Zephyr tumbled down the dune, kicking up sand all around. He barely managed to dig his hands into the slope to stop himself from sliding all the way down when the sandstorm fully descended and overtook him with a deafening roar.
Immediately, Zephyr felt like he had been thrown into a grinder. Sand, like small, sharp blades, pelted him from every angle, biting his skin, entering every single opening on his clothes. At the back of his neck, inside his shirt, inside his pants, scruffing against his skin roughly.
But more importantly, his natural openings — the seven orifices on his head — threatened to be stuffed fully with sand.
He coughed, nearly choking as sand entered his nose and mouth.
If not for the fact that he had shut his eyes tightly immediately the sand storm overtook him, his eyes would not have been spared from the torture.
And yet still even at that, his tightly shut eye was still caked over on the lashes with sand.
