The Dead Lands

The verdant green was behind him, the frigid north ahead. The air was dry. His skin cracked and his boot-leather flaked with every step. His loose clothes frayed; ready to disintegrate from the desiccation. There was no sand, only scorched dirt; no scent, no wind, everything the same dull brown-grey. Nothing grew. Even conducted rift energies did not work properly here. His last waterskin was left behind this morning. His pack was left days before. Only his small ration pouches, his guns, his wits, and the rift remained. This had certainly been a mistake. He had to find water soon.