the beans, “I’m a human, to answer the question.”

“A human? I’ve never heard of those before. Are you from the Far East?” She asked curiously, a hoof to her chin.

“No.” He answered simply, the spoon going into his mouth soon after. The beans were watery, but had a great deal of spice to it, compared to the green beans he had eaten the night before, their flavor might as well have exploded in his mouth. They reminded him of Ranch Style, though less thick.

“Huh.” She shrugged, and, noticing he was about to eat, opened her saddlebags and pulled out a little bag of dried fruits and nuts. They ate in silence for a while, the man had pulled out a biscuit from his bag, though to the pegasus it looked more like a lumpy cracker than anything, though he pressed that it was a biscuit. The fire crackled on and cast out a soft light around the campsite, which had been nothing more than a slightly barren spot just a short ways off from the road, and a cricket made it’s famous sound in the distance.

“So, what brings you all the way out this far West?” The pegasus asked. He had determined her fur was orange, as her coat sleeves still left a bit to the open on her hinds (her cutie mark was that of a scroll, two wings on its sides), though her goggles she left on still at the moment.

“Peddling.” He answered simply.

“Peddling?” She questioned, “What’s that?”

He raised a brow at her, “I sell goods.” He replied, putting more beans in his mouth. She looked over to the large bag he was leaning against, one that was admittingly bigger than her.

“Ooohhh.” She nodded, “So you’re like a merchant then.” She looked around, “But where is your wagon? Or you’re guards?”

“Guards? Why would I need those?” He asked, slurping some beans.

“Well, aren’t you afraid of getting your things stolen?”

He gave her a deadpanned look, and a rose brow.

She seemed to get the hint well, “True enough.” She looked him up and down. He was large, very much so compared to her, though pegasi she knew were even smaller on average than earth ponies, much less something she could compare most similarly to a minotaur, “You seem like you could handle yourself well. I doubt you run into much trouble. Still doesn’t explain why you don’t have a wagon. How can you hope to make a profit with so little?”

He simply shrugged. That gave her mixed feelings.

“Aren’t merchants about making profit?”

“Perhaps, it gets me a few coin for food and bed.”

She looked him over, his clothes were patched and self sewn in many places, as were his blue hued pants, though they seemed faded at the knees and near the ends of his long legs, the color rendered out after long use. His shoes were also dirty and worn, their soles visibly thick even from her place. His hat, one of a style she had seen earth ponies mostly wear, was dark with wear and sweat. He was surely not well off. But she knew she shouldn’t judge. They finished their meals, and night came soon after, total darkness surrounding them besides for the glowing touch of the fire, and the stars and moon high above.

“What is it you are doing out here?” The man questioned, him being the first one to speak this time to her.

If he could see her eyes, he would know what they seemed to almost glow with a near excitement as he asked her, “I run mail!” She boasted proudly, “To all the farthest reaches of Equis! I fly skies few griffons or pegasi dare to fly, and see lands few would even dream of!” She had a wide smile on her face, “High Sky’s the name, daring flights my game!” She finished, a near giggle at the end of her small rant.

He honestly couldn’t hold back a small grin at her declaration, “High Sky, eh?”

She nodded enthusiastically, “Yep! That’s me! Been flying packages since I was a filly. Been in the postal game for years. Right now I’m coming down from Tall Tale to run through a few villages. Most of them don’t have posts, ya’know?”

He was impressed, Tall Tale was near sixty miles North, she had to have been flying for days now, all for a few envelopes, “That’s quite a thing.” He said, sipping some water from one of his canteens.

“And what about you?” High Sky added, “You’ve been…peddling since you were a calf?”

“We call our young children, not calfs.” He clarified, to which the pegasus nodded, “And no, not been in the business that long. Started quite recently actually. Only been about...well, I’m not so sure. Two or three years, maybe? I lose track.” He admitted.

“Yeah, well, somepony can do alot in a few years.” High Sky said.

The man nodded in agreeance, “Yep...lots of stuff.” His words trailed away as he looked up at the moon, “It’s late. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got to walk, and that means getting up early.” He said, putting his canteen away, and unzipping a large pouch on his bag.

“Oh, well, I suppose I can keep it quiet, I do like to lay down for a bit before dozing off. Look at the stars, ya’know?” High Sky then took to her own saddlebags, from which she pulled a small sleeping bag and laid it out. The human was not so lucky, he had a simple blanket of which he laid out as well, though he only had the blanket. The two laid opposites to one another, the fire between them, it’s kindling soft and dying. They were both soon left in darkness, and the man looked up at the starry sky and, as he had many times before, made out constellations which might not have actually been there. Aquarius...Sagittarius...Taurus...even now he was not sure if he was imagining them or not. But, the lack of familiar starry formations didn’t keep their glow from feeling almost warm to him, a reassurance perhaps, a sign that he was still there. It turned out he also liked looking at the stars.

Dawn came with the smell of coffee, and the two travelers sat together again in the low light of morning, each sipping from small copper cups. It wasn’t great coffee, but it was coffee none-the-less, and that was all he cared about. High Sky herself had her own coffee, but he insisted she have some of his, considering the pot was already done by the time she woke up. She seemed to like her’s less like a coffee, powdered cream and some sugar cubes going into her own cup from a small tin she had. He had his black. He covered the fire and took his stones, a perfect set that he had found over many searches, and placed them in his bag. Blowing off the ash, he picked up his blackened regenerative log from its place in the pit and back into a side sack it went. High Sky watched him go back and forth, and was even more convinced of his own confidence. He was a giant of a creature, though the moment he put on his pack, he slouched down heavily. After a moment they were both up and prepped for the road and sky ahead.

“Say...” The man started, “Think I could interest you in some spare goods?” He asked her, his heavy stick in hand, the grin of a man with the thought of coins on his face.

High Sky stopped as she collected her bags, “I suppose why not? What kind of goods do you have?” She asked, craning her neck up to him.

He was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought as he looked her over, “I’ve got many things, but here is something I think you really would like.” He put his bag down, and unzipped it, and, rummaging around, he pulled out some colorful red ribbons. High Sky knew exactly what they were: wing ribbons, and she eyed them enthusiastically. They were of a deep rose red, and had intricate sews of gold embroidered in them, and just from how the human held them before her she knew they had to be of high quality. “These are silk lighteners.” He explained, “Sewn in Los Pegasus and embroidered in Canterlot. Very expensive. But to you, cheap!” He declared.

High Sky couldn’t seem to get her eyes off the pair he held, “How much?” She asked simply.

“Shall we call fifty bits?” He said.

She recoiled, but not for the reason one might think, “Fifty bits?! These had to have cost a pony 200 at a designer! How can you part with these at such a low price?” She questioned.

The human gave that simple shrug.

High Sky looked at the ribbons, “Can I feel them at least?”

He handed her one of the two he held, and she gripped them in her hoof. They were as soft as velvet, and her flesh nearly melted at its touch; these had to have been enchanted as well. Usually she would be wary of a stranger, especially such a strange one as this human, but the look, feel, and even the smell of the ribbons let her know they were as real as the ground she stood on. High Sky looked up confidently to him, “I’ll take them.” She nodded.

Coin was passed, and she tied the ribbons to the joint of her wings, and she felt the tension and stress they had been building up for the past few days fall away into nothingness. They did in fact work. “Thank you.” She smiled up at the man.

He smiled back, “No, thank you.” The jingling of coins in his hand disappeared as he put them in a pouch on his bag, and reequipped the travel-pack to his back.

“Well, I suppose this is farewell.” High Sky nodded behind her goggles, of which she had oddly kept on their whole time together.

“Yes, it so seems.” He agreed, gripping his stick tight.

They sat there for a moment together, surely they hadn’t had much interaction with others in some time, and this was the first they had in many days. But, they both knew that it was time to go their separate ways, and with heavy hooves High Sky turned, flapped her wings and took to the skies, where she disappeared into the vast horizon. He couldn’t help but give off a sigh; he was willing to admit he wished she had stayed. But, such was the way of his life, and he stood up as tall as he could, and started down the road, his only regrets being not sharing his name, and not seeing her eyes...ponies did always have funny looking eyes.

Golden Fields

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The flatlands surrounding the outskirts of the mountains and their hillands had come to form true plains, where grass and flowers rolled on far past the horizon. It all looked well the same as the flats, though trees also started to spring up here, and while they were usually only in small patches of five or six, commonly less than ten feet high (barely taller than even some shrubs) it was still a pinnacle point in comparison. It likely would have to do with the soil here, which felt much more moist and less rocky than up in the hills. Afterall, the roads were really only dirt here, so one travelling along them would know this detail well; especially a pony or griffon who one would find rarely wearing shoes. He could tell simply from feeling the soles of his boots sink into the soft ground.

The trek thus far had been much easier on him than in the hills, and here in the plains his travel was barely mentionable compared to his hike through the mountains. Still, he looked on and found himself begruntled at the sight before him, miles and miles of pure nothingness. He knew that these roads were supposed to be at least somewhat busy, from what he had overheard during his time in Tall Tale, but he was starting to think that, perhaps, he had been proven a fool. This train of negative thought had been seeping it’s way into his mind for many days now, since he had crossed the mountains and overlooked the endless, barren green lands below.

However, his encounter with High Sky had him in newly formed spirits, ones with thoughts of towns and villages just waiting for him off in the distance, barely out of view. Thoughts of a hot meal and a warm bed, and, hopefully, a populace with plenty of will to trade with him, rather than run him out of town with a mob of forks and torches. He shuddered at the memory, but straightened out and continued forth.

Time seemed to slow here. Few things moved and buzzed about, barely a cricket or ladybug to give him some form of relevance to the world. Even the wind had stopped blowing here, and so the clouds sat in the sky, unmoved, and barely changing high above. The sounds of his pack and tools were the only things that sounded off to him, his gear and product clanking and thumping as they did naturally, the stick in his hand thudding and dirtying itself in the soft ground below.

Soon, however, something did come into view, something that he was not expecting: a fork in the road. It split off in three directions, one heading due south as he had been, and the other two heading south-west and south-east respectively. It was here that he let himself sag a bit more than he could usually afford and sighed through his nose as he scanned down the three options he had laid before him.

He remembered suddenly, after a moment of thought, that he did in fact have a map. So, moving to the side of the road, he laid down his pack and unzipped the main zipper and rummaged about. Out he pulled a thick stack of paper, or though it looked to be a stack, it was in reality a simple large, white, folded map, which he unfurled and laid over his backpack. It was large with good reason, as it showed the many details of all the known world; rivers, cities, borders, mountain ranges, major forests, and the like. He was disappointed however, as the road of which he traveled seemed missing here.

The man grunted and folded it up and placed it back into his bag, only to spend a few more seconds rummaging around, and pulled out a much smaller, more localized map. Here, it showed the road leading straight south for many, many miles towards Los Pegasus. He shook his head, deserts he did not agree with, nor heights. He placed the map pack into the bag, and cursed silently. It would seem he was on his own here, and after some time looking over the roads again, studying them, hoping to see which ones were travelled on the most, he came to the conclusion that no outside force would likely sway him. He did the only thing he felt was right.

“Inny, minny, miney, you.” He said, pointing from road to road, his finger stopping itself on the road headed south-west. ‘Nice.’ He thought to himself, if there was one thing he knew, it’s that there was not much out west, most of it being unexplored, and he didn’t have the supplies for an expedition. He also really didn’t want to see deserts. He realized, then, that the decision should have easily been made from those points alone, but he shrugged to himself, took his stick up again, and went down the road once more, turning ever so slightly left.

He was starting to wonder if he had made a mistake. Towards the dusk of the second day in the plains he sat camped in a small clearing, and since that point two days ago when he turned left at the fork, he had been greeted with a whole lot of nothing. The mountains had started to creep alongside him once again, only a few miles of grassland between him and their steep inclines, and it was also starting to get very cold. He huddled near the fire, his can of spinach ravioli heating itself as best it could, and he had his blanket thrown around him. Perhaps he had turned onto a minor trail? Maybe a road only farmers used to take their product to market, and he was supposed to go straight to their sellers south in Los Pegasus or north in Tall Tale? He didn’t know, but what he did know was that it was too late to turn back now.

With a pair of metal smithing prongs he grabbed the can of heated tomato based goodness, and with spoon in hand he took a nice, plump, piece into his mouth, not wasting a moment for it to potentially chill. Yes, it burned for more than a second, but it was worth it to have something warm in his growling gut. He also took a sip of coffee from his copper tankard, barely warm now after being off the fire for some time, but it was still better than chilly water. He knew the caffeine would keep him up, however, but it was likely his sleep would be restless tonight anyways. At least now he could get more time to look at the stars before the crash hit him, he chuckled to himself. His sleep was in fact terrible, and he set off the next dawn with a strain in his eyes.

Now this was an interesting sight, one that let a smile creep onto his face. There before him was a small bank that sloped down, at the bottom of it’s valley a small stream of running water flowed, which sounded soothing to the ear. It was likely that it came down from the mountains, of which he remembered were the Smokys’, and flowed for who knows how long. It was not this that gave him renewed purpose, no, but rather the bridge that was built over the small stream, connecting the road over it’s edge. It was made of wood, strong and sturdy and of a rich oaky color, barely faded. The bridge couldn’t have been more than a few years old, and for someone to even bother building it in the first place meant there must be someone living close by. That was enough for him to have a small skip in his feet and start off over the bridge, but not before having a bit of the stream water, it looked too good for him not to, after all.

Time passed as it did on his quest for civilization, an hour or so he figured since he had drunk from the stream and crossed the little bridge over it’s shallow valley, and he was making good time. He also had now come to a stop on the road, the reason just before him: a couple hundred feet away sat a fence to his left, it’s wood dull and unpainted, and was obviously built to simply keep critters and possible intruders out, nothing else. Beyond that, where fields many miles wide of wheat. Their long thin stocks fluttering in a nonexistent breeze and as bright and true as polished gold. To the right of him were also fields of flowing barley, their stocks a much duller yellowish-white, and stretched on over the horizon.

In the gentle breeze he peered about, looking for any signs of life about. Where there were fields there were farmers, after all. But, he saw nothing but the few buzzing bugs floating around. Humming in thought, he felt no reason to stay here longer, and shrugged his pack, and continued down the long road. Later that day he came upon a sight that gave him mixed feelings, feelings of excitement, but also of anxiousness. From his place on the path he could make out the vague shape of a house and barn, both painted a dull sky blue. His eyes weren’t bad, but his focus on the buildings in the distance was still blurry and not very sharp on the edges.

Now, why he had planted his feet here in the dirt road instead of near running towards that house, he didn’t really know, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut, or perhaps his heart, that kept him from moving further. Had he become too accustomed to being alone? No, far from it. Did he lose his manners? Doubt it. Perhaps he didn’t remember proper country etiquette? Why was he asking himself these things? He nulled the questions from his mind, who was he kidding? He had always been a man of the country, of wide open ranges and pastures full of flowing growth. Nights under the stars, dippings in the lake, hot lunch at the picnic table…

He shook his head, the hazy thoughts slipping and falling away from his focus, and he breathed a low breath. This was no time to lock up, he had to be at his best! So he patted himself off of any dirt and dust he could, and with as straight a back he could achieve with his heavy burden, he made off down the road, watching the fence roll by as he did, the house coming ever closer into view.

The front gate was open at least, so that was a welcoming sign. He looked up at the little half square entrance hanging over the gate, where a small plaque of simple sheet metal with a symbol best described as a dog chasing a bird carved into it was nailed to the top board. He did a double take, making sure there were no signs warning him to beware said dog, or that he would get a licking should he enter the property, and stepped under the board into the ‘driveway’. There was a path, this one slightly paved with gravel which had large rocks pushed into it, that led into a cleared area where the house and barn was, surrounded by wheat fields, large and small.

Once he came up to the house, he noticed just how large it really was. The house was at least two stories, multiple windows with white wooden frames sat along the wall, the sky blue paint covering it all looked like it hadn’t had a recoating in years, but he was sure that when it was fresh it looked very nice, especially with the white frames. The windows were all blocked out by indoor curtains, and the front door was also white, a shaded patio just before it, with a couple rocking chairs sat atop it’s deck.

The man made up the deck, it’s two steps taking him one, and he closed in on the door. The two windows beside it were also blocked by tan colored linens, so he at least knew whoever lived here likely didn’t know of his presence, be it a good or bad thing. Raising his fist to the door, he knocked on it lightly a few times and waited. No response after a few moments. He knocked again, and still nothing. He looked back at the gate resting along the path with its stopper stuck into the ground, such a sight usually meant someone was home.

He waited a few more moments before walking off the deck and peaking around the house towards the barn, it’s color is the same as the house, and it’s multiple doors open. Perhaps there was someone in there. Was he really that nosey to go snooping around someone’s property? It would seem that way, as he was already walking towards it before he even realized his legs were moving, perhaps he felt that coming all this way for nothing was simply too much of an injustice to accept. However, try as it may, the barn was devoid of life minus a cat that watched him from atop a few mounds of hay. He did notice a barrel of tools, mostly scythes, along with a shovel and axe, their blades rusty and in need of a good looking after.

Accepting the likely defeat with a sigh, he made his way back to the front of the house and looked towards the road, clicking his tongue in thought.

“What are you doing on my property.”

For the second time in the last few days he nearly jumped as a gruff voice spoke near his side. He turned to its source to find a rather old looking stallion standing before him, a small wickerwork basket floating in a light blue aura besides the old unicorn. “Answer the question.” The stallion said.

The man cleared his throat, “Sorry to bother you sir, but—”

“We don’t want any solicitors, or door to door salesponies ‘round here. We’ve had too many bad runnins as it is.” The stallion cut off, “I cans’ tell by yer’ look. Yous’ got Bits on the brain.”

The man nodded, “I see, sir. Then could you perhaps tell me where the nearest village or town is?”

The stallion hummed as he picked up his basket once again, hugging it against his sky blue fur, his deep blue eyes looking the man up and down; so would explain the affinity for blue around here. “Those two words would be generous, a hamlet maybe.” He said to the man, walking near him, “There’s a little place we call Feltlocke down the road ‘bout twenty miles.”

The man nodded, “Thank you. I’ll be going now, then.”

However, as he started to march his way down the path towards the road, the voice of the stallion called out again, “Wait.” He said, and the man stopped and turned his head back, “You ain’ no minotaur.”

The man turned around fully, “No sir. I’m a human.”

“Never hurd’ of a hueman.”

“I’d doubt you would have, sir.”

The stallion squinted his eyes at the man, “You’ve got good manners fer’ a loaper.”

“I was raised to respect my elders.” Responded the man.

To that the stallion, after a moment, nodded, “You don’t seem a bad type. Comere an’ pitch it to me.” The stallion said waving the man over to the porch.

The man came forth, “Well, sir. I don’t have just one product, but a great variety, you see.” He explained, “I peddle goods all across Equestria, things you would need to find in Canterlot, or Baltimare, I might have right here.”

The stallion kept his neutral dull look, “So yer’ a traveling merchant. Not a salespony, comin’ round here blabbing on an’ on ‘bout miracle potions or tryin’ ta’ buy’ may land fer’ some low-down, no good…” The old stallion paused, likely not realizing he had begun a short rant.

“Correct.” The man responded after a moment of sympathetic thought about what the pony before him had said.

The stallion waved his hoof, “Ah got no need fer’ the goods of them posh stuckups in Canterlot, nor them pampered, loud mouthed city-folk.” He grunted, “What else ya’ got?”

“Well, sir…” The man paused for a moment, thinking, then his eyes looked over to the barn, and back at the old stallion, “...I bet you, being a farmer and all, get a lot of use out of your tools?”

The stallion gave a sharp nod, “Yep, wheat and barely don’t cut itself, why?”

“Well, sir.” The man set his pack down, “I might have something quite to your liking.” The stallion watched the human unzip his pack, and pulled out a set of grainy looking stones, “I could talk all I want about these bad boys, but I think it’d be better to just show you.” He peered over to the light blue barn he had been snooping around before, “Do you have a shovel, or something I could look at for a moment?”

The stallion after a short pause eyeing the stones, ignited his horn suddenly and brought a small, dirty, and slightly rusted trowel from seemingly nowhere, “This here is may wifes. Pretty old, she just gone inta’ Feltlocke an’ said she was gonna’ buy a new one anyway.”

Taking the little tool into his hands, the man eyed it for a moment, then ran the rectangular stone along its stained and brown rusted edge, and brought it back before the stallion, who’s eyes widened with surprise. In that moment, he was sure he had just seen his own reflection on clean, shiny iron...

The man zipped up his bag as he placed the last can of restoring resin on the porch alongside the great deal of other items he had placed there. He stood up, the stallion on the patio nodding in agreeance as he lifted the hefty Bit bag off a small patio table to the man, who took it with a smile on his face, “Thank you, sir.”

The stallion nodded sharply once more, “If only you had come sooner, could’ve saved my wife half a trip.”

The man placed the Bits into his own purse, “Your family would still need the groceries, sir. I only carry canned goods, and they are, sadly, for personal use.”

“Can’t win ‘em all, ‘suppose.” The old pony shrugged.

“You’re right there.” The man gripped his stick, “I best be going. It’s still a long way to Feltlocke on foot.”

“Remember to let Fuzzy know Ol’ Mr. Mer sent ya’. She’ll git you a good deal.” Said the stallion.

“I will sir, thank you.” The man tipped his hat, and turned on a heel and made down the path and back onto the road. His bag was still as heavy as ever, despite the great sale he had just made, his staff feeling oddly lighter now, maybe because he wasn’t holding onto it so tight. The wind had picked up again, it’s chilliness from the mountains nipping his hands and neck, and in the far distance he could see a real treeline, one surely of oaks and broadleaves by the looks, the smell of maple and wheat heavy in the air. He felt that, perhaps, he might actually miss the nothingness of the plains.

Shade

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The sun pierced lightly through the branches in patchy places, like that of spotlights upon a stage, and the shade of the leaf trees was welcoming to him not just in body, but also in mind. He had not seen many forests in the past weeks, and the gentle, crisp snap of the branches and leaves sounded to him different than any he had heard before. Perhaps it had been so long? That he had forgotten the sounds of the forest in the wind? No, he thought; but to him it felt so. Even the sounds of his boots upon the ground was seemingly new and unfamiliar to him, twigs and leaves and moist, rich soil crunching and flicking and twisting under his rhythmic steps.

The road had, sometime ago, changed from such dirt and leaf covered ground to that of one paved with large, smooth cobble stones; here and there were also pieces of dark fencing built along the way, typically where the road slightly bent or weaved around wide trees that seemed less tiresome to go around that cut down. These fences, he knew, also signaled to carts coming and going the sharp turns and changes in direction that came when such large, thick leafed trees came to block the linear path of the road, which occurred many more times than he would have thought. There were also walls built of stones, now mossy and often crumbling, that were little under waist height for him, but would serve well to keep ponies from wandering too far away from the road, and keep animals and other small critters of the woods away.

Out of the plains from the farm he had visited it took him only a few hours to reach the treeline towards Feltlocke, and even then he had to camp for a little while to rest his aching feet. But, despite this little detour in time, he had made it into the woodlands before noon, and even now as he moved through the winding road here, he almost felt that the day would last forever. But, much to his disliking, nighttime did come with twilight, and he found that there were not many places here to camp that weren't littered with overgrowth or packed full with tree trunks. He did eventually find a rather open area, though he did have to stray from the path a bit, a ten minute walk.

He brought out his regenerating log and set it alight around a few stones he had found, and kept close to it. He ate as he usually had, this time a can of spinach which he sprinkled just a bit of salt into, and cleaned off his utensils with a bit of water from his canteen. It was not particularly cold out here. If anything, he felt the air starting to feel much drier than he had felt it in a long time, and there was a moderate warmth in the forest also. He didn’t really know why, be it for reasons of science or magic.

He spent a while up against a tree, listening into the sounds of the forest. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and he found himself reminiscing about days long past. The sounds of laughter, the roar of engines, the thundering of rain clouds, and voices...cheery and soft and playful even...he felt his lower jaw moving by itself, as he looked on at the darkness that surrounded the pale light of the fire. He did not sleep well that night either.

The next morning he was back on the road again. After some time of travel he was met by his first contact on the road since High Sky. A pony, one of red fur and a blonde mane, pulled his cart down the road towards him. The cart was covered, and in the back he could see a mare, and a young foal sitting upon it’s driving bench. They noticed him down the road sometime ago, evidenced by the red stallions millisecond of hesitation, but a short scolding from the older mare set them back on their brisk pace. The man gave a small wave of the hand as they closed the distance, “Howdy.” He said to them.

The red stallion nodded to him, though it was the mare who spoke first, “Howdy to you too.” She answered. He could tell now from here that she was older, though not so old to be called elder, and of blue fur and with a gleaming dirty blonde mane. The foal had retreated under the mare’s arm, it’s face hidden, though just from the body shape alone the man could tell it was a young filly.

“I hate to stop you, but do you kind people know how long it is to Feltlocke from here?” The man asked them.

The mare answered again, “Oh, just some four miles or so.” She looked the man up and down, “What brings such a...strange young lad out here?”

The man shrugged the large pack on his back, “Just trying to sell some goods to the honest folk, ma’am.”

The large red stallion cocked a brow to that, but the mare nodded, “I see.” Was all she said, and there was a silent few seconds between the two parties.

He stood there for another moment, but sensing the air getting heavy, he tipped his hat, “Well, I’ll let you fine folks off then.”

The mare nodded in thanks as the red stallion pulled along his burden. The man looked on at them as they went, and adjusted the hat upon his head. He had a good feeling who they were, the family of that farmer he had met before, Mister Mer. He had a few questions he would have very much liked to ask his wife, though it wasn’t his place to keep them any longer, and he had already sold many goods to her husband. Watching them a few more moments he turned and kept along as he had, suppressing a few weary thoughts. He wasn’t keeping a schedule or anything, but he did want to reach Feltlocke before the day’s end. Camping here one more night was not something he wished to do.

He had a run in with another merchant along the road, and had bartered with the stallion over a few goods. The stallion, as the man was told, was taking a couple of cases of apple cider from the orchards to the east all the way to Tale Tale, and was hoping to get paid a great sum for his wagon. He had a small escort with him, a pegasus and two other earth ponies, both his cousins he had said, the pegasus was a hired blade. They had exchanged a few things: to the man was sold a few extra bottles of cider that had lost their cases, and to the stallion he had sold a few simple goods, including a bottle of horse shoe grease, “For when you get up into the mountains.” The man had said.

Surprisingly, the merchant’s escort had also been interested in his petty wares. The two earth ponies had also purchased some extra grease, and the pegasus had bought a ribbon as High Sky had, though he spooled it around his spear rather than tie the ribbon to his wings. The man has also been questioned on his origin (as was the norm with strangers), and destination, to which he had responded with simple answers. “I’m from the North.” He had said to them, “Just peddling my wares, is all.” They had left him at that, and continued along their way.

He had to admit, despite the looks ponies gave him, be they of fear or curiosity, he was quite glad to be around them again. They were pleasant creatures, and he had found great comfort in their company more often than not. Gryphons he had encountered before, and they were alot like humans in a way. They ate meat and fish, were typically of a warrior type and often driven by morbid curiosity or lust for wealth. But they were quite often, surprisingly, introverted, and not very social, at least not in the ways ponies were. He had seen a minotaur once, though a con man he was that spoke in the third person, and he found that buff bull soon driven out by the local populace, though that was a story for another time.

After much time walking, he had slowly drifted into the outskirts of civilization. Here and there were cabins built along the road in the forest some ways away, and more ponies were occupying the road now, walking along into town as he had or already coming back from their morning errands. The looks he got didn’t bother him. Over to his right he saw a small white painted sign along the side of the road, “Our little Feltlocke.” It read. He couldn’t help but give a little smile.

Feltlocke

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Feltlocke really was a small town. It was almost as soon as he had started to see the little cabin homes on the outskirts of the place, and passed the sign welcoming him to their little place on the frontier, that he found himself standing in the main square, and oh boy were there alot of eyes looking on at him. It seemed that he had wandered in on market day, as many vendors and stalls were set up around the main fountain that marked the significance of the square. Ponies of all kinds mewled about, carrying baskets and pushing carts of produce and other goods. But in this moment it seemed that the life of the market had some to a total stop from his presence.

Surprisingly, of the looks he was given, very few were of outright disgust. Most, from what he could tell, were of either of peaked curiosity, or plain surprise at his appearance. He thought, to be fair, that older, isolated country folk had to have known of the existence of griffon, changeling, minotaur, and bat pony alike, none-the-less the other, to him, mythical races that shared the world with the ponies, so what made him so different?

For all any of the locals knew, there was a whole country of humans just on the other side of the Spine of the World to the Far East, as High Sky had thought, or even beyond the woody plains of the Unexplored West, or to the Unknown North past Yakyakistan. But, despite all this, there were still hushed murmurs around him as he made his way through the marketplace, though of all this, he cared little.

He had come to learn that, despite all of his long ventures, and even revisits to some places during his years, he was still very much a stranger to this world, and when around such peoples as the pony tribes, actions mattered first and foremost above words. So, with this in mind, he stood up as tall as he could, breathed a deep breath, and strode confidently through main street.

“Howdy.”

“Mornin’”

“Fine day.” He greeted every stranger he passed, to the mares a tip of his hat was always given.

Feltlocke, despite being so small, did show quite the variety in places and characters, as he walked through the long stretch of buildings, most nearly covered by stalls and their own placements of merchandise, he spotted ponies off all kinds: down to earth (literally) earth ponies, agile pegasi running errands in the morn, and unicorns setting up shop or with bags floating in their magical grips. He noticed also here a griffon, of an alabaster eagle’s head and with a tan lower body, who stared at the man with thin, squinted, eyes as he passed. He had passed up two bakeries, both side by side (and closed surprisingly), one painted green, the other painted yellow. Not very appetizing colors, he thought. There was a barbershop here, something rare in Equestria as a whole, which was a strange surprise, and caught his eye faster than most other things. A little flower shop painted a deep blue with racks and bins filled with local picks. There were also a few of the just essentials as well: a little clinic, a smithy, a carpenter’s workshop, and a small apothecary; no doubt more in the exporting business (he had seen quite a few nice herbs during his time here in the forest), but what he had his sights on was something different, and what was, surprisingly, and the very end the main plaza and street.

‘Fuzzy’s Bobbles and Bits’ the old oaken sign read. He stood before the little store on the corner of the street and gandered around at all the little things that were displayed around in barrels and baskets: tools, fruit, sacks of four and other dry goods, all just sitting about the front of the store. To be fair, he doubted that anyone was worried about getting robbed around here. From what he could tell also, it was one of the few buildings to have glass panes rather than shutters over its windows. Though, they would need some big shutters to cover up the large display windows on the first floor. The architecture was also strange for the town. Feltlocke felt like how he would believe a frontier mining town would have felt: lots of wooden buildings with little flair outside perhaps paint and some wood work. But not Fuzzy’s Bobbles and Bits. This little corner store reminded him of the architecture of many towns in the North, more elegant and slightly more modern. He took in all the little bits of wood work on the window frames and the support beams for the little overhang just outside the front door. Even the paint, a brilliant dull pink mixed with deep reds, was of very nice quality.

The clop of a passing pony drew him out from his examination of the building, and he shrugged the pack on his back and looked to the door, ‘Come on in! We’re Open!’ a little card-stock sign read. If that isn’t inviting, I don’t know what is, the man thought. So he stepped up onto the slightly elevated mud deck of the store and took a closer peek inside. There were rows and rows of shelves and displays all packed with goods of all kinds, but he didn’t see the store’s owner or anyone else.

Perhaps he scared them into the back with all his thumping around, thought the man, but he pushed aside the cynical idea and breathed. The door opened with the little jingle of a bell, and there immediately came a muffled call from somewhere in the back of the story, “Just a minute!” The voice was very airy, and very feminine. Looking around at just how, at least for him, cramped the store was, he thought it best to take his pack and rest the large thing beside the door, along with his stick. He also peered at the shelves, and took up one of the miscellaneous cans on it. ‘Kanker’s Canned Apple Pie. Just warm and enjoy.’ Even he scrunched his face at that and shook his head. There were just a few things in this world that he wouldn’t eat, and some things he really should not exist in the first place.

The clopping of hooves against wooden floor boards made him raise his head away from the disgusting monstrosity he held in his hands, and could see the puffed tips of an orange mane moving around towards the back of the store, just behind a few shelves, “If ya’ need anything, just give me a holler!” The mare cheerfully called out from her place, she seemed to be moving some boxes or something around, if the rather loud thuds were anything to go by. It also occurred to him that perhaps she hadn’t noticed him being a strange human, so he decided he would continue looking about the store before any unpredictable elements came into play, and see if there was anything interesting he should pick up while he was here.

He mostly just needed some canned food he needed to stock up on at least, a few cans of corn, some peas, green beans, pinto beans, black beans, kidney beans, wow, there really were a lot of bean options. He took up a few cans of kidney beans, and a nice granny smith apple from the little produce section of the store. Though one thing did bug him, “Ma’am, there are a few stale apples here in the bin.” He said towards the sounds of the working pony.

There was, what seemed to be, the sound of a few cans falling to the ground and the rushed sound of thudding hooves against the wooden floor, “Stale apples!? In my bin-” The pony stopped upon turning the corner, and the man found a pair of deep green eyes staring at him.

The mare was rather short, even by most of his standards, but her orange mane was large and free flowing, but still kept up well. Her fur was a strange rose-pinkish color, and she sported a horn upon her forehead. A unicorn, huh? Though, to be fair, it seemed even out here in the farthest reaches of Equestria there was not much of a shortage of unicorns. From his place he even snuck a quick look at her flank, a cutie mark of a...well, it was hard to tell. It looked like a bag, maybe a coin purse? He inwardly shrugged, and moved his eyes back to match her own large irises, though she had yet to say anything in the past moment.

The man held up the two, slightly brown in some places, quite dry as well, green apples he had found at the bottom of the apple bin, “These two, here, ma’am.” He put them forward for her to see.

Her mouth opened a few times, as if she was going to say something, then decided against it. Rather, her horn glowed a dull red and she lifted the apples from his hands, “I...um...thank you, for letting me know.” She gave a small smile, though it could easily have been forced, and floated them over some shelves and out of sight, and she straightened out a moment, “So, is there anything else I can help with...sir?” She asked.

The man nodded, “Yes ma’am. You don’t seem to have prices on these shelves. Could you ring up the prices on these.” He pointed out the couple of cans of food he had placed on the shelf.

The mare, of whom he believed had to have been Fuzzy, nodded enthusiastically, “Oh! Of course sir! I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

He stopped her there, before she could walk away, “Not an inconvenience ma’am, no.” A smile on his face.

The mare nodded, returning the smile, and took the cans into her magical aura and floated them along, “Just this way sir, the front is just over here.”

The man followed along, and came upon the front, the counter had a little glass display beneath it, what looked to be some packaged candies and other, likely more expensive, items sat there. The mare moved behind the counter, just a bit more to the right, where her register was, and punched in a few numbers, “Sorry about the lack of labels, we don’t get very many new faces around here, and everypony around here knows my prices by heart.” She gave a soft chuckle, to which the man nodded in understanding, though he found himself eyeing the candy more than anything. It had been a long time since he had had anything sweet.

“These few items come out to seven and a half bits, sir.” The mare said, and after a moment, she spoke up again, “If you don’t mind me asking sir, who are you?”

The man's eyes gazed over to her once more and he tipped his hat, “Just a weary traveller, ma’am, looking to see the world for what it’s worth.”

“So a wanderer then.”

“Of a sorts, yes.”

The mare nodded, “I can understand that. And I won’t push you for a name, if you don’t wish to share it. Though don’t be surprised if some find it rude out here, sir.” She said, then stuck out one of her hooves, “My name, though, I’m happy to share. Fuzzy Bits at your service!”

The man squatted, curled his hand into a fist, and bumped Fuzzy’s outstretched hoof, the closest he could get to a pony’s idea of a handshake, and she retracted it.

“To be fair…” Started the man, “Despite my initial optimistic thoughts, I’d sort of expected more ponies to be a bit...well, startled...by my presence.” He chuckled, “I’m honestly surprised you’ve kept your head so well.”

Fuzzy gave him a soft smile of her own, “Well, we had a pegasus mare pass through with mail a day ago. She came in for some goods, and told me about this strange, but interesting creature on the road. Couldn’t stop talking about it!” She lost her smile for a moment, “I’d...just sort of assumed what she was describing was you, and that you were friendly enough...by her account.” Her smile came back again, her eyes meeting him.

After a moment, the man matched her smile, “Well, I’m glad to be living up to your expectations. I do hope.” Looking down to the display below the counter, he pointed to the dark blue and red box he had been eyeing up. “Say, think I could get a couple bars of those chocolates down there?” The man asked her.

Fuzzy moved over to the side of the counter where the display was, “Just so you know, sir, these bars go for about 8 bits on their own, just so you know.”

The man simply nodded in understanding.

“How many would you like?” Fuzzy asked, looking up at him.

“Three would do well.” Replied the man.

Opening the back sliding panel of the display, Fuzzy withdrew the three bars in her red glow, their gold foil wrapping glistening in the light, it’s blue and red sleeve read, ‘Mareka Milk Chocolate’ with the picture of a small foal dressed in a summer gown and hat, similar to how the man remembered the fashion of the 19th century back in his world. With a light thud the bars were placed on the counter, they were quite thick.

“That’ll be 31 and a half bits, sir.” Fuzzy said. Quite a hefty sum for a few bare essentials, and some chocolate.

The man simply nodded and pulled from his coat pocket a small bit bag, one that he always kept on him just in case his larger one on his pack ever became lost for any reason. Out he pulled a 20 bit coin, along with a ten, then finally a single bit and a silver one. Into the glow of Fuzzy’s magical aura they went, and she counted them out before popping the register, “Would you like a bag for these, sir?”

The man shook his head, “No thank you, I’ve brought my own.” He points behind him to the large bag that could be seen resting on the ground even from here.

Fuzzy nodded, “I see. Was there anything else I could do to help a stranger out?” She asked, her airy tone having returned.

The man thought for a moment, his hand going to his chin, “Yes, actually. Does this town have an inn of sorts, or maybe just a tavern?”

Again, Fuzzy nodded, “Yep. Dracon’s Inn, it’s just down the road outside of town.” She motioned with her hoof the way down the road.

“Why wouldn’t it be closer to the main square?” The man inquired, taking up his items from the countertop.

Fuzzy shrugged, “Dracon wanted to accommodate the travelers coming up from Los Pegasus, and those coming down from Ponyville to take the valley roads to Tale Tale, if they couldn’t take the train. His inn is not too far from town.” She finished.

“Ah, I see. A wise decision.” The man had placed the chocolate bars into one of his coat pockets, the cans he held in his arms, “Well, I’ll head on over and take a look. Maybe I could finally get this damned hitchhiker out of my boot, assuming they got rooms.” He chuckled, moving over towards his pack and depositing the cans into its main compartment. He turned back to her, “Oh, and by the way, Old Mister Mer, asked me to say hello.”

That seemed to perk Fuzzy up, her ears flicking, “Oh! You met Mister Mer?”

“Yeah, sold him a few of my goods coming over East from Tale Tale.”

Fuzzy’s interest seemed to be turned up to ten-fold again, “I thought you said you were a wanderer, not a merchant?”

The man shrugged, “I do a bit of both, mostly the wandering, if I’m going to be honest.” He closed up his bag, “I peddle goods all across the country. Been to just about every place in Equestria.” He paused a moment and looked back to Fuzzy, “...well, almost every place.”

Fuzzy said nothing, it seemed her mind was wandering along with his own, as memories of his trips and adventures started flooding back, though if he were to be honest, there were not many good memories, but he kept his smile none-the-less.

After a long moment of silence between them, the man gave a polite tip of his hat, “Well, Mrs. Fuzzy. If I need anything before I head out of town, I know where to go.” And with that, he took up his heavy pack and stick, and the door opened once again with the sound of that little bell.

Outside once again, the man took a deep breath in, the crisp air filling his lungs, and looked down the road to his left, where the trees started creeping once again back into the borders of the town slowly, a few homes built here and there between them. The road was still cobbled, however. Seeing no reason to stand around doing nothing, the man turned on a heel and started down the road, the hope of a warm bed and a bite to eat propelling his blistered feet.

Dracon's Inn

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The walk out of town was not a long one, only a few hundred yards past where the cabin homes started to become scarce. The inn was a simple thing, two stories with windows shuttered closed by grey planks, and with little more than some white plaster finish for color on the walls. Two large chimneys rose high into the air behind the building, spewing grey smoke and embers in the air above; he could smell the burning wood from here. Making his way over, all the windows on the first floor were closed up, and the door was a, surprisingly, deep rich green. Above the door hung a metal sign that simply read, “Dracon’s Inn”, on it.

Even though he had hoped to be able to peek in and see who was occupying the place, with the closed windows he was out of luck, and simply opened the door wide and strode in with confidence. It was pretty dark and gloomy, only a few candle lamps lit around the place to provide light. There were many tables meant to seat four, and a few table booths along the walls, but he had his eyes set on the bar. It was long by all rights, and had many simple stool chairs around it’s front end. But, as far as he could tell, there were no patrons or even workers.

Bringing himself toward the bar, he looked over the stools. They were small by even pony standards, likely any minotaur or sizable griffon that meandered their way in here would break the little things. So, he stood there, looking around at the plain walls and simple decor: a few plaques with words he couldn’t read. Some simple, manufactured, paintings. Not to mention all the colorful bottles of booze lining the wall behind the bar.

“Hello?” The man called out, looking to the little white linen flaps of a doorway he noticed during his study of the place.

He did not get a response.

Was this place even open? Maybe he should have taken all the closed windows for a sign of their operating hours. He looked to the stone fireplace keeping the place warm. No, someone was definitely here. He turned to his left where he spotted some stairs, surely going up to the second floor. But he didn’t feel it his right to start walking around the place where he probably didn’t belong. Even though he had done it back at Mister Mer’s Farm, it was mostly open air, and anyone would have seen him a mile away, and he could explain that he was simply looking around.

Placing his stick against the bar, and putting his pack against the wooden floor with a light thud, he turned once again to the linen covered door frame, and moved towards it, peeking his head through. It was a kitchen. There were a few countertops and cabinets of simple wood, an iron stove and oven, and an open fire pit with some stew pots laid around it. However, nobody was present.

Hmm, upstairs perhaps? The man thought, and retracted his head from the cooking area and walked his way towards the staircase he had spotted earlier. Giving a few more knocks on the wooden support beams, he again got no real sign of movement. He looked down to the old wooden boards that made up the steps, and took a quick, light, foot on it.

It creaked slightly, but wasn’t louder than his steps on the floor boards. Making his way halfway up, before he could turn to the second half flight up, he could tell it led down a long hall of doors. Rooms most likely, a few more candle lamps lighting up the place.

“Hello? Anyone here?” He called out down the hall.

Still, he got no response.

Turning back towards the bar he walked towards his bag. Perhaps he should come back some other time? Perhaps a bit more towards the afternoon? What would he do in that time? Where would he go? Rubbing his hand down the smooth surface of his walking stick, he pondered his next course of action.

The man looked down to the stools, and, using his stick to take most of his weight, he did a light test, and sat on it. It was surprisingly sturdy, and didn’t so much as creak under his mass. He still had the habit of judging a book by it’s cover it seemed. So, he sat there in the silence of the, seemingly, empty inn, the faint crackling of the fireplace across the open room the only real sound in his ear.

His stomach growled softly.

He was hoping to have gotten some brunch here in the inn, but with nobody here, he hadn’t gotten the option yet. Patting his coat pocket, he opened up the buttoned flap and pulled out one of the chocolate bars he had bought. It had been a very long time since he had any of the sweet, creamy stuff. He knew Mareka was a good brand as well.

Sliding the thin paper cover, he gently unfolded the gold foil wrapping to reveal a nice, solid chocolate bar, little segments in the forms of squares running along the brown brick of sweetness. Carefully breaking off a piece, he brought it to his mouth and took a light nibble with the ends of his buck teeth.

It was extremely sweet. Easily the sweetest thing he had tasted in months. It made him shudder, and his jaws ached, but he took the rest into his mouth, and let it melt over his tongue, and ran it across the ridged roof of his mouth. He looked down to the rest of the bar of cocoa, and debated if he even wanted to continue eating it.

He had eaten a few more segments, and wrapped the remaining chocolate in its foil, and covered it up with the blue and red paper holder. It was good, albeit a bit too sweet. He had always preferred darker cocoa bars. He had also popped the cork on one of the bottles of cider he had bought from that merchant, the cool beverage refreshing on the throat. It didn’t have any alcohol, but he figured that was for the best. A man like him needed to be in prime shape when traversing the wilds and winding roads here down south, and alcohol would only spell trouble for him.

Mid swig, with his arms on the bar, he stopped at the sound of the front door behind him opening wide, the cool air flowing in and nipping his neck. It closed slowly as he hear the tick-tack of talons on the wooden floor.

The man turned himself slightly to peer at the newcomer, and he was in fact right in his assumption: there was a griffon there. Brown head with a grey crown, and a white body. His beak was short but thick like a lori, and was almost gold in color.

“Well...I’ll be. That human.” He gruffly said and he walked forwards, a limp in his back left hind. “You’s are a human right? My eyes ain’t so good na’days.”

The man turned fully to face the old griffon and nodded, “You are correct. Fuzzy said word had spread around about me in these parts.”

The griffon smiled, “Yeeep. Fuzzy hears just about all the rumors ‘round here. Heh, even more than me on some days.” Grunting, he came around the bar and rested himself on it, “So...what brings such a rare an’interestin creatures into ol’Dracon’s Inn, hmm?”

It took a moment for the man to respond, mostly because he was trying to quickly swipe away his signs of long waiting, recorking the cider bottle and placing the half-eaten chocolate bar into his coat pocket, “I...wanted to see about having a room for the night, and perhaps a warm meal, if you would.”

The griffon, Dracon, hummed, “How long’ya been in for, son?”

The man saw his steel grey eyes wander down to his bag and coat pocket, but the man simply held his head up, “Not long. Just got here not long ago.”

Dracon looked at him for a silent second, then hopped down from the bar, “Give me’a minute.” With the clacking of his talons of wood he made his way back into the kitchen beyond the white linens.

It took only a moment before the comotion started, “MATTY! GET YER’FUR BLAZIN REAR HIND UP HERE!” Dracon shouted, and despite the walls separating them, the man nearly fell from his stool from the raw anger the griffon expressed in his yelling.

There were the sounds of thumping steps, and a door swinging open, “Oh, Pa! I didn’t expect you back so soon—!”

“Ya didn’t expect!? I told ya’ta watch the bar while I was gone!”

“But Pa! Nobody comes here this early!”

“That’s where yer’wrong, missy!”

The argument made its way closer and closer until Dracon came out from the linens, shouting behind him. Then out stepped a much smaller griffon chick. Her upper body was a light, almost fiery brown, and her lower half a well groomed, bright white. She had a short yellowish beak like her father, but it was thinner, and a bit wider at the edges. Her red eyes locked onto the man, and she immediately froze.

“See what’a tell you! You can never be too sure!” Dracon finished with a stamp of his right tallon against the wooden floor. Dracon turned to face you, that same warm, genuine smile on his face, “I’m so sorry for ya’wait. If not for my daughter’s laziness, you would be eatin’ by now. Was there somethin’ya wanted specifically?”

The man shook his head in response, “Just something warm and hearty would be nice.”

Dracon nodded and turned to his daughter, “You heard ‘em Matty, get a pot going for him!”

She bowed, “Yes father.” And disappeared behind the linens again.

Dracon came around the bar again, “It’ll be a bit before she gets some soup for you. In the meantime, can I get’ya anything? Beer? Whiskey?” He asked.

The man put his hand up, “No thank you. Alcohol is not something I choose to indulge in often.”

Dracon nodded in understanding, “Heh, despite owning an inn, I was never much’a drinker myself. Mostly my wife, rest her soul.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dracon waved him off, “It was a long time ago.” That smile came back to his beak, “And I won’t be soiling my customer’s mood with sob stories.” The old griffon leaned in, “But I’m sure yer well travelled, got some tales of yer own?”

The man took off his hat and rubbed his brow, “I...might have a few.”

Out From Feltlocke

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“...and that is ha’we came to settle down ‘ere.” Dracon had just concluded the story of his family’s immigration to Equestria. They were, surprisingly, not very welcomed in Manehattan despite its proximity to Griffonia, and the large griffon population there. Not that the man had ever stayed that long there, but he definitely knew of the griffons and their influx into the city.

“So, you thought the country would work out better?” The man questioned, as he sipped some soup from a spoon he held. There were moments when the griffon’s accent flourished itself harshly, and made it hard for him to understand some words, but after a few hours of talk the man had seemed to have gotten used to it well enough to understand most of what the griffon said.

The old griffon shook his head, “No, there was definite...what’s the word?...uncertainty. But, we’d herd rumors about’a town near Canterlot, an’while that would have sealed the nail to tha’ coffin, so to say, my Angleia didn’t want ta’ head down tha’ coast. So, we went ta’Ponyville.”

The man seemed to hiccup at the mention of the town, but he hoped it went unnoticed, and instead a face of curiosity was plastered on him, “You lived in Ponyville?”

Dracon nodded enthusiastically, “Yeep, nice folks around those parts. We got some work for’awile, but we wanted to start a business, and’a developed town like Ponyville had not’a need for another inn. So, we came just a’bit down south.” He motioned about the bar, “An, as they say, the rest is history.” The griffon chuckled as he motioned around the inn.

Matthed, Dracon’s daughter, had been cleaning tables and chairs during the time they had been talking, undoubtedly listening in on the tales the man had shared with the old griffon, and she also seemed content with just listening, as she hadn’t so much as peeped out a word during her work, and their sharing of campfire tales.

“So, where are’ya planning on goin’now?” Dracon asked, grabbing a shot glass from under the table, and scanning his shelves of alcohol.

That gave the man pause, and he found himself swishing around the soup he had in his mouth rather than swallowing it, as if it would give him more time to come up with an answer. He swallowed, “I don’t know.” Was all he could find.

Dracon turned with a grey bottle in his talon, and poured himself some dark, black liquid from it, “Hmm...such is the tha’predicament of a wanderer...peddler, you said tha’word was.” He chuckled, “You got tha’whole world at your talons, yet nowhere ta’go.”

The man could only somberly nod his head, “Yep.”

It was then, after a moment of awkward silence, that Matthed spoke for the first time in hours, “Well...what about Los Pegasus?” Her voice was bold and thick, despite her lack of accent, but she was also quiet in her volume, a shy chick she was, the man could tell that much.

Dracon threw back his shot, “An’what about Los Pelgeaus, Matty? In case you haven’t noticed, our friend here don’t have wings.” He looked over to the man, “You don’t got wings, do you?”

The man chuckled slightly, be it at the griffon’s pronunciation of Pegasus or the idea of having wings, “Man, I wish. It would definitely make things much, much easier.” He said.

Matthed spoke up again, “They got a lot of earth ponies that live there, pa. The clouds are enchanted, anyone could walk on them!” Another detail the man noticed about the young chick, was her definitive lack of an accent, if anything, she sounded a bit more like how Mister Mer did, or a few of the townsfolk he had overheard during his walk through the square.

The man put his bowl of soup down, “I do appreciate the thought, but I’ve never agreed with deserts, or sand. It’s coarse and rough and gets everywhere.”

“Well, you’re a’ merchant, right?” The chick asked.

He nodded his head, “Of a sorts, yes.”

Matthed beamed, “Well, around this time of the year they tend to have their ‘Day of the Harped Feather Festival’, merchants from all over go there to set up shop, it’s a day of food and pegasi tend to burn holes in their pockets on those days. It lasts a whole week! Despite having the word ‘day’ in it. Hehe.” Having noticed his empty bowl, she moved over to take it from its place on the bar, “I’m sure you could make plenty of bits from selling your wares there! Would you like some more?” She eventually asked.

The man nodded, “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Matthed smiled, and started towards the kitchen, Dracon idly nodded, “The girl does have’a point. You could make some real money there. Me’an the wife took our Matty one time, it was...interestin’to say the ‘least.”

“So what is this festival, anyways?” The man asked as he waited for more of that delicious soup. In all his times and travels he hadn’t heard of that particular celebration.

Dracon shook his head, “Unless you’been around yer’whole life, I doubt you’d have. We only knew’causin’pegasi always comin’through. It only happens once every other Moon er’so.” The griffon was combining words now, it seemed that whatever he drank really hit his throat hard.

The man blinked, he had tried to figure out Moons when put up against the Earthen calendar, but he didn’t have so much luck. The way he figured, and how people used the term, to him it seemed plausible that a Moon was around five years or so. So this festival really was a big deal if it was only every other Moon. That’s fifteen years! Now the man was interested.

Matthed came back with some more soup, “Say, Matthed, when does this Festival start? I...haven’t looked at a calendar in a while.” The man admitted.

She perked up at the fact he was considering her suggestion, “Oh, it starts on the 12th of Evensgale, which is…” She paused for a moment as she retreated into her mind, “...in four days.”

The man slurped his soup as he did the mental calculation for the trip. It would likely take him four days just to take the road around the southern pass and through the desert, likely five or six if he ended up needing to make frequent stops. He really did not agree with deserts.

“Hmm, I’ll consider it, thank you.” The man said to Matthed, who gave a deep smile. He then looked to Dracon, “So...about that room.”

So the man ate his soup, another two bowls worth, and was promptly given a key to his room for the night. It was a simple thing for a simple inn. A bed, small mirror, and a trunk. He was just happy to get his boots off for the first time in weeks. He also took a bath, a real bath, with hot water and a porcelain tub. Sure, he bathed and washed in streams and rivers where he could find them, washing his clothes and such, but he hadn’t had a real wash since he had left Tall Tale, nearly a month ago at this point, he figured.

Matthed had taken the pleasure in washing his clothes and the man had given her a drying crystal, an interesting little thing that, much like an instant dry spell, sucked excess moisture and water out of them. So, once he had figured it time to turn in (rather early, even before dusk was trimming the edges of the horizon) he had clean clothes, a clean body, and a clean bed to sleep in. It was, at least to him, heaven.

The next morning he had breakfast that came with the room, a few ponies were in, a few locals, some were travellers that had come in during the night prior as he slept like there was no tomorrow. A few he recognized, a shop owner, and a farmer he had seen at market. All the others were new faces, and while the man would have liked to stay and chat and have a cool cider or two with them, he knew he needed to hit the road early if he was going to hope at all to reach Los Pegasus before the festival had ended, and the sooner he got there, the less likely it would be that they had drained all their bits.

He, however, did wait around just a while, to stop at Fuzzy's. From her he had bought another week’s worth of food, and some extra bottles and jars for water. He also, maybe, sold her a few of his simple wares as well, for a generous discount of course, ‘For all it may be worth, good luck.’ She had told him.

His mind wandering to the desert that would separate him and his destination, he knew he would need all the luck he could get…

And so, with him standing at the edge of town, he looked back and waved the humble border village a simple goodbye, and with a cool, faint wind blowing, the shade of the broadleaves keeping the low morning sun at bay, he started back on the road, a feeling he knew all too well. At least he was nice and clean, which was a good feeling. Soon, not far out of town, he saw a sign that he couldn’t help but smile at as he did when he first entered the little hamlet:

“We’ll miss ya’!” It read.

Berries

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The roads leading out from Feltlocke were not all too different from those he had walked within the little hamlet or around its outskirts. Though, if there was one thing he did notice, was the distinct trails left upon the cobblestones formed from iron ringed carriage wheels. It seemed that Feltlocke wasn’t so off the map after all, for evidence of many travellers were here upon its roads.

He had also learned from Dracon the griffon during their long talk the night before his departure that Feltlocke had a surprising amount of commerce roll through. The man knew this to an extent, having met a merchant once or twice on the road, such as the one he had traded some goods for cider that he had already drunk. But Dracon did not brag about a merchant here or there, he talked of the town’s soil. Mostly of the soil of its forests.

Amongst the shady broadleaves and the tall oaks and birch there rooted alongside it’s larger brethren were trees known as ‘Craksnaps’. Relatively short and thin in the trunk, they made up for their thin, almost flimsy, bodys with wide, thin mobs of branches that grew low and wide along the ground. All things considered, by the man’s standards they barely qualified as trees. And he was told that they produced all year around, berries, called ‘Snapberries’. They were often used to make wines and fruity drinks, and were typically exported to places such as Canterlot and Ponyville for quite the sum.

This had brought out a few questions from the man, such as the reasoning for a cash crop such as these to not have the town growing and blooming with wealth, and why they weren’t cultivated, seemingly at all from what he had noticed. Dracon had explained to him simply this: no Craksnap would grow within two to even three hundred yards of each other. And so even in the expanse of the forests surrounding Feltlocke, they were a rare thing among the choking oaks and ferns. As for cultivation, noone in the entirety of the region could even dream of owning enough land to grow enough Craksnaps to make it a profitable venture, and Dracon doubted anyone less than a noble from Canterlot or a big name industrialist from Manhatten could even afford so much land. So Snapberries were a profitable, but rare treat for anyone who came across them.

It was for all these reasons that he was thankful for standing before one of said trees. Exactly as Dracon described the plant, it’s leaves were thin and long, looking almost like they were grown and died in a drought, but not as sharp and thin as pine needles. They all had a strange cyan, almost teal color as well. But the biggest eye catchers were the berries themselves: growing out of green pods almost like pecans, these grape sized, purple berries looked almost identical to their vinegrown competitors.

The man had been a day out from Feltlocke, and he had decided that perhaps taking a quick cut through the forest would save some time, considering the road where he was to turn south towards Los Pegasus was a near 90 degree change in direction, it only made sense to him. He had camped only once in the forest so far at midday earlier, and he was making good time, he figured. But now he had encountered one of the ‘frequent stops’ he had predicted.

Eyeing a cluster of berries, he set down his heavy pack and reached out for a few. They were firm, yet had a good deal of give to them. Dracon had described their flavor as being quite bitter for a griffon, similar to hops, but that ponies found them to be hearty and sweet. Hearty was not a word the man often mixed in the same sentence as any fruit outside of mangos or other more solid types. Hell, the only thing Dracon had told him about the berries themselves besides their flavor was how to know when they had ripened, and from what the man understood these in his hand seemed ripe enough.

Curiosity overtaking his urge to keep these to sell, he dropped one into his mouth and it popped like a cherry in his mouth. The flavor was...strange. It was almost tangy, but rolled over his tongue and the flavor changed to a bit of sweet, then to a bit of sour. It was not something he was expecting from a berry that was considered edible; sour, at least to him, meant to spit that shit out and toss it away. And perhaps he was right. To test his theory, he pushed past a few wads of Craksnap branches and spotted another cluster. Picking them, they resulted in the same sequence of flavors, tangy at first, then sweet and sour.

He shrugged, and started picking them in droves. He didn’t take all of them no, he didn’t want to rob Feltlocke of their income, even it if was unlikely that a forager would come this far out of town in search of berries, but he didn’t want to be responsible for starving the hungry, so he left quite a bit, including the hundreds of pods that were out of reach of him, where a pegasus could easily get to themselves. Soon, he had quite the pile of berries on the dirt forest floor, as well as a couple handfuls in his coat pockets. They were firm enough that they didn’t even so much as bruise during his twisting and turning during his harvest.

One thing he was uncertain of, however, was their shelf life. He didn’t have any ice for keeping them cool, nor did he have any special enchanted equipment for storing fresh foods over long distances as he had seen many merchants use, and many appliance stores advertise. He moved over to his pack, unzipped it, and fished around. Out he pulled many of the jars he had bought to hold extra water, eight in total. They were large mason style jars that could easily hold a liter of water each, and with the amount of berries he had collected, he figured he could sacrifice a few of them in the name of potential profit. And if they spoiled, he could just dump them and use the glass jars for their intended purpose.

Placing the small things into the containers, he walked over to his larger pile, reminding him of some paintballs someone had spilled all over the floor, he started collecting them; shaking off what dirt and mineral stained them, he soon found himself with three full jars of Snapberries, easily worth triple their weight in coin. A thought that brought a smile to his grizzly face.

Placing the jars delicately into his pack, he zipped up the hulking bag of fabric and plastic and rested up upon his back once more, his pots and pans clashing noisily against each other, disturbing the peace of the forest. With a stick in hand, he continued on.

This forest did not actually have a name, from what the man understood. His maps gave it no designation, and Dracon nor anyone else had mentioned it specifically. And to be fair, he doubted that many people, much less travellers and merchants who stayed for little more than a few days in town, even so much as thought about the place. But to the man, forests and woodlands had always been a good contrast to the rolling prairies and hillands he had been so used to for many years. It was always a special time to be within a world of wood, and it all seemed almost magical. Considering where he currently was, it easily could be magic.

But these thoughts were pushed aside quickly, it was a quiet moment, and though he often found an abundance of them during his travels, this time seemed different. As he stood silent in the shade, the sun high with rays casting down here and there, barely penetrating the thick canopy, with the only sound being those of the distant birds fluttering and chirping their sweet songs, and the bugs crawling and burrowing their way to safety from others that would seek their demise, it was almost as if he was the center of the whole universe, and that should he take but a simple step, that the earth would crack and shatter before him. And it did.

A resounding boom echoed in his ears, and with each fumbling step the earth split and tore itself asunder, trees felled and were cast into the exposed depths, and the sun was suddenly upon his pale flesh, nearly boiling with its heat and intensity. He dropped his stick and huddled a tree that stood among the carnage, saving him from a horrible, melting death. But the tree was suddenly seemingly not a tree at all. He felt fur, a brilliant violet and soft with a smell of lavender, he looked up and the pony looked down upon him with a stern and scowling look, her purple mane casting a deep shadow over her muzzle, her fiery amethyst eyes blazed with a look of disapprovement.

“Why did you leave?”

No, no, no. Not her.

She leaned her neck down, her eyes squinted in anger.

“I could have helped you.”

He let go of her legs and covered his ears.

“We all could have helped you, but no.”

Not listening, not listening.

Her breath he could feel through his long hair, tickling his beard and his hands, and the air seemed to chill at it’s touch.

“You were always a stubborn one. A prideful one.”

He wanted to close his eyes, the earth was on fire, cracks split the earth where lava rose and melted all life. He could feel the sting of its heat on his cold flesh, and her words stung like ice against a sore and bruised muscle.

“And now look where you are.” She rose away from him, and humphed, “Wallowing in the dirt, no better than an animal.”

He grit his teeth, and he felt them shatter in his mouth, the shards flying and ricocheting into his tongue and gums and down his throat.

“To think, if only you were a little more patient, if only you had a little more faith…”

His eyes widened, “Shut up.” He muttered with a hoarse throat.

“...you would be with her again already.” She leaned down once more, “But you’re not, and you never will be.”

He roared out, and turned on her, his fists blazed with the fire of his hatred, and the pony didn’t so much as flinch as he struck her. The impact shattered bone and rended flesh sending what grotesque mass that was left soaring through the air, where it rained down blood and guts upon the land, steaming in the fires and choking the earth. He stood there on his knees, sucking in breath as if each were his last, and he looked over the carnage that he had wrought.

But then, he noticed something more than just out of place. A deer, tall and proud in it’s posture, it’s beady black eyes looked upon him from its place perched behind a tree, it’s rack large and spoke of its age and experience. It slowly walked along through the fires and the piles of flesh and purple fur. Seemingly uncaring of the world around it, or of him. And he suddenly had a moment of clarity. The fires receded, the earth reformed itself, trees regrew mighty and strong, animals lived and breathed again, and the masses of flesh and rivers of blood dried and melted, and he was left in the forest once more, his breath ragged, and his brow drenched in a cold sweat.

Frantically he jolted his head around, everywhere he looked he found no signs of the world he had left, and he felt his head rest against the trunk of an oak, and he breathed air not choked by fire and blood. And oh, how sweet it was.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, his hands on his lap, his eyelids shut over his weary, bloodshot eyes. A gentle breeze blew softly and swayed the leaves and branches of the trees, throwing their shadows upon the land in a chaotic dance, and through lidded eyes he peered upon the brilliant orange sky as the sun lowered itself over the treetops. His eyes flew open. He had been here a long time, many hours at least, time that he did not have.

Standing on shaky, wobbly legs, he scanned the ground for his stick and pack, and found them said in the grass a few yards away. He seemed to have stumbled around during his breakdown, and ended up quite a ways away. He opened his pack and spotted the jars of berries, and scowled at them. Every nerve in his body told him to toss them now. But, that would still be such a waste. He doubted they caused the worst trips imaginable to everyone, cause otherwise there was a whole town just a dozen miles away that was infested with drugs. Surely they only did that to humans? Or maybe just him? He didn’t know, and he really didn’t care to find out.

He simply took a long swig from his canteen, nearly emptying it, and zipped the pack up once more. He found his stick and dusted it clean. It was looking like a walk through the night would be in order to make up for lost time. He doubted there was anything willing to jump him here in this small patch of woodland, so he didn’t feel entirely inclined to camp.

He kept his hand in his coat pocket just in case.

Caravan

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At the rate he was moving, there was a legitimate fear that perhaps he would miss the festival entirely. Swatting aside some thicket, he passed through the wide brush, the dry branches creaking and snapping as they were tugged upon by his coat. The forest had slowly transformed into a dense shrubland, largely devoid of trees, though there were patches here and there. It was also clear to him that his angle of approach through the forest was much more obtuse than he had expected, considering he had not seen the road yet even after all his time hiking through nature.

He at least knew he was on the right track, if his compass and maps were right, and so long as his navigation skills hadn’t suddenly and spontaneously deteriorated over the course of the past few days. But who knew, those strange berries he had eaten a day prior could be melting his brain at this very moment, and he wouldn’t know.

The man shook the thought away, no reason to start drowning himself in such thinking. The land was turning quite rocky, and there were moments when a step he took was complemented by a smooth stone, barely visible under the dirt, that could easily break an ankle. These were the things he needed to focus on, not some ridiculous worries on the side effects of eating foreign food.

He lost the track of time after that. Taking his time watching his steps across the flatlands, making sure not to slip on loose rocks or land his foot in a gopher hole, while doing his best to avoid the waist high walls of thicket and shrubs, he would prefer less cuts and scrapes on his coat. The old thing had suffered enough already over the years.

Taking refuge under a thin tree, he ate and drank sparingly, aware of the need to preserve water for the hike through the desert, if he decided to brave it. Retrieving his map and compass from his pack he made sure he was still heading in the right general direction, until a glint caught his eye. His head snapped up, eyes steadily scanning the distant horizon littered with patchy bundles of bushes.

There! A glint of blue and white, barely noticeable through a shrub. It was moving at a constant and steady pace, barely a blip in the waves of heat rising from the surface of the earth. He stood up from his place and squinted, tugging down on the brim of his hat to keep the shadow in his eyes. As he tracked the oddly colorful spot, he noticed another blip. This one was red and yellow. And another trailed behind it, slightly higher from what he could tell, and with cool purples and greens.

Could it be?

He frantically placed his maps and other belongings away that he had set out during his rest, and heafted the pack upon his back again. The pots and pans clanged and rang as he hobbled his way across the plains towards the colors. More appeared and in much denser formation as he closed in, and their shapes and shades were detailed more to him. They were wagons! Wagons of many different kinds. Some were painted with a great array of colors that popped against the brown and greens and whites of the shrubland, thankfully so. Others were simple wooden browns accompanied by the dark greys of iron and metal fastenings.

There had to be dozens of these things. Most were simple covered wagons, like the ones of great pioneers of old, their white and sometimes yellow tarps protecting against the sun beating down from above, pulled by oxen or even by their own owners, if they were earth ponies, or were hired hooves. Some were simply carts loaded down with goods of many types, though these were most often accompanied by a covered wagon for their owners to rest in themselves. There were even wagons that were much more akin to the look of a mobile home, tall and with doors and windows dotted about the things, each unique in build as much as style and color, but these were the rarest that he saw. It was a whole caravan!

Smacking a bush aside with his walking stick, his feet stepped out, not onto more gravelled dirt, but stone. The road was as it had been like he remembered before entering Feltlocke days ago: dirt with a great amount of cobbled stones mixed in, packed tight and crumbling from it’s abuse and general neglect. He felt a smile reach his lips at the sight. It seems he had made it after all.

He stepped out onto the road fully, and watched the wagons go by patiently. Most of the ponies didn’t pay him much mind, especially if they were driving their carts forth. But when there were those sat silently upon the benches and in the carts themselves, usually mares or older members of family, along with the occasional foal, they looked him up with plain neutrality, sometimes with curiosity, but always with a hint of caution. Especially the mares with their children.

He thought a silent thanks to lady luck, though it had taken him longer than he would have liked for him to find the road, it was better than he could have hoped for once he was actually there. While he was sure these ponies were headed south toward Los Pegasus, even if they turned out not to be, they would still prove valuable until he split off. All these ponies meant more security for himself, as well as opportunity to practice his trade. He smiled at the thought of coin, but pushed the vision and sound of a hefty coin pouch to the back of his mind. For now, he would stand and watch, waiting for the ample moment to join in on the march.

Darkness soon began to shroud the land, the twilight settling upon the horizon. White specs of stars poked through the night. It had taken him a while to reach the area where the wagons had docked and settled, considering he had stopped to rest more than once. The crackling of fires and the murmuring chatter of ponies were quiet as he stood on the road, his figure mostly hidden behind a patch of trees and bushes, but beyond was a rather large clearing where families and merchants had settled down for the night. They all talked and laughed with each other, and it was no doubt to the man that these travellers had been on the road together for some time, if not outright friends outside of this life on the road.

He gripped his stick tight, watching them with weary eyes for a moment. Should he approach? He could at least perhaps offer up some goods. But, seeing the groups huddled close together around fires, eating and drinking and enjoying pleasant company, he decided against it. Turning on a heel, he took back to the road and started down it for a bit longer.

Eventually, he came across another decently sized clearing, not even a ten minute walk from the caravan’s current campgrounds, and knew it would be a good place to rest for the night. Setting down his pack, he started to work on a fire. His fire log was perfectly regenerated now, and looked as good as he had first purchased it. He was glad that magic seemed to work on everything. Making a fire quickly, the clearing was touched by it’s crackling yellow light. Out came a can of beans from his orange pack, which he dumped upon his pan, and watched them cook. A light meal, perhaps too light. He ate slowly, savoring the food, and cleaned his utensils. The standard routine.

But something caught his eye, a dim flash of a reflection in the brush. His head snapped to the spot, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Eyes scanning the edge of the fire light, he didn’t hear anything--

SNAP!

The crunch of a branch made him do a 180, and he heard an EEP!

“Who’s there!” He shouted.

A thick bush rustled, and through the lightest parting of the low branches he saw two beady eyes gaze out at him, their teal irises the only definite tell that there was something, or rather someone, hiding there.

“Come on out, I know you’re in there.” The man commanded, but kept his voice moderate. It was clear that it wasn’t a wolf or other beast that he was speaking to.

From the bush came an earth pony foal, who’s dark blue coat and deep black mane did well to hide his form until he stepped into the light of the fire.

The man cocked a brow, and rested himself back into his spot on the ground, “Now what do we have here.” He muttered, leaning down towards the foal, who rubbed a hoof against his foreleg under the gaze of the human, “What are you doing all the way out here?” Asked the man.

The foal seemed to wince even more, but managed to look up to meet the man’s eyes, “How are you so tall?” The foal asked, ignoring the man’s initial question, or perhaps afraid to answer.

Seeing that the young pony was a bit distant, the man slacked his shoulders and smiled weakly, “By eating my fruits and vegetables.” He answered the foal.

The blue pony looked up from the ground towards the man’s tired face, “I always eat my vegetables.” His snout scrunched up, “I don’t like the radishes mom makes me eat very much, though.”

The man shook his head, “I’m not a fan of them either.” He looked towards the fire, poking it with a stick, “Tell me, little one. Why are you out here, all alone?” He asked less forcefully this time.

The foal seemed to tense again, “I...um, well, wanted to see you up close.” He again rubbed his foreleg with a hoof, “I...you...kinda’ reminded me of somepony.”

The human gazed down with a curious look, “Did I now? Have you seen other humans before?” Perhaps it was simply possible he had passed through this foal’s town or village, potentially years ago, but he was willing to admit that he most likely would have forgotten at this point.

The foal, unsurprisingly, shook his head, his baggy mane swishing down his withers, “No, seeing you up close. I can see the difference. Between you and them.”

“So you thought coming over to spy on a stranger was a good idea?” The man asked, “Just to satisfy your curiosity?” The foal nodded, rather enthusiastically, and the man couldn’t help but smile, “An adventurous type, and a risk taker? You know, I like your style, son. What’s your name?”

“Crystal Night.” The foal responded.

“Crystal Night?” The man stated, “Seems like an odd name for an earth pony.”

The dark pony rubbed his forelegs, gazing down at the ground again, “You’re not the only one to say that.” He mumbled.

The man frowned, realizing his mistake, “I’m sorry, Crystal Night. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Crystal Night looked up, a small smile on his muzzle, “It’s okay. It’s the name my mom and dad gave me together, so that makes it extra special.” He said, “And my friends call me Crystal. If you want to use that name.”

The man returned Crystal’s smile, “I’m a friend now?”

Crystal shrugged, “Why not? You seem pretty nice. Definitely not as scary as I thought you would be.”

The man chuckled, “Heh, I’m glad you think so.”

“So, what’s your name, mister?” Crystal asked.

His smile drooped, and after a second he looked back into the fire burning warm and bright in the cold of the early night, “I don't really have one. At least, not around here." His eyes peered at the foal, who's face was wide in surprise, and a streak of sadness, almost pity. It made the man's heart sink. "But...you can call me Peddler.” The man responded.

Crystal's features morphed to a look of confusion, his large eyes somehow more expressive than even adult ponies. Maybe it was because foals had big heads and little bodies? The man figured that was reasonable, “Peddler? Now that is a weird name for...a human.” He had paused for a moment, as if to remember what the man had called himself before.

Peddler shook his head, “And how would you know? I thought you said you didn’t know any other humans?”

Crystal, after a moment, nodded, moving a bit closer to the fire, “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” They sat there in silence for a moment, the man poking at the ashy log with his stick, his back resting on his pack.

“You said you had a ma’ and pa’, where are they?” Peddler asked.

Crystal looked up, his teal eyes shining in the light, “Back at camp. I was going to play with the other foals but...none of them wanted to.”

“How come?”

Crystal looked down, “I don’t know. They just didn’t. I guess they were too scared to play out in the dark.”

Peddler smirked in the shadow of his hat, “But not you, huh?”

Crystal shrugged his little shoulders, “No, not really. I kind of like the dark. But I guess I got mom to blame for that. She did name me ‘Night’ anyways.” Crystal chuckled.

“Speaking of which…” Peddler started, “It’s getting quite late. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t appreciate you staying out this late.”

Crystal sprang up in sudden realization, “Oh, you’re right! I guess I should go back then, huh.”

“Here…” Peddler groaned as he stood up onto his sore feet, “Let me walk with you at least. It can be dangerous out here in the wilds at night. Especially for a youngin’ like you.”

Crystal pouted, “What, you don’t think I can’t find my way back?”

The man picked up his walking stick, and gripped it tight, “No. But what kind of person would I be if I let something happen to you? Hmm?” At that, he started taking a few short steps forward, and Crystal relented, moving through the brush again.

It was a short walk to the campgrounds, Peddler, or so he had called himself, could see the fires and lanterns of the wagons a mile off, the pair stopped short of the clearing, and the man ushered the foal forth, “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

Crystal looked back confused, but did as he was asked, and trotted out of the brush and into the campgrounds. A stallion, an earth pony like Crystal, came rushing forth to him from one of the fire pits, his shiny pearl coat and bright dandelion yellow mane reflecting the light of the fire, his pallet fitting right in with the bombastic array of color from his peers and their transports. A few other ponies closed in, them talking in bare murmurs from this distance.

His job now done with the foal safely returned ‘home’, the man turned to leave, but was stopped suddenly by a foreign voice, “Hey, you!” Turning around once again, he saw the white stallion looking directly at him, a smile on his face, “Thanks for bringing my son back safe and sound, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”

Crystal looked annoyingly up at the stallion, “Daaaad! I knew what I was doing!”

The father looked down with a critical eye, “And yet, this fellow had to bring you back to us on his own.”

Crystal looked ready to retort, but the man interjected before he could, “It wasn’t a problem sir, trust me.” His gaze fell on the foal, “Now that he’s back safe, I’ll just be on my way.” He turned to leave again, but was once again stopped.

“Now come on, don’t be a stranger, sir! A friend of my son is a friend of mine.” The human could practically hear the smile on the stallion’s face, “Why don’t you stay, and share a meal with us, hmm? As a way to say ‘thanks’?”

The man hesitated, and almost made to walk away again, but this time he stopped himself. What was he doing? Where was this sudden antisocial streak coming from? He would jump immediately on the opportunity to meet new people, have a good meal, and maybe make a few bits along the way. What was so different now? Wasn’t this part of his plan anyways? To meet with these ponies and at least try and sell them some wares? Why the hesitation?

All questions that he couldn’t answer with certainty.

After a moment, he heard the small group of ponies begin to disperse, though he could still feel the look of Crystal and his father on the back of his head, and, against his mind’s judgement, faced them fully, “Alright.” He answered, stepping out of the brush and into the clearing, the campfire’s light casting the shadows away from him, “I’d like that.”

Campfire

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Settling into a place by the rather large fire pit, the man who had come to be known as Peddler sat on the cold ground of the brush-filled plains. He crossed his legs, and rested his stick over them. There was a pot suspended over the fire from a tripod holder, it’s cast iron lid keeping any hints of its contents unknown to the eye and nose. Around the campfire were some chairs, simple folding ones with a bit of padding on them, two of which were occupied.

“Again, I can’t thank you enough for bringing back my boy.”

Sat to his left, just a few feet away, was Crystal’s father. The foal in reference was sat just between the two, still pouting at the stallion.

“And again, It was no problem, sir.” Pedder responded.

The stallion waved a hoof, “Oh, none of this ‘sir’ business. The name’s Yellow Stone. On account of the mane.” He said smiling as he flicked his rather long and sleek mane. The man wouldn’t be lying if he said it was almost feminine in nature. But then again, most ponies did have rather long and silky manes, even the stallions.

He didn’t dwell on this detail long, “You can call me Peddler.” The man said.

Yellow Stone nodded, “Peddler, huh? What’s the story behind that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Well, it's sort of my profession.”

Yellow Stone rose a brow, and Crystal Night was also listening intently, the dark foal a real contrast to his brightly colored father, “I’ve never heard of...a peddler before. Is it cutie mark related? I got my name not just from my mane, after all. My family owns a quarry up in Hoofington, it’s been in the family for generations you see, we’ve been mining out stone and minerals since--” The stallion cut himself off, realizing he was ranting about himself, rather than letting his guest continue, “Sorry.” He apologized.

Peddler smiled, “No worries, Stone. Can I call you Stone?” At the stallion's nod, he continued, “No, humans don’t have a cutie mark. We choose what we do. And Peddling is what I do. I’m like a merchant, I suppose.” He looked to the fire, staring at the cast iron pot suspended over the flames, “Though I don’t ever really stay in one place. The search for new product is always a priority. And new people to sell to as well.”

“So you’re just a travelling merchant, but without the wagons and stuff?” Yellow Stone questioned.

The man nodded, “Yep. That about sums it up.” He looked to the stallion, “You said you owned a quarry?”

Before Yellow Stone could answer, Crystal piped up, “Yep! It’s the biggest one in the whole of Equestria! And we don’t just dig up rocks, but also gems and crystals!”

His father smirked at his son’s enthusiasm, “Well, I don’t know about the ‘biggest’, but we do mine out gems occasionally, but thanks to this tyke here, we got our hooves on quite the variety of deposits.”

The foal nodded rapidly, “Yeah! That’s how I got my cutie mark!” He stood up from his seat and presented his flank to the human: there was what looked to be a geode split to reveal beautiful white sparkling quartz, as bright as the stars in the night sky. The man chuckled, the relation of names and cutie marks in this world always gave the man an odd feeling. Parents (usually the mare alone) naming their children most often after physical attributes at birth, though often related to professions or traditions that the foals didn’t even know existed, only for, sometimes decades later, their marks to perfectly reflect the things they were named for. Crystal Night was very much a clear example of the magic of this world at work.

Though the man’s smile faded slightly. He didn’t know what it would be like to have a mark, or to, in hindsight, know from the beginning what you will do in life. But, as happy as it seemed to make ponies, knowing they were doing what they were made to, he couldn’t help but be glad to not be tied down by fate, and very literal destinies. Though if he had known of his situation-to-be, he might not have been here at all...

“Peddler, are you alright?”

The man looked away from the fire, and first noticed Yellow Stone looking at him with a concerned expression, and noticing secondly that Crystal Night was gone.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” Peddler responded.

Yellow Stone nodded, “We all have much to think about these days.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence as they watched the fire, but after a long moment the man finally spoke up, a sarcastic tone to his voice, “Say, your name might not also be related to natural parks, would it?” He half asked, half chuckled.

Yellow Stone, on the other hand, looked at him confused, “No...no I don’t think so. What made you think that?”

Memories of home came back to him vaguely, as if he was looking through a fog, and his smile fell again, “Just...no real reason.”

Yellow Stone didn’t seem to catch his darker tone, or if he did he didn’t react on it. Not that he would have had time to anyways, as Crystal Night soon appeared again trotting happily up to the fire, “Mom said the soup should be ready, dad.” He told the stallion, the foal having left sometime during the man’s musing.

That got Yellow Stone smiling as he clapped his hooves together, “Good! I’m starving. I’ll go help your mother get the bowls and utensils.” He said as he stood from his chair, and eyed down his son, his casual voice taking an authoritative tone, “Don’t you run off again. I don’t want to have to send Peddler out to get you.” With that the stallion disappeared around the fire, which was really quite large even by the man’s standards, and left Crystal Night there with him.

It wasn’t long before the white stallion came back around, a tray of wooden bowls and spoons balanced perfectly on his back, a feat that always impressed the man to this day, no matter how many ponies he had seen do it. He took one of the bowls and spoons gladly with thanks. “I’d like you to meet my wife.” Started the stallion, and Peddler noticed a shadow move even in the light, and his eyes flicked to it’s place to his right, “Lavender Shade.”

There a mare stood, with locks of curling light purple bangs of mane flowing down the front of her face and across her neck, with fur a dull grey. But, what surprised him was the deep, emerald green slit irises that studied him with a curious look. And even from here, he could see the thin, pearl white fangs grazing her lower lip.

She was a bat pony.

In one of her leathery wings was held a wooden bowl, and in the other a hook for opening the blazing hot lid of the pot. Her attention broke from looking at him, to opening the pot. Out poured the smells and vapor of something tangy and oddly spicy, and with a ladle she perfectly filled her own bowl, and then brought the soup filled ladle over to him, “Soup, Mr. P?” She asked, her little smile slightly cut off by her fangs.

“Um, yes. Yes, thank you.” The man answered as he removed his hat in presence of the lady among them, while also trying not to stare. He had not seen a bat pony in years. Not since he had visited the small town of Hollow Shades; they had not been as welcoming as he would have hoped. And since that day (it was quite a short one) he had never seen another one of their kin. Some days he even wondered if they were real, or if perhaps in his cluttered mind they were just some far-off thing of his imagination, taken from memories of the many places and oddities he had seen and smashed them together to form this strange race of ponies.

But no, here was a mare of their elusive species right before them, and serving him soup!

Yellow Stone and Crystal Night got their own hearty portions, and the mare sat beside the man to his right, and the foal to his left beamed up at him, “You like tomatoes, right? My mom makes the best tomato soup!” Even after he said that, the foal stared up at him with those teal eyes of his, as if waiting patiently for the man’s reaction. Looking down at the bowl in his hands, it was in fact a rather simple looking tomato soup, thick and steaming. Though as simple as it was, the smell made him salivate, considering he hadn’t had a proper meal since leaving Feltlocke, he doubted he would have cared if the soup was too watery, or perhaps even too tangy and thick.

Taking the spoon up and dipping it in, he blew on the hot liquid and sipped. The flavors exploded on his tongue, and it became clear that this wasn’t Campbell’s tomato soup out of a can, nor was it anything he had tasted in pony diners either. This was something different, it was sweet, but somehow also a bit spicy, and the tanginess of the tomatoes were countered by a hint of citrus within. For such a normal looking soup, it was extraordinary.

Peddler looked down to see Crystal beaming up at him, before tending to his own soup. Peering to his right, he saw the mare there sipping at her own soup, though occasionally her large, slitted eyes jumped between her bowl and his face. It seemed she was also judging his reaction, so he decided to sate her curiosity, “This soup is absolutely delicious, Mrs. Shade.”

She grinned up pridefully at him, even to her husband she was quite a small thing, “Please, just Lavender.” Her black wings twitched lightly, “And thank you.”

“It sure beats food out of a can, huh?” The man looked over to see Yellow Stone with a smile on his face. “We’ve met plenty of wandering types on our trips. They all have the same look when we invite them over to sample my wife’s outstanding cooking.”

A faint blush touched Lavender’s grey cheeks, and she shied away, a smile on her face, “Oh, it’s just a soup, dear, nothing crazy special.”

“It’s still an amazing soup, you’ve got quite the talent for cooking.” The man stated, sipping the soup again with a contentful sigh.

Lavender got her blush under control, and looked up to the man, “Well, I sure would hope so, Mr. P. It’s my special talent after all.”

The man could only nod, his attention now fully on the soup. The others also tended to their own meals, and the sounds of the early night filled the air: the chirping of crickets, the buzz of nocturnal bugs, the distant call of a bird, and the crackle of the fire. All was peaceful. It was a feeling the man rarely felt, complete and utter security and peace of mind, for but a moment.

“Say, Peddler…” The man looked up from his bowl and saw Yellow Stone taking more soup from the pot, “You say you sell goods right?”

The man simply nodded in response.

Yellow Stone returned to his seat, “Would you happen to be travelling to Los Pegasus?”

“I’ve had my sights on it for a few days.”

“For the festival right?”

“Yep.”

Yellow Stone smiled, “Same as us, along with most of the ponies in this caravan.” He sipped his soup, a fingerless hoof holding the bowl and spoon, a phenomenon that boggled the man’s mind since his first days here, but as with many things, it’s usually summed up to magic, “Personally, we’re hoping to sell off some of our gemstones, maybe get a couple of contracts for stone and rock, well with all the ground construction going on out there.”

This time Lavender spoke up, a smile between her little fangs, “Yes, and I’m hoping to get some new, exotic spices for my dishes, there always seems to be more and more on the market every year in Hoofington. So I can’t imagine what kinds there will be at this festival. It’s so exciting!”

“And what about you?” Yellow Stone questioned the man, “What are you hoping to do there?”

The man lowered his bowl, he’d been sipping the remnants from it during their talk, “Hoping to just sell some wares, maybe get a few unique pieces if I can.” There was a pause, and then he continued after a moment, “I’m going to be honest, I’m not so sure what’s so special about this festival. Other than that it only comes around every couple years.”

Yellow Stone smiled, “Well, it’s more of a pegasi tradition, something about fertility and growth and all that. Sounds more like an earth pony thing, I know.” He chuckled, “But the festivities are always worth attending, if you can make the trip. Just seeing the shows makes it worthwhile!”

The man nodded, and sipped his soup again, “I’ve never been.” He stated simply, “Though you’re making it sound more exciting by the minute.” He smiled.

The stallion returned it in full, and went on for seconds. The man gazed at Lavender, and then the pot, as if asking silent permission to get a refill himself. She was perfectly fine with it, and he was grateful. They ate in silence until everyone had their fill, and once the bowls and utensils were collected and carried away by Lavender and her son, the man stood up and brushed himself off.

“Thank you all kindly for the meal, it was simply amazing.” Said Peddler, taking up his stick and hat once more, “But I do have to be going back now, I left my fire going, as well as my pack.”

Yellow Stone smiled, having been left alone by Lavender and Crystal Night, who was likely (and hopefully by the man’s standards) to bed by now, “Hey, don’t be a stranger. Come by again in the morning and share some breakfast with us, I’m sure my friends would love to meet you!”

The man nodded in thanks, “We’ll see.” He said simply, and then turned to leave.

“You know…” Yellow Stone started, “You don’t have to travel alone, you could join up with our caravan here. We’ve got plenty of ponies to help pull the wagons, and plenty of food and water for our trek through the desert.” The man turned to face the stallion once more, “I don’t know how much stuff you can carry in that big bright bag of yours, but it doesn’t seem like much, and San Palomino is not a kind place, especially once you cross out of the plains.”

The man didn’t know much about the San Palomino desert, all he knew was that it was one of the largest deserts within Equestrian territory, and considering his past experiences with deserts, he was very willing to consider breaking off back north rather than enter that cursed biome. But, this festival had piqued his interest, and he was still quite determined to try and make even the last few days of it there. Though, even if he felt he had enough food and water, there was always the chance of something bad happening in a place like that, especially when it came to water.

But these ponies most definitely had plenty of supplies, not to mention coverage from the blazing sun, something very important in a place like that. He had his hat, and a scarf for cold and snowy days, but those were the epitome of his shade and ways to keep his head cool without wasting water or overheating. It would be a very smart idea to travel with these ponies.

“I wouldn’t want to slow you all down.” He heard himself say.

Yellow Stone waved a hoof, “Nonsense! You make great strides with those long legs of yours!” Why did he try to deny them? “Besides, you can always ride in our wagon, if you get tired.”

The man stood there for a long moment, thinking on the stallion’s offer. It was a good and genuine one, and the man didn’t know why he had considered turning it down at all, there seemed to just be a strange sinking feeling in his gut, but he managed to repress it just enough to mutter a response, “Alright.” He said simply.

Yellow Stone beamed, “You won’t regret it, Peddler.” Then the stallion stood up and held out his hoof, and the man knew what it was. Clenching his fist, he bumped Yellow Stone’s hoof, “Remember about breakfast, we’re having beans and toast tomorrow!”

“Can’t wait.” Peddler responded, and turned to leave again, this time Yellow Stone let him go without any interruption. Making his way through the darkness, he saw the dim light of his campfire a mile off. Entering the clearing, the log was a smouldering black, it’s fire barely flickering in the black of night, and his gaze fell upon his pack, which was laid out still, undisturbed. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and sat on the cold ground and rubbed his face.

He thought back on Yellow Stone’s words, and that sinking feeling returned. Was it distrust? No, the man knew there weren’t any lies spoken around that fire, no treachery in the stallion’s voice. Maybe it was Lavender? He was not afraid to admit that the bat pony piqued his interests, considering the rarity of her kind. Perhaps, if he were to be honest but never willing to admit, it was the prospect of seeing the same face for more than a day or two, truly socializing with them. Being more than just a humble face selling humble wares, interacting and getting to know them, that scared him the most.

What was he to do…It had been such a long time since he had really known anyone.

A Slow Morning

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His eyes flickered open to the darkness of the early dawn, or at least he hoped it was dawn. Rising from the cold ground, his muscles aching and his joints snapping from stiffness, he threw off his old, holey blanket and looked to the horizon. Beyond the tips of the grasses he could see the faint peak of the sun, it’s only tell coming from the touch of it’s color distant and solitude. He was sure the moon was likely still falling from the sky behind him.

Lifting himself from the ground, the Peddler began his usual routine: rolling up his blanket, dusting off his clothes, checking his hat (it had been made off with on more than one occasion by curious critters), and looking over his pack (which had also sometimes been made off with). All was fine, and he breathed in the cool, dry air of the grasslands, and started to build a fire for breakfast and coffee.

He stopped, and remembered that he had promised Yellow Stone to come by for breakfast. Blowing air from his nose, he put away his log, which was already half way from restoring it’s sad, black charred stump into a perfectly fine piece of wood, and started to gather his things. It was very early, especially by pony standards, but he was sure that traveling folk understood the need to wake up even before full sunrise.

After ensuring he had not left anything, he took up his walking stick and made his way through the early morning darkness towards the caravan’s camping area. He quickly began cursing his decision, hoping to expect some early fires cooking an early breakfast, he was greeted instead by an inactive camp. The man’s eyes focused hard on the wagon trains parked sporadically around, and spotted the area where he had brought Crystal Night back before, and shuffled through the clearing towards it.

Still no signs of activity, and he chewed his cheek. He would have already eaten and been on his way down the road by now, the sun barely peeking itself out in the distance, finally breaking the purple hues of the early morning with it’s dim rays. But, he didn’t want to be a man to break his word, despite the road calling to him now that he could see further than a couple feet in front of him, and simply sat on the dirt ground around the fire pit as he had last night.

And so the Peddler waited, and waited, and waited.

The light of a lantern shone from one of the covered wagons, and out from it’s open end a silhouette jumped down and lowered the wagon’s back latch to allow easier entry and disembarkment. More silhouettes followed as more lanterns began to spark to life. This included Yellow Stone’s wagon. From his place the man could see Lavender Shade hop down from the back end, a lamp dangling from her mouth as she surveyed the surroundings, her emerald eyes almost glowing in morning light, a bat pony trait the Peddler remembered.

She seemed to spot him a mile off, sitting by the ash covered pit where he had been the night before, and trotted up to him, lowering the lantern, “I know my Stone invited you for breakfast…” She began, “But you’re quite a bit early.”

Peddler shrugged, “What can I say…” He smiled, “I’m sort of an early bird.”

Lavender returned it in kind, “This is early even for me.” She looked him over for just a second, “How long have you been waiting out here.”

“Oh, not long.” Peddler responded, shifting himself slightly so his legs wouldn’t fall asleep.

“I would hope not.” Lavender stated, “We wouldn’t want our guest to be out alone in the dark and cold.”

Peddler chuckled, “Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Shade.”

She smiled behind her tiny fangs, “We’ll see.” And at that, she took up her lantern and trotted back towards her family’s wagon. It wasn’t long before ponies of many kinds began to start crawling from their temporary (or perhaps even permanent) homes, and started their morning routines. The man got stares and looks here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he wasn’t used to. Peddler decided it would be a good time to rest his eyes, considering he wouldn’t be needing them for a while, he figured, and let the world fall into darkness.

But his conscious rest didn’t last long, when the thudding of hoofsteps sounded in his ears he opened his sore eyes again to see Lavender Shade return, this time accompanied by her husband who held a few logs on his strong back, Yellowstone beamed at him, “Good morning Peddler!”

Peddler nodded, “Good morning, Stone.”

Yellowstone shrugged the logs into the pit, and Lavender laid out a long ground throw which she placed bowls and utensils on, then he heard a voice beside him, “You came back after all.” Down to his side he saw Crystal Night, rubbing a sleepy eye with a foreleg, but gazing up at him with a wide smile, “We thought you wouldn’t come back.”

Yellowstone chuckled nervously from his place by the firepit, “Hehe! It’s not that we didn’t think you’d come back, it’s just…we figured…we thought…”

“Honey.” Lavender said from her place on the blanket, “The fire.”

Yellowstone’s eyes jutted between his wife and the man, and he went back to tending the small fire in the pit. Peddler couldn’t help but chuckle, and nodded down at Crystal Night, “I would have doubted myself too...but, I’m here now.”

“And that’s what’s important!” Yellowstone said as he rose from the side of the firepit, “If you thought my wife’s soup was good, you’ve got to see what she can do with just a few apples.” He trotted up beside the man, “You’re lucky, we’re about halfway through our trip, and that means--”

“Baked apples for breakfast!” Crystal Night chirped.

Oh God, Peddler couldn’t remember the last time he had tasted baked apples. It had to have been years, and if they were even nearly as good as Lavender's soup from the last night...he was already salivating at the thought.

Yellowstone smirked, “I see that look on your face.”

Pedder licked the inside of his lips, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The stallion barked a laugh, “Sure, Peddler, sure.”

Peddler watched Lavender Shade work with clockwork precision, and much, much sooner than what the man thought, it was time to eat. Four apples were given to him, perfectly soft and caramel colored, and sweeter than anything the man had eaten in a long time, even compared to that chocolate he had bought in Feltlocke. After he had only eaten the first one he was already licking his teeth due to the sweetness, and he still had three more to eat! Ponies sure did love their sugar.

After drinking much from his canteen to wash down the sugar on his tongue, he finally finished. Though he looked only to see that his hosts had already downed their own breakfasts long ago, with Yellow Stone and Lavender Shade checking over the wagon, and with Crystal Night nowhere to be seen. Leaving the warmth of the fire he stood up and made his way to the pair, “Is there anything I could help you two with?” He asked them.

Yellowstone put down the bucket he had been holding via mouth, and nodded to him, “If you want, you can just check the axles right quick.” He responded.

“Alright.” Peddler nodded, and rolled up the sleeves on his coat and undershirt. He also took this moment to get a proper look at their wagon: it was a simple thing, akin to the covered wagons he had seen in illustrations and movies telling the tales of brave pioneers of the West. It was driven by a saddle and set of tackle for the pony pulling it, with a tall canvas hood covering the long flat of the wagon’s back. He also knew a decent bit about these types of wagons technically speaking, he knew it’s anatomy and it wasn’t much of an issue to do a once and twice over of the wheels and their axles, which were in great shape.

He did take a moment to look in the back, and saw much of what he expected: a couple of trunks, likely for personables, a few barrels for perishables and water, a couple of large crates, a few loose bags, and one large sleeping mat, with a pile of blankets not yet folded. It was simple stuff, for a not so simple family. The man was still quite shocked by seeing a bat pony, and he was sure there was no shortage of ponies that were shocked to see one either.

Sort of how there were never a shortage of ponies shocked to see him.

They were all soon finished with their preparations, and it was now time for the caravan to get back on the road. Fires were snuffed, supplies were repacked, and ponies hitched themselves to their wagons. The Peddler took up his heavy pack with a grunt, and grasped his stick as he prepared to follow along, “Why don’t you ride with us, Peddler?” Yellowstone asked beside him, now fitted with his equipment to pull his family’s wagon.

“Oh.” Grunted the Peddler, “I wouldn’t want to be a burden on you all. I can follow along well on foot.”

“Nonsense.” He heard Yellow Stone assert, “If you’re going to be traveling with my family, you’ll be treated like family. That's how we do it in this caravan, and that’s how I do it to good folk.”

“And you’re good in all our books.” Lavender Shade agreed from her place on the wagon bench.

“Yeah!” Crystal Night exclaimed from within the wagon itself, his little head poked out the front above the bench where Lavender Shade herself sat, “Ride with us! You can sit in the back with me!”

Peddler looked at Crystal Night’s beaming face, and couldn’t help but find it contagious, “Alright.” He agreed, and walked around the back to hoist himself into the wagon, setting down his pack and stick beside him, letting his feet hang down, “You sure I’m not a burden on you, Stone?” He called to the front.

He heard Yellowstone chuckle as the wagon began to lumber forward, “Not at all! You’re not as fat as you think!” And the man couldn’t help but laugh as well. He felt something soft brush his arm, and saw Crystal Night sat beside him, “Thank you, all of you.” The man said to the young pony.

“Hey, I wasn’t going to leave my friend to walk all by himself!” Crystal Night exclaimed.

Peddler raised a playful brow, “We’re friends now?”

Crystal Night nodded confidently, “Yep, whether you like it or not.”

Peddler shrugged his shoulders and grinned, “Yeah, I think I would like that.”

The cart rattled and clacked as the road continued on.

To Silver Sands

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“...and then, when the rocks broke away, there it all was! Whole caverns full of crystals! All kinds, some of the purest and colorful ones we’d ever seen!”

The Peddler nodded as he listened closely to Crystal Night’s tale.

“Then, while I was still standing in that cave entrance, there was the glow, and this warm feeling, and then there it was! My cutie mark!” The foal beamed, “And well…I’ve been studying gems and crystals ever since! I’ve got tons of books.”

For the past while, Crystal Night had retold the time he had gotten his cutie-mark. They still gave the man a strange feeling, thinking about them, but he didn’t let that strangeness distract him from listening to the young foal’s story. Especially not when he seemed so ecstatic about it even to this day, years after it had appeared on his flank.

The day had been pleasant so far, the wind, while becoming ever more dry as they traveled closer to the desert, was fair, mild, and gentle against the face. The sun, usually bearing oppressively down from above, was filtered through a nice cloud cover, and there was only the rhythmic motion of the wagon which disrupted the calm of the savannah.

“What about you?” The foal asked, “Do you have a cutie-mark?”

The man looked away from the sky and down to the foal beside him, “No.” He replied simply.

Crystal Night gave him a look of confusion, “How do you know what you're good at then?”

Peddler shrugged, “We don’t really.” He turned to watch the dirt road pass by behind them, “We just live day by day, get a grip on things, then decide what we might want to do with ourselves.”

Crystal Night still didn’t seem to understand, and the man could tell he was still confused without the foal needing to say a word. “Dreams.” He said simply, and the foal cocked his head in greater confusion.

“Dreams? What does that have to do with cutie marks?” He asked.

The man paused, and began rummaging through his oversized bag, the pots and pans clattering lightly from the vibration of the wagon, “That’s what we run on, we might not know what we’re gonna be good at, but we can at least dream of things we’d want to be good at. Then, we try to make that dream a reality.”

“But…what if you fail?”

“Well, then…” The man looked to the foal once more, “We just try again.” From his bag he pulled out one of the jars of water he had and took a long gulp.

Crystal Night hummed, “I guess that makes sense. I know where’s a couple ponies at my school that still don’t have their cutie marks.” He said, “They just keep trying different things until they get their marks one day, they hope.”

There was a silent moment shared between the two, then Peddler spoke, “You said a while back, when you and I first met, that there was…somepony, that I reminded you of. One that wasn’t human?”

Crystal Night nodded, “Yeah, he was a traveler like you, strong and walked on two legs, had horns, big and mean.”

The Peddler cocked a brow, “Big and mean, huh?”

The foal shook his head, “You’re not mean, but he sure was. He was always yelling at everypony. Trying to get ponies to pay for some service. I guess he was kinda like a merchant. I forget what his people are called.”

The man had a pretty good idea who this person was, “A minotaur?” He asked.

Crystal Night beamed, “Yeah! That’s what he was. Iron…something. I think. He yelled at my dad.”

“So you thought I was him, so you decided to try and sneak up on me, in the middle of the night?”

The foal simply nodded, quite enthusiastically. The Peddler thought for a moment, this foal had to be either really dumb, or really brave. He knew the kid was bold, willing to take risks, he liked that about Crystal. But to try and confront a minotaur, especially one like that Iron Will fellow, well…it could have turned out really bad for him. He would have scolded him for such an act in hindsight, but he figured the kid’s parents had already done plenty of that.

“Here.” The man said, reaching into his bag once more, “I’ve got a bit of a gift. Think of it as saying thanks for letting me ride with you.” Crystal’s little ears peaked as he tried to sneak a glimpse of what the human might have been trying to grab, though the man already had in his hands the item that sparked the foals' curiosity, “I’ve had this for awhile, though I get a feeling it’s getting close to being bad.”

Then the man with a chocolate bar in his hand, and Crystal’s eyes widened with glee, “Is that for me?” The foal asked, the tip of his little nose twitching slightly as Peddler unwrapped the sweet treat. He smiled as he broke off a chunk, “Not all of it. I’m surprised it's still intact, though it’s sure to melt in the desert. So we’ve got to eat it.” And so he handed the foal his piece, a solid fourth of the quite large bar of chocolate.

Crystal Night took it with a generous nod of thanks, before quickly taking a bite, his ears peaking and his eyes closing as he savored the sweetness of it. The Peddler also took to eating some from the bar, the sugar and richness of the cocoa making his mouth almost dry. They finished the bar together in no time.

It was less than a day’s travel before the caravan had reached the edge of the desert, the sands shimmering almost silver in the heat of the day. It wasn’t so hot, there was still quite the cloud cover high above, though the air was noticeably drier here at the edge of the savannah than it had been back in the bushlands and further away from the desert in general.

The carts had all stopped for a midday rest and to have lunch, but the Peddler stood upon his place at the edge of the camp as he scanned the horizon, watching the heat rise above the desert plains in distorted waves. He was not going to enjoy his time there, he already knew.

“Peddler!” The man turned to see Yellow Stone trot behind him, “Lunch is ready! Hay sandwiches, you want any?”

The man shuddered at the thought of a hay sandwich, “No thanks, can’t really eat hay. My body can’t process it, ya’know?” He turned back to watch the desert once more, smiling a bit “Though I wouldn’t doubt your wife wouldn’t make them damn good.”

The stallion chuckled, “They’re pretty alright. He doesn’t like hay much either, but we do with what we have.” There was a silent moment. “You alright?” Yellow Stone questioned quite abruptly.

The man didn’t think much of it and shrugged, “Just trying to prepare myself for our time out there.” He answered simply.

The stallion nodded lighty, “Yeah, I’m not a huge fan of deserts either, though it helps that I’m a pony who deals with heat and dust quite a bit in my profession.”

The man rolled his shoulders, “I’d assume that from someone who mines stone all day.”

There was a silence for a moment, before Yellow Stone spoke up again, “Peddler, I’d like to ask you something, something important, a…favor almost.”

That got the man’s attention, and he turned to face the pale stallion, “You don’t need to ask a favor from me, I owe you enough, and helping you with somethin’ would be my pleasure.”

The stallion’s ear flicked, “I’d just like to ask that you keep an eye out on Crystal Night. The desert can be unforgiving and…we don’t want anything bad happening to him.” He paused to look out to the place he spoke of, “Lavender is going to have to be staying in the wagon pretty much the whole time, she doesn’t handle heat well. And I’m going to need to keep an eye on everything else, so it would be a great help to have another pair of eyes.”

The man gave an assuring nod, “He’s a good kid. I’d hate for anything to happen to him either. I’ll keep an eye and ear on him, make sure he’s alright.”

“Thanks.” Yellow Stone smiled, “I just want to take extra precautions…y'know, after last time.”

Peddler waved him off, “Things should be alright. If anything bad happens to him, you can have my hide.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” The stallion chuckled as they looked back out to the horizon for a long moment, the Peddler’s mind wandering to various situations, some good, some bad, some unlikely, and some almost guaranteed; he just hoped he would be able to deal with them as they came.

Yellow Stone soon left, realizing his food was waiting for him, and it was soon after that the man came to realize that he was pretty hungry too. So, he sat down at his place by the edge of the brush and watched the birds fly over distantly as a cold can of beans was eaten, and plenty of water was drunk. The Lord knew he was going to need it.

It wasn’t long before things were repacked and last minute preparations were made, and the caravan soon continued down the dusty, windy road towards it’s desired place. Sandy hills and course rock awaited them, the clattering of pots and pans rang out as the man walked alongside Yellow Stone. The Peddler made sure to feel a bit of the dirt beneath his feet, for he wasn’t so sure when he’d feel it again.