Using the butts of our spears, Grit and I jabbed the murk ahead of us to point out sinkholes for Docks. His nub tail twitched like an anxious paintbrush whenever we had to stop. Both of my friends were grimly quiet after I told them what the mare had said. The idea of dying out here in this Luna-forsaken rot-pile was somehow much worse than getting burnt to a crisp by a dragon bandit or smashed by a rhino ogre. I imagined sinking into the ground, Grimbush swallowing every piece of me to never be found for the rest of time. I wondered how many ponies died here, whose bones we might have been walking over.