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// Day 8: As bandits fly 
// Story: A mare and her dog 
// by cammera 
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The part of it you asked me about it's a harsh, but survivable, trek. You are lucky that we aren't at winter as you'd either need to have four, maybe five layers of thick clothing before even thinking about it, or to wait until spring.

The Prasante-Bloka region isn't normaly traveled, as a species of moles almost unique to it makes it extremely dangerous: each month they make tunnels straight to the surface, through rock if they have to, and spend several hours watching the full moon. This, as you can imagine, has left it ridden with holes, enough that some people in the border calls it the, and forgive my tongue, "Son of a Bitch Forest". You can't grow distracted there if you don't want to break a leg in the holes, as happened to the original fauna-- in fact, you won't find anything but fliers there. Every ten years or so some government tries to make some kind of bridge or walkway across it, but the moles always break the supports or leave it ridden with holes.




-º-




With the sun at its highest and about to start descending, Applejack unfolded her map of Tharata. Three days from the border, now, if nothing slowed her down.

She packed it again and kept walking, keeping an eye in the sideway for a good camping area. Hours later, when the light was growing dim and her hooves' complains were turning noticeable, she saw a good clearing near the road. As soon as she entered the tall grass and before she had time to whistle for Winona, there was a rustling in the grass and a sharp object against her throat.

"Take out your bag" said someone behind her.

"Am just a honest worker. Take that thing out of my throat" she said between clenched teeth, just a bit louder than she needed to.

The knife pressed harder. She didn't do anything.

After nearly a minute of stillness, there was a growling behind them, and the knife moved just enough for her to move. She did, opening a cut in her neck, then crouched in her forelegs and jumped in the hind ones. Before the dog had time to react, she had landed a buck in his chest and sent him flying over Winona.

She turned to him and noticed that the knife had fallen near her, so she put it in her saddlebags. The dog watched her for a moment and scampered away, breathing with difficulty and grabbing his chest.

She grumbled angrily and kept walking, searching for some other place to rest. A few minutes later, she remembered to give Winona a pat in the head.

It took her nearly two hours to find a good place, but when she did, she didn't bother lighting up a fire. She just armed the tent and fell on it.