Applejack is shrouded along her lonely walk in the world of ash and quiet.
The duster is old. She isn't sure how old, only that it is in fact worn and aged. The original owner was probably long gone. She herself had received it fourth or fifth hand from an uncle whose name had slipped her mind in the long years. She remembered that she had liked him as a foal, but his face and everything else were mysteries. It had spent most of its time in her care hidden away in a closet in the house at Sweet Apple Acres, gathering dust and waiting. They also serve, who only stand and wait, her brother had grumbled once, and unbidden his voice carried along the wind.
Her duster coat was the only possession she had besides her hat, her map, and a few supplies. She was almost never parted from it, even when sleeping. In the day it was a shield against staring eyes and the sun which burned through the thin sky, a ward against slings and arrows, a bulwark against putrid rain and dust storms. In the night it was her bed, blanket, pillow and tent. If she were out under the sky, she would, no could not be parted from it.
The wind blew and kicked up sand. She cursed and pulled up her bandanna to cover her nose and mouth, adjusted her hat, and strode into the mess.
It wasn't that uncommon, areas of desertification. Unnatrual, sure, but not uncommon. One found them without regard to climate in Equestria. This one was in the middle of the northern forests.
It was also not on Big Mac's map. Thankya kindly, she thought with a bit of venom.
The wind died for a moment, and she made the most of the respite. She could see where the salt and sand ended ahead as the land rose.
Halfway across, and the wind returned from the right. She stumbled, but mere wind could not break Applejacks' stride. It could not before the Waning, it could not now, it never would. Even without the Earth's blessings, she was strong.
Consider her, looking as much like a living flag of black canvas as she was a mare, plodding on three legs as one clutches the patched hat to her head. Consider her stride and her strength, the hard emerald of her eyes shaded by her father's memento. Consider the weight on her left hind leg, dragging just slightly against the parched, drained earth, leaving a quickly-covered trail behind.
But soon she is beyond the waste and back into the hills as they slope upward. She sighs and sits well away from that damnable place and has a single drink of water. It's all she can afford, but it quiets the dryness in her throat and the dryness in her bones. A mare can get addicted to the feeling of creaking, wandering with little water and the sun high over head. A mare could get to enjoy the mindless stumbling into death, thanatopic and vague like the heights of devil-grass high or the pits of whiskey nights. It was the kind of joy a foal discovered pulling at a scab, a destructive, miserable sort of joy, a delight in the varied simulcra of vileness.
She tries not to enjoy it.
There were still days left. But not many, thankfully. Tomorrow she would have to be quick of hoof, and she prayed the world had not changed much from her brother's careful mapping since last he passed that way, because she could ill afford to be caught dallying through some damn-fool thing like a patch of salt flat or a null zone in the presence of the Tower of Cogs.
Scowling, she gets up and continues on.