There could be many stories written about the forest. Surely there was many Dawn had heard. And an infinite number of others without a doubt. The story of the unexpected hero whose quest begins in such a place. The story of siblings lost in the fowl maze. Of greater mystery and wonder. Six friends who delve into the depths of the tangled fangs of the deep dark woods in order to destroy a foreboding fate before it's too late, only to discover their virtues each at the end, and be gifted with great power.

It was all a trope. A cliché that Dawn felt that even with the few years of adventurism she had experienced. Her home told hundreds of stories about the forboding stories of the one called the Everfree. One of which was about six very real ponies, all of whom now had offspring she might awkwardly call brothers or sisters if they weren't always so freakish or lesser. There were some that try, but that wasn't enough.

Mirror portals, ponds of teleportation, mad wizard's last ditch, and free standing doors. How many had she walked through now or fell into? How many now did she wish would take her home by now? She heard of all worlds turning around a central axis, a Tower... But at what point in that axle do you get to go home? She was beginning to wonder if it even mattered anymore. Chances are she could slip out as quickly as she could manage to flee from some. But that was always luck. And hopefully she wouldn't be unlucky.

The cliff-side path had long given way to a smooth rocky slope broken by tall and magnificent pines. Their trucks towered above her taller than any palatial column she had seen at home in Canterlot. They were ancient and wise. Reaching up to the bright life-giving sun and opening like an umbrella, spreading their long hairy needles outwards. They competed over the coarse of decades – no, centuries – for light.

She remembered someone had once compared her mother and her aunt to trees both. They were more eternal than any oak and both held sway and mastery of the saplings and bushes that grew below their influences. In their boughs they held sway of the sun and moon both and could in an instant – if they so desired – bless or curse the living things below through suffering the extremes of both their sigils. There were plenty very real stories of her aunt having tried that twice, and for that was cut down.

But now she was reseeded and promised and tried to be like her sister. And to the eyes of Dawn she sired the daughter that she considered more closely a sister than the rest.

But that was neither here or now. Though the thought was seeded with great nostalgia and pangs. It only served to remind her how she wanted to be home. But in due time, all things must transpire.

What was now was a deadset ambition to get out as quickly as she came in. And she can't clearly remember how she got in. One moment she was walking, and it was dusty. She could feel the grit of the dust on her hooves as he bit into her boots. Then the next she was in the mountains. From whence she stumbled down to find below this massive valley, cut across the landscape like green scar. It stood to reason to leave she simply needed to cross to the other-side and scale the mountains that peaked over the distance like a ghost. But that could be leagues and days. Weeks perhaps, depending on how thick these woods got, or how dangerous. There wasn't telling how many foul creatures lurked under the boughs.

Her more immediate hope pending no way to climb the mountains would be some ancient tool left behind. There was always something to summon someone or some-pony between the either to new worlds, if they knew where to find it. The matter was such things were unknown, unstudied, and unpredictable. 

Canterlot had such a thing, though it was regular. She had stepped through that first, hoping for the predicted result. But it hadn't changed her. Somehow the mirror didn't work as they thought. Or not on her. So she fled, finding a door. And so the chain went. How infinite the links ran and in how large a yard of mail it wove was beyond comprehension.

She just needed good chance.

There was without a doubt little life in the forest. Or little life that may be called civilized. The path that she walked was not cut by tools. But by the hooves or the claws of animals. Deer perhaps, or those same goats whose path she borrowed a fair ways back. Animals were like any other sentience, they needed order and ease of use. If she kept on this goat path long enough it might lead her to water, or food. She may find a goat for her own to make extra water-skins from, or new wrappings to patch the wear on her rucksack or outfit.

Yet despite the desolation she couldn't help but feel alone. There were stranger things than her in these trees. But they were distant, perhaps. But they were there, somewhere. And most of them – or all of them – would be bullshit to the greatest caliber.

Best not to be involved. Eyes ahead. Blinders on. Take a deep breath, it will all be over soon.