The snow stretched endlessly in every direction, a blinding, desolate white landscape where neither animal tracks nor even the faintest hint of weeds broke the monotony. It covered the earth like a great frozen blanket, its stillness only interrupted by the biting winds that howled through the frozen plains. Nothing lived out here, at least nothing for long.
Among this barren expanse, thousands of tents sprawled haphazardly, dark patches against the white canvas of snow. Thin columns of smoke rose from a few lonely fires where dozens of figures huddled for warmth, their ragged furs pulled tightly around skeletal bodies. Some of the fires crackled with an eerie glow, for mixed in with the wood and kindling were the charred remains of those who hadn't survived what the shamans proclaimed as the Great Migration. Weak, sick, or simply too old to keep up—they had become fuel for the flames.
