Ishqa faced the biting northern wind.
He wrapped his shawl tightly around his arms, his chest, his neck. The wind tore futilely at the coarse wool with a crude savageness. It always tried to pry it from him, to break him, and it would always fail. Ishqa could feel his own blood warming his body, gently overtaking the bitter cold.
He turned his back to the quickly fading twilight and set off into the night, into the waste.