He had gotten as far as the border of Firthengart and Equestria on the first warp alone, long before news of the fiasco at the festival could reach anywhere farther than Ironcrest. From there, it was short jump after short jump, getting from one bolthole to another. He had gone through three, only to find them ransacked, their stashes robbed. He had too much old magic for far too long to dream anymore. One day bled into the other. He honestly did not know if he had slept at any point since the festival. He had grown progressively more paranoid, restless, and weaker, expending more and more power to get to his final ray of hope, his home away from home in Manehatten.