The wind of the wastes, carrying grit and the salty tang of a distant sea, blew ceaselessly day and night.
It had been several days since they left Gray Rock City. Roland's party of three traveled north along an ancient trade route, gradually leaving the densely populated areas behind.
Twisted, drought-resistant shrubs and pale, bizarrely shaped, weathered rocks became the most common sights on either side of the road. The skyline, in turn, gave way to a line of rolling, dark-hued hills.
As the last ray of daylight sank below the rolling western horizon, they stopped in a recess of a rock wall, sheltered from the wind.
The spot was slightly elevated, overlooking a stretch of dry riverbed. With a relatively open view and the rock wall providing a natural barrier, it was an ideal place to spend the night.
Holland skillfully cleared a patch of ground and used a Fire Stone to ignite the dry branches he had gathered, along with the roots of a certain oil-rich, slow-burning shrub.
