60 mph winds scraped the land and ripped red dust into the sky. My teeth were covered, my eyes, shut to slivers, screamed from the grit. After ascending the rise, a blood sun sent his minions at me, but I was sheltered by the Totem.
I think that is how Paul Atreides felt during his exile to the desert.
The story is here: http://ift.tt/1n8yxbS
via 500px http://ift.tt/1qOYf80