A fire crackled softly in the corner. Its light silvery stream of smoke winding up towards the thick velvety ceiling of the ancient tent, wrapping itself in the dangling and hanging threads before finding a hole to escape through. The light was starting to wane as she could tell. She had spent the later part of the rest of the day picking through the campsite, looking for clues. She couldn't find anything she could otherwise decipher. Many crossed metal shapes, and old shoes.

Though to some reward she had found a chest in one of the other large tents. A large heavy wooden casket that she broke open with the pommel of her sword. The rusty lock had given way easily under the insistent hammering of the metal and it had broken open with a shattering of maroon rust. Throwing open the lid she had pulled out a number of dark dusty bottles of wine. Or at least she thought it was wine. Whatever the case it smelled the part. At sipping from the lip of the dusty, pungent bottles it certainly tasted the part.

Rich in body and strong in effect. It hadn't taken long for the blissful weightlessness of a buzz to come over her. In the heat of the crackling bonfire she laid the map out on her lap and studied it. But no matter the amount of alcohol she drank, the cursive scrawl on the map never got any clearer. She squinted and frowned, frustrated at it. But all the more relieved she had something to work out her situation with.

All the same there was some illustration to help the illiterate, which she no doubt was to these people; whoever they were. Small cave mouths and what could be ruins dotted the forested landscape in irregular clumps on the end of the valley she was at. Accompanied with small ponds and hair-thin fading blue creeks (though she thought they were that, maybe) filled in the rest of the landscape.

Further down was much less understood by whoever had drawn the map. But it could be understandable. Had this host marched north into that unknown to explore it and to fill out their own maps? She sighed deeply at the thought, taking a swig of old wine. Dawn lamented not knowing the year, even if this was in all relative. One year here was not another elsewhere, or the one home. Simply knowing its age would be good at least. It was strong.

In the depth of the unknown though was something clear to them. Surrounded by cauliflower like trees was what could be a town, or some other settlement. Was that their ultimate destination and reason? Or where they were settling? It was an unknown, and if the suggestion of the unit work on the side had anything, could be a couple days trot.

She frowned sourly at that drawing. It's placement felt like a natural draw. Like everyone was supposed to be there. But she didn't feel like walking into something she didn't understand. Though there was plenty of that around, so it really boiled down to distance.

Licking the inside of her teeth she could taste the lingering wine. She took another sip of the alcohol. She could feel the jittery numbness of a proper-stage buzz working in her fingers. Not so much they were dead, but simply free.

Bards of other worlds said wine and song was the key to freeing one's self of the tyranny of clothes. But she had neither. It was a shame, but again it wasn't. Who was around to care? Or to play?

Like wise in Equestria it was the same, but more often focused on cider; and less often without clothing already. Though Satyrs were the exception, they were since they first started to be born. And sometimes they were subject to entirely different chemistry themselves.

Pogo. Dawn couldn't say why she was thinking about her half-brother now. Could be the wine and the desire for there to be music. Or something. Shit, she was buzzed. Why did it matter?

Pogo. All he needed sometimes was a fistful of candy and a bad idea. Depending on how bad the pink-legged wild-kid would just as well assume the posture of a sergeant without the covers. The sword between his legs at full alert. He was excitable that way, and no matter how repulsed Dawn was at this state of freedom she did find herself missing it.

All the same, woe the mare to be given that leg.

She looked up at the holes chewed deep into the heavy roof of the tent. The light was growing steadily redder the longer she sat. She wondered, just how long would the night last? Would there be stars?

Looking at the forgotten suit of armor that stood in the far corner, forgotten long ago by an owner likely dead she thought: 'Did they dance?'