The flatlands surrounding the outskirts of the mountains and their hillands had come to form true plains, where grass and flowers rolled on far past the horizon. It all looked well the same as the flats, though trees also started to spring up here, and while they were usually only in small patches of five or six, commonly less than ten feet high (barely taller than even some shrubs) it was still a pinnacle point in comparison. It likely would have to do with the soil here, which felt much more moist and less rocky than up in the hills. Afterall, the roads were really only dirt here, so one travelling along them would know this detail well; especially a pony or griffon who one would find rarely wearing shoes. He could tell simply from feeling the soles of his boots sink into the soft ground.

The trek thus far had been much easier on him than in the hills, and here in the plains his travel was barely mentionable compared to his hike through the mountains. Still, he looked on and found himself begruntled at the sight before him, miles and miles of pure nothingness. He knew that these roads were supposed to be at least somewhat busy, from what he had overheard during his time in Tall Tale, but he was starting to think that, perhaps, he had been proven a fool. This train of negative thought had been seeping it’s way into his mind for many days now, since he had crossed the mountains and overlooked the endless, barren green lands below.

However, his encounter with High Sky had him in newly formed spirits, ones with thoughts of towns and villages just waiting for him off in the distance, barely out of view. Thoughts of a hot meal and a warm bed, and, hopefully, a populace with plenty of will to trade with him, rather than run him out of town with a mob of forks and torches. He shuddered at the memory, but straightened out and continued forth.

Time seemed to slow here. Few things moved and buzzed about, barely a cricket or ladybug to give him some form of relevance to the world. Even the wind had stopped blowing here, and so the clouds sat in the sky, unmoved, and barely changing high above. The sounds of his pack and tools were the only things that sounded off to him, his gear and product clanking and thumping as they did naturally, the stick in his hand thudding and dirtying itself in the soft ground below.

Soon, however, something did come into view, something that he was not expecting: a fork in the road. It split off in three directions, one heading due south as he had been, and the other two heading south-west and south-east respectively. It was here that he let himself sag a bit more than he could usually afford and sighed through his nose as he scanned down the three options he had laid before him.

He remembered suddenly, after a moment of thought, that he did in fact have a map. So, moving to the side of the road, he laid down his pack and unzipped the main zipper and rummaged about. Out he pulled a thick stack of paper, or though it looked to be a stack, it was in reality a simple large, white, folded map, which he unfurled and laid over his backpack. It was large with good reason, as it showed the many details of all the known world; rivers, cities, borders, mountain ranges, major forests, and the like. He was disappointed however, as the road of which he traveled seemed missing here.

The man grunted and folded it up and placed it back into his bag, only to spend a few more seconds rummaging around, and pulled out a much smaller, more localized map. Here, it showed the road leading straight south for many, many miles towards Los Pegasus. He shook his head, deserts he did not agree with, nor heights. He placed the map pack into the bag, and cursed silently. It would seem he was on his own here, and after some time looking over the roads again, studying them, hoping to see which ones were travelled on the most, he came to the conclusion that no outside force would likely sway him. He did the only thing he felt was right.

“Inny, minny, miney, you.” He said, pointing from road to road, his finger stopping itself on the road headed south-west. ‘Nice.’ He thought to himself, if there was one thing he knew, it’s that there was not much out west, most of it being unexplored, and he didn’t have the supplies for an expedition. He also really didn’t want to see deserts. He realized, then, that the decision should have easily been made from those points alone, but he shrugged to himself, took his stick up again, and went down the road once more, turning ever so slightly left.

He was starting to wonder if he had made a mistake. Towards the dusk of the second day in the plains he sat camped in a small clearing, and since that point two days ago when he turned left at the fork, he had been greeted with a whole lot of nothing. The mountains had started to creep alongside him once again, only a few miles of grassland between him and their steep inclines, and it was also starting to get very cold. He huddled near the fire, his can of spinach ravioli heating itself as best it could, and he had his blanket thrown around him. Perhaps he had turned onto a minor trail? Maybe a road only farmers used to take their product to market, and he was supposed to go straight to their sellers south in Los Pegasus or north in Tall Tale? He didn’t know, but what he did know was that it was too late to turn back now.

With a pair of metal smithing prongs he grabbed the can of heated tomato based goodness, and with spoon in hand he took a nice, plump, piece into his mouth, not wasting a moment for it to potentially chill. Yes, it burned for more than a second, but it was worth it to have something warm in his growling gut. He also took a sip of coffee from his copper tankard, barely warm now after being off the fire for some time, but it was still better than chilly water. He knew the caffeine would keep him up, however, but it was likely his sleep would be restless tonight anyways. At least now he could get more time to look at the stars before the crash hit him, he chuckled to himself. His sleep was in fact terrible, and he set off the next dawn with a strain in his eyes.

Now this was an interesting sight, one that let a smile creep onto his face. There before him was a small bank that sloped down, at the bottom of it’s valley a small stream of running water flowed, which sounded soothing to the ear. It was likely that it came down from the mountains, of which he remembered were the Smokys’, and flowed for who knows how long. It was not this that gave him renewed purpose, no, but rather the bridge that was built over the small stream, connecting the road over it’s edge. It was made of wood, strong and sturdy and of a rich oaky color, barely faded. The bridge couldn’t have been more than a few years old, and for someone to even bother building it in the first place meant there must be someone living close by. That was enough for him to have a small skip in his feet and start off over the bridge, but not before having a bit of the stream water, it looked too good for him not to, after all.

Time passed as it did on his quest for civilization, an hour or so he figured since he had drunk from the stream and crossed the little bridge over it’s shallow valley, and he was making good time. He also had now come to a stop on the road, the reason just before him: a couple hundred feet away sat a fence to his left, it’s wood dull and unpainted, and was obviously built to simply keep critters and possible intruders out, nothing else. Beyond that, where fields many miles wide of wheat. Their long thin stocks fluttering in a nonexistent breeze and as bright and true as polished gold. To the right of him were also fields of flowing barley, their stocks a much duller yellowish-white, and stretched on over the horizon.

In the gentle breeze he peered about, looking for any signs of life about. Where there were fields there were farmers, after all. But, he saw nothing but the few buzzing bugs floating around. Humming in thought, he felt no reason to stay here longer, and shrugged his pack, and continued down the long road. Later that day he came upon a sight that gave him mixed feelings, feelings of excitement, but also of anxiousness. From his place on the path he could make out the vague shape of a house and barn, both painted a dull sky blue. His eyes weren’t bad, but his focus on the buildings in the distance was still blurry and not very sharp on the edges.

Now, why he had planted his feet here in the dirt road instead of near running towards that house, he didn’t really know, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut, or perhaps his heart, that kept him from moving further. Had he become too accustomed to being alone? No, far from it. Did he lose his manners? Doubt it. Perhaps he didn’t remember proper country etiquette? Why was he asking himself these things? He nulled the questions from his mind, who was he kidding? He had always been a man of the country, of wide open ranges and pastures full of flowing growth. Nights under the stars, dippings in the lake, hot lunch at the picnic table…

He shook his head, the hazy thoughts slipping and falling away from his focus, and he breathed a low breath. This was no time to lock up, he had to be at his best! So he patted himself off of any dirt and dust he could, and with as straight a back he could achieve with his heavy burden, he made off down the road, watching the fence roll by as he did, the house coming ever closer into view.

The front gate was open at least, so that was a welcoming sign. He looked up at the little half square entrance hanging over the gate, where a small plaque of simple sheet metal with a symbol best described as a dog chasing a bird carved into it was nailed to the top board. He did a double take, making sure there were no signs warning him to beware said dog, or that he would get a licking should he enter the property, and stepped under the board into the ‘driveway’. There was a path, this one slightly paved with gravel which had large rocks pushed into it, that led into a cleared area where the house and barn was, surrounded by wheat fields, large and small.

Once he came up to the house, he noticed just how large it really was. The house was at least two stories, multiple windows with white wooden frames sat along the wall, the sky blue paint covering it all looked like it hadn’t had a recoating in years, but he was sure that when it was fresh it looked very nice, especially with the white frames. The windows were all blocked out by indoor curtains, and the front door was also white, a shaded patio just before it, with a couple rocking chairs sat atop it’s deck.

The man made up the deck, it’s two steps taking him one, and he closed in on the door. The two windows beside it were also blocked by tan colored linens, so he at least knew whoever lived here likely didn’t know of his presence, be it a good or bad thing. Raising his fist to the door, he knocked on it lightly a few times and waited. No response after a few moments. He knocked again, and still nothing. He looked back at the gate resting along the path with its stopper stuck into the ground, such a sight usually meant someone was home.

He waited a few more moments before walking off the deck and peaking around the house towards the barn, it’s color is the same as the house, and it’s multiple doors open. Perhaps there was someone in there. Was he really that nosey to go snooping around someone’s property? It would seem that way, as he was already walking towards it before he even realized his legs were moving, perhaps he felt that coming all this way for nothing was simply too much of an injustice to accept. However, try as it may, the barn was devoid of life minus a cat that watched him from atop a few mounds of hay. He did notice a barrel of tools, mostly scythes, along with a shovel and axe, their blades rusty and in need of a good looking after.

Accepting the likely defeat with a sigh, he made his way back to the front of the house and looked towards the road, clicking his tongue in thought.

“What are you doing on my property.”

For the second time in the last few days he nearly jumped as a gruff voice spoke near his side. He turned to its source to find a rather old looking stallion standing before him, a small wickerwork basket floating in a light blue aura besides the old unicorn. “Answer the question.” The stallion said.

The man cleared his throat, “Sorry to bother you sir, but—”

“We don’t want any solicitors, or door to door salesponies ‘round here. We’ve had too many bad runnins as it is.” The stallion cut off, “I cans’ tell by yer’ look. Yous’ got Bits on the brain.”

The man nodded, “I see, sir. Then could you perhaps tell me where the nearest village or town is?”

The stallion hummed as he picked up his basket once again, hugging it against his sky blue fur, his deep blue eyes looking the man up and down; so would explain the affinity for blue around here. “Those two words would be generous, a hamlet maybe.” He said to the man, walking near him, “There’s a little place we call Feltlocke down the road ‘bout twenty miles.”

The man nodded, “Thank you. I’ll be going now, then.”

However, as he started to march his way down the path towards the road, the voice of the stallion called out again, “Wait.” He said, and the man stopped and turned his head back, “You ain’ no minotaur.”

The man turned around fully, “No sir. I’m a human.”

“Never hurd’ of a hueman.”

“I’d doubt you would have, sir.”

The stallion squinted his eyes at the man, “You’ve got good manners fer’ a loaper.”

“I was raised to respect my elders.” Responded the man.

To that the stallion, after a moment, nodded, “You don’t seem a bad type. Comere an’ pitch it to me.” The stallion said waving the man over to the porch.

The man came forth, “Well, sir. I don’t have just one product, but a great variety, you see.” He explained, “I peddle goods all across Equestria, things you would need to find in Canterlot, or Baltimare, I might have right here.”

The stallion kept his neutral dull look, “So yer’ a traveling merchant. Not a salespony, comin’ round here blabbing on an’ on ‘bout miracle potions or tryin’ ta’ buy’ may land fer’ some low-down, no good…” The old stallion paused, likely not realizing he had begun a short rant.

“Correct.” The man responded after a moment of sympathetic thought about what the pony before him had said.

The stallion waved his hoof, “Ah got no need fer’ the goods of them posh stuckups in Canterlot, nor them pampered, loud mouthed city-folk.” He grunted, “What else ya’ got?”

“Well, sir…” The man paused for a moment, thinking, then his eyes looked over to the barn, and back at the old stallion, “...I bet you, being a farmer and all, get a lot of use out of your tools?”

The stallion gave a sharp nod, “Yep, wheat and barely don’t cut itself, why?”

“Well, sir.” The man set his pack down, “I might have something quite to your liking.” The stallion watched the human unzip his pack, and pulled out a set of grainy looking stones, “I could talk all I want about these bad boys, but I think it’d be better to just show you.” He peered over to the light blue barn he had been snooping around before, “Do you have a shovel, or something I could look at for a moment?”

The stallion after a short pause eyeing the stones, ignited his horn suddenly and brought a small, dirty, and slightly rusted trowel from seemingly nowhere, “This here is may wifes. Pretty old, she just gone inta’ Feltlocke an’ said she was gonna’ buy a new one anyway.”

Taking the little tool into his hands, the man eyed it for a moment, then ran the rectangular stone along its stained and brown rusted edge, and brought it back before the stallion, who’s eyes widened with surprise. In that moment, he was sure he had just seen his own reflection on clean, shiny iron...

The man zipped up his bag as he placed the last can of restoring resin on the porch alongside the great deal of other items he had placed there. He stood up, the stallion on the patio nodding in agreeance as he lifted the hefty Bit bag off a small patio table to the man, who took it with a smile on his face, “Thank you, sir.”

The stallion nodded sharply once more, “If only you had come sooner, could’ve saved my wife half a trip.”

The man placed the Bits into his own purse, “Your family would still need the groceries, sir. I only carry canned goods, and they are, sadly, for personal use.”

“Can’t win ‘em all, ‘suppose.” The old pony shrugged.

“You’re right there.” The man gripped his stick, “I best be going. It’s still a long way to Feltlocke on foot.”

“Remember to let Fuzzy know Ol’ Mr. Mer sent ya’. She’ll git you a good deal.” Said the stallion.

“I will sir, thank you.” The man tipped his hat, and turned on a heel and made down the path and back onto the road. His bag was still as heavy as ever, despite the great sale he had just made, his staff feeling oddly lighter now, maybe because he wasn’t holding onto it so tight. The wind had picked up again, it’s chilliness from the mountains nipping his hands and neck, and in the far distance he could see a real treeline, one surely of oaks and broadleaves by the looks, the smell of maple and wheat heavy in the air. He felt that, perhaps, he might actually miss the nothingness of the plains.

Author's Note

I'm looking to try and keep a schedule for posting chapters, mostly on Fridays or Saturdays, so keep a look out for updates!

As always, comment your thoughts, be they good, bad, or ugly! It's what keeps me going.