Their yaks lumbered northwest, climbing the gentler hills. They headed past the fog and mist, until all that was left were the snowy peaks of Mount Iska, a mountain range that fought the wind since its formation. Perfectly horizontal icicles swept across its face.
Sharpened rocks dotted the dunes. Their whittled faces bore the long, deep wounds inflicted by the howling wind. No life grew here, no spiny shrub or hard grass. Even the scorpions had scattered.
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