I was alone.

Even more than when I was the last pony left in Blackwash, I was truly and utterly alone. With nopony for company but me, myself, and I, I slowly inched my way down the side of the mountain, searching for hoofholds when the mountain steepened, or simply shuffling along narrow dirt paths where it flattened. Prickly pink grass stabbed at the bottoms of my hooves, and I used a timer on a survival watch to make sure I took a sip of water every five minutes and nibbled on some hard tack every half hour. I didn’t want to get dehydrated or hungry while I hiked, but at the same time I wanted to carefully ration my food.

The tree was already long behind me, and if I craned my head up (which I did often), I couldn’t see it. I must’ve made a quarter rotation around the mountain as I sought for a way down, because I could see the tip of Dish One poking out over the southern slope. It was the only bit of Blackwash I could still see; even my funeral pyre had burnt itself dry, leaving only thin trails of smoke to spew into the afternoon sky.

Every hour, I paused to rest my legs for fifteen minutes so I could keep up my methodical descent down the mountain. I’d spend that time to consult my map, get another corner of hardtack in me, and try to map out the next leg of the descent. It looked like my easiest way into the valley would be to shoot between the two smaller mountains in front of me, where their bases joined to make a narrow pass that I could get to from the foot of my mountain. Unfortunately, at the rate I was moving, it’d take me another day just to get there. Black Mountain was tall; Nova told me it was the tallest mountain in the entire range, and from the days I used to spend staring over the range and the valley far below me, I knew she was right. That, and you tend to trust a pegasus’ judgment when they say how tall or how high up something is or isn’t.

At the very least, I had a great view the entire time. From my lofty perch, I could see the jagged teeth of Auris’ north jutting out around me, making tiny and treacherous valleys and passes where those mountains met. Pink grass and orange, leafy trees covered those mountains in a living, swaying coat of bright color, and the occasional shrieks of shrikes as they hunted for prey played a perfect melody to the wind pushing fog through the valley. I eventually had to start setting alarms on my survival watch to get me moving when my fifteen minutes of rest were up; the sheer beauty and peace of what I was seeing kept tempting me to simply sit and watch for hours on end, a complete opposite to the horror and death I’d witnessed the night before.

One of these little stops in particular stands out to me even now. I was on my… fourth? Fifth hour of descent? Something like that. I’d stopped on a clearing where the side of the mountain just jutted out straight over open air, topped with a flat rock that I could sprawl across. The stone was warm after baking in our energetic blue sun all day, and to my tired and weary body, it was the best thing ever. After eating a bit of hardtack (which tastes like a combination of cardboard and chalk, by the way. Two out of ten, would not recommend unless starving), I washed it down with the rest of the water I had in my first can. I smacked my lips a few times, trying to get as much moisture off of them as I could, before crushing the can in my magic and chucking it off the side of my little loft. I watched the can twirl in the air, spinning this way and that before bouncing off the side of the mountain a few hundred yards below me, where it tumbled farther down until it disappeared into the undergrowth.

Anyway, I was exhausted, and understandably so. I mean, passing out isn’t really the same as sleeping, even if we use them interchangeably, and I really wanted to take a nap. The warmth coming off of the stone and penetrating deep into my coat wasn’t helping either. Yawning, I shrugged off my supplies and set my watch to wake me in a half hour, then closed my eyes.

Rustling.

I don’t think I had my eyes closed for two minutes before I heard the noise of… something. I couldn’t quite place it, but it sounded like thick pieces of paper shuffling together, or even feathers in the wind. Groaning, I forced myself onto my elbows and rubbed my eyes, opening them to see that my little platform was shrouded in shadow. Did the rain get here already? I looked over my shoulder to check the sky…

…and found myself muzzle to beak with a shrike.

So I’ve mentioned these a few times now, and you’re probably wondering just what exactly a shrike is. Well, I had probably the closest look a pony could possibly have with a living, breathing shrike and survive, so I guess I’m qualified to tell you. A shrike is this enormous four-legged creature with a short, blunt tail full of feathers, three serrated claws on the end of each foot, two pairs of wings spanning almost ten feet each, and a white, feathery head which holds its four eyes and three piece beak. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the beak holds teeth that are four inches long and are as sharp as steel. No, literally. Their teeth actually incorporate iron into their structure.

Oh, did I mention that they’re predators, and the reason that we don’t let our foals wander far from the center of town?

As long as that aside might have been, I barely blinked before the thing shrieked at me and lunged forward, three piece beak snapping wildly and claws slicing through the air. I screamed and hurled myself forward, just away from a very sharp and painful death, and heard the violent snapping of its beak right behind me. Adrenalin roared into my veins, and my magic grabbed my submachine gun and toggled off the safety. Just as I brought it to bear on the shrike, however, it lunged again, and this time its beak found my mane—my very long, very full, very easy-to-grab-hold-of-and-shake-Ember-like-a-chew-toy mane. If you can’t guess what it did next, go back over that last bit for a second. I’ll wait.

Anyhow, I found myself very quickly becoming sick to my stomach as the world blurred around me. I flailed and wrapped my forelegs around my head, if only to stop feeling like the monster was going to snap my neck off of my torso. I began to fire my submachine gun wildly, not sure where it was pointing, just hoping to hit the alien raptor and make it let go. Really, I had a better chance of hitting myself than I did the bird, but I was too busy screaming to care about that. Somehow, I didn’t fill myself with holes, and somehow, I managed to convince the shrike to let go of me. I figured that last part out as my world suddenly turned weightless, and it no longer felt like somepony was trying to rip my mane from my skull. Of course, I failed to notice the immediate implications of ‘the fucking bird just fucking threw me’ until I opened my eyes and saw where I was flying.

I guess shrikes prefer tenderized meat. At least I’d be able to see where I threw that can.

Legs flailing, I shrieked and reached for the edge of the cliff, just barely managing to dig my hooves into the gravel and wrap them around an outcropping of rock. My kicking hind legs found nothing but open air beneath me, and gulping, I looked over my shoulder at the long, long fall down the side of the mountain. Gritting my teeth, I gasped and grunted and began to haul myself up the edge, trying to get on solid ground before my tired limbs gave out on me.

Then the shrike stepped on my foreleg, digging its serrated claws into the flesh. Gasping and panting, I could only look up at it as it stared down at me with some sort of primal, violent intelligence. A clicking growl began to build in its throat, and I could smell its hot, acrid breath on my face. It knew it had its prey cornered, and it could easily fling me off the side of the cliff with a simple toss of its talons.

I closed my eyes, jammed the SM45 right into its eye, and didn’t stop shooting until the thing clicked.

Shrikes might have skulls as hard as a rock, but their eyes and brains are just as fleshy and soft as ours. If anything, its hard skull only helped the submachine gun’s small rounds bounce around inside its head and turn its brain into mush. With a dying gurgle of blood and an unfinished squawk, the monstrous bird slumped over, dead.

Right on top of me.

While I was clinging to a cliff.

The monster fell forward, and the bulk of its weight hit me right in the face, despite my feeble telekinetic attempts to stop it. As you’d expect, I immediately lost my grip on the cliff, and began to fall in a loud, screaming, crying mess of limbs and feathers. The wind tore past my ears, and I could see my mane (minus a big hole torn out of it) whipping straight past my face. The rocky slope rushed up to meet me, jagged stones waiting to dash me to pieces.

In a last ditch effort to avoid becoming a shrike-Ember-mountain sandwich, I kicked my right legs out and clung onto the carcass of the bird for dear life. I barely had time to brace myself before the back of the shrike hit the mountain and the impact bucked me off. I must’ve gotten twenty feet on the bounce, because the next thing I knew, I was flailing my limbs and trying to shield my face as the twisted, crooked branches of a tree suddenly dominated my vision.

I must not have done a good job; there was a crippling pain in my forehead, right beneath my horn, and the entire world exploded into oblivion.

The rain on my face woke me up.

I gasped like a mare come back from the dead. Horribly confused and disoriented, I whipped my aching head back and forth to try to figure out where I was. All I saw was pink and orange, however, at least until I tried to sit up; with a rustle of leaves, my head popped out from beneath the undergrowth, bewildered and afraid. I imagine it would’ve been a pretty entertaining thing to see, if there had been anypony else around to see me.

Groaning, I rubbed my hoof to the base of my aching horn, and was surprised to see (and feel) dried blood flaking off of my forehead. Craning my head back, I looked up at the branches of a tree rising above me. If I squinted, I could see a reasonable impression of my face on one of the branches. Or maybe I was just imagining it. I think I was fulfilling my entire life’s quota of concussions in the past twenty-eight hours alone. The bright spots of light drifting across my eyes were pretty.

A big, fat raindrop landed right on my nose, making me flinch. The skies overhead were angry and gray, beginning to shower, and I knew it’d only be a few minutes before they really opened up. I’d be soaked to the bone in no time, and I knew from experience that the nights are cold on the mountains. Without a fire, I’d freeze to death—especially now that I’d lost all of my supplies.

Well, maybe not all of them. I still had my survival watch, for what good that would do, and one of my saddlebags lying a short ways away; it also must’ve fallen off of the mountain when the shrike knocked me off. I magicked it over to me, ignoring the pain in my horn, and found my map, a single mag of ammo, and one can of water. My hardtack, my bedroll, and my other survival supplies were nowhere to be found. In all likelihood, they were still sitting on the ledge where I was attacked, or they were scattered all across the mountainside. And with a storm rapidly approaching, I didn’t want to spend time to go hunting for my supplies, or trying to climb back up to where I’d fallen from.

Another huge raindrop hit me in the face. I needed to find shelter, fast.

Standing up was almost torturous; everything hurt everywhere. Quickly fastening the saddlebag across my back, I squinted into the shadows of the trees looming around me, looking for a hollow I could hide in and wait out the storm. In the meanwhile, I began to trot onwards, using the big, flat leaves of the trees to protect me from the beginning of the rain. Along the way, I found my SM45 wedged in the branches of a shrub. I considered that a good omen, and after prying it out and slinging it over my shoulder, I decided to keep trotting in the direction I was going, leaving the shrike corpse far behind me. Not that leaving the thing that’d caused me to lose most of my supplies and throw me hundreds of feet down the mountain to rot felt good or anything.

Unfortunately, the rain wasn’t patient. I hadn’t even trotted for a minute before the skies literally tore themselves apart with a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, and the trees themselves began to shake as the rain came pouring down. I threw some telekinesis up over my head to try to keep the rain off of me, but I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and it was hard to focus on the spell and navigate the forest at the same time. Occasional lapses in my concentration rewarded me with a shower of cold water that made me squeak like a little filly before reinforcing the spell. Even still, it didn’t protect my legs from the mud and muck splashing up from pools around my hooves, and my long, bushy tail was basically dragging through the mud behind me.

By the time I finally found shelter in the form of a large hollow in the base of a great tree, I’m sure I looked absolutely pathetic. My wet mane was plastered to my face and neck, and my tail was just a thin cord of orange and yellow hairs hanging limply from my rump and half coated in mud. My charcoal coat was sodden, and I was dripping water and shivering furiously. I didn’t waste any time diving into the hollow of the tree and chasing out the few rock-like stone hares that had been taking shelter there. The little things bounded away on their stubby legs before curling into armored balls and simply hurling themselves down the slope of the mountain. I giggled, embracing the delirium and watching them go. What silly little creatures!

Like I said, delirium. Lots of it.

The hollow of the tree was big enough for three ponies to lay side by side, and since it was only me, I had a lot of room to myself. Which was good, because I immediately flopped onto my side and sprawled out, using every inch of available space. Of course, that didn’t last too long; need I remind you that I was soaked to the bone, and the temperature was dropping pretty fast?

I soon found myself cuddled into a little ball to try to keep what body heat I could. Draping my saddlebags over me didn’t really help all that much, because they were damp too. I needed a fire, but I didn’t have any kindling to work with. The fire sticks were all back in the bag on the mountaintop.

Unless…

I flipped my saddlebags over and dumped everything onto the ground, praying that maybe I’d just missed them earlier. Sure enough, jammed into the folds of the bag was a little gray paper stick with a bright red end. It was a little damp, but fire sticks could work underwater. All they needed was a little persuasion. And by persuasion, I mean force.

I gathered all the dead leaves and flammable scrap I could find that littered the inside of the tree and piled it in the center of the hollow. Then, burying the fire stick in the fuel until only the red end was showing, I prepared the fire. All it took was the stomp of a hoof on the red end, and suddenly the whole thing was blazing to life.

I whooped. I hollered. I cheered. Glorious, glorious fire crackled in the middle of the hollow, and I knew the fire stick had enough fuel to last for four hours before it’d burn itself dry. But really, that was all I needed. I could already feel the roasting warmth of the fire pricking my coat and evaporating the rain I collected. So, laying my saddlebags open in front of the fire and arranging all of my supplies around it to dry them off, I found a cozy little pile of dirt at the far corner of the hollow, as far away from the entrance as possible, and laid flat in front of the fire. After taking a few minutes to spread my limp mane and soggy tail so the fire could dry them off, I let out an enormous yawn and rested my cheek on my crossed forelegs.

Let me tell you, I’ve never slept as soundly as I did that night by the cozy warmth of the fire.

In all honesty, morning came too soon.

I didn’t think it was possible to sleep for sixteen hours until I checked my watch the following day. Sure enough, the numbers 0734 were on display, and I remembered falling asleep sometime in the mid-afternoon when the storm hit. I guess I really needed the sleep. I sure as Tartarus felt so much better.

I was also really fucking hungry. The last thing I’d eaten was a square of hardtack a day ago, and I hadn’t eaten much of anything before that. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any food, courtesy of the shrike. As far as I could see it, I only had three options: climb back up the mountain to get my supplies, which was stupid and would take most of the day; try to scavenge what I could from the forest, which had about as much a chance of getting me killed as anything, because I didn’t know what was poisonous or not; or simply press on and try to make it to Northlight before I collapsed. Really, of the three, the last seemed like my best bet.

I sat up against the inner trunk of the tree and looked around me. My little fire had (predictably) burnt itself into a fine ash while I was sleeping, but it’d done its job. My gear was dry, my body was dry, and I was no longer sad. Really, the last one was the most important. Wet gear and wet coat makes a sad Ember, and a sad Ember doesn’t move very far.

Now content, or at least as contented as I could be considering I really wanted something to eat, I began to pack my gear up and plan how I was going to make it to the foot of the mountains. I still had to make it through the pass between those two mountains to the south, and if the bandit’s map was any good, Northlight should be right on the other side. Maybe I could find something to eat there, assuming that the ponies living there were nice. I really hoped they were nice. My entire plan was hinging on the kindness of strangers.

Mornings on Auris would probably be strange to you, since you don't know what it’s like to live under a blue sun, because everything glowed blue, especially after rainfall the previous night. Our blue sun was low enough in the east that I could look almost directly at it without searing my eyes, taking in the tiny blue disc that brought life to my entire planet. The orange trees and pink grass seemed almost brown or luminescent in the blue glow, and my black coat had taken on a faint blue sheen as I stepped into the light. The air was still, calm, in that alien glow. As I trotted beneath the canopy, I felt like I was the only living, breathing thing for miles.

I kept the sun on my left to orient myself to the south as I walked. From what I remembered when I was scaling the mountain above the tree line, this patch of woods would only take me two or three hours to get through before I found myself on open slopes again. That was good; I needed a bit of mostly level walking to make up for all the climbing I did yesterday. Then I’d be back to steep slopes where the trees couldn’t grow, and I’d once again spend the next few hours picking my way down the slopes, except this time on an empty stomach. I popped open my last can of purified water and took a few small sips from it. Hopefully I could trick my hungry stomach with some water, at least until I found something edible. The grass all around me certainly wasn’t; I didn’t feel like puking my brains out, not when I still had a hike to finish.

At the very least, I had plenty to look at and listen to as I made my way through the woods. As the sun rose, so too did the Auris songbirds, and I soon had their little melodies to brighten up my walk and make me forget about the aches in my gut for a while. I caught sight of a few of them flitting from tree to tree, zooming around on their four wings and little tails. For as much as we all loved to tease Nova about pegasi being part bird, it was always clear that they certainly didn’t owe it to Auris’ birds. Unlike pretty much all avian life on this planet, they didn’t have two pairs of wings.

I was a little thankful for that. I was already jealous enough of Nova’s wings as it was (what ground-bound pony doesn’t envy their pegasus friends?). I didn’t need to see her flaunting four of them.

I didn’t even realize I’d stepped out of the woods until the sunlight hit me in the face. I squinted and shielded my face with a hoof, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the bright light. When they finally did, I could see the next leg of my journey spread out below me, a fifty degree incline filled with rocks and other outcroppings for thousands of feet, at least until it hit the mountain pass. On my empty stomach, it looked like it was a continent away. Still, I knew beyond that pass was salvation, and more importantly, food—or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

I checked my watch and made note of the time. It was only 1109, which surprised me a little. It must’ve been a little longer of a walk than I thought it would be. My stomach unhelpfully added its own two bits, reminding me that it hadn’t been fed in something like twenty-six hours. At least I was used to surviving on starvation mode when need be. Seriously, winters on top of a fucking mountain are brutal.

Doesn’t mean I was in any less agony right now, though.

I’ll spare you the details, since otherwise, we’ll be here all day. However, it did take me all day to get to the mountain pass. Almost another nine hours of walking, stumbling, falling, and moaning carried me the rest of the way across the slope of the mountain, until finally, I could see the pass through the mountains open up before me. I’d used up the last of my water a few hours ago, and with no food and no water, I was dehydrated and exhausted. I made it as far as the middle of the pass before my legs gave out on me, and I collapsed onto my face, eating a whole lot of dirt and gravel in the process. Trust me, it didn’t help my starvation problem in the slightest.

I was lightheaded, and it felt like my mind was spinning. How far had I gone, only to fall short at the very end? I rolled onto my back and took a look behind me. Far, far above me stood the towering peak of the mountain I once called home. From down below, it looked massive. The rain had put out the last of the fires, or so I assumed; I didn’t see any more smoke rising from the peak. If I squinted my eyes, I could just barely make out the smooth white face of Dish One, overlooking the mountain pass where I laid, and the valley beyond.

You know, not bad for a mare with nothing to lose. If only I could’ve gotten farther…

I laid in the middle of the pass, empty stomach chewing a hole through my abdomen, for some time, staring with eyes half lidded at the small white circle of the dish. My throat felt raw, and the dirt I’d accidentally swallowed wasn’t doing a whole lot to help with the sandpapery feeling. I imagine if I had any water left to sweat, I’d be sweating right now; everything felt so hot and sluggish. Maybe heat stroke would claim me before dehydration did. It probably wasn’t too bad of a way to go, all things considered.

Then I heard hoofsteps.

My bleary eyes realigned, and I forced myself to stand up. Hooves crunching across gravel and the dull ringing of what sounded like cowbells began to make their way up the pass. I stood there, waiting, dumbfounded and more than a little worried. To my tired mind, and based off past experiences, I wondered if I’d accidentally crossed paths with some of the Crimson, and so I raised my SM45 and waited. If I was going to go down, I was going to go down fighting. They weren’t going to take me back to their camp and sell me as a sex slave like they’d branded me for. I’d rather die here fighting them.

Of course, my addled mind completely missed the very real possibility that it was just a herder moving their cattle… things… to different pastures.

He was an older stallion, with a scruffy beard beneath eyes that’d seen far too much in their time. Wrinkles were beginning to form along his forehead and around his muzzle, and he walked with a hunch and a limp to his step. A straw hat provided some protection from the sun for his faded yellow head, and what little was left of his gray mane hung in loose, unkempt strands along the side of his neck. He kept his muzzle trained toward the ground, at least until he reached the middle of the pass—where I was standing, pointing a gun at him in my flickering, fading magic.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to run, or try to fight, or do anything, really. He simply stood there, watching me with a curious glint in his eyes. The piece of straw he chewed on flicked back and forth in his muzzle as he waited to see what I would do.

The submachine gun wobbled in my grasp as my telekinesis began to fail. A pony? Another survivor of this horrid world like me? I opened my mouth to say something, but the dryness of my throat stole my voice. It took several tries and numerous dry swallows to lubricate my tongue enough to even remotely work. “Ha… Help…” I wheezed, taking a step closer. “Water…”

I heard the clattering of my gun against the gravel before I even realized I’d dropped it. The ground moved closer, closer to my face, and I didn’t know I was falling until my chin hit the ground, hard. All I had left in me was a pathetic little whimper before my eyes rolled back and everything went dark.