In this barren heartland locked in eternal winter, a few geothermal areas are like the land's last breaths before dying, stubbornly steaming in the chill of minus forty degrees.
Scalding spring water struggles out from the depths of the permafrost, tearing open wispy wounds on the vast icefield, transforming into the only remaining vitality in this land of death.
The cluster of black tents of the tribe resembles a group of frozen rooks, huddled tightly around the hot spring.
The felt of the tents has long been hardened by sulphur, yet still tightly wraps the shivering lives inside.
This is the only mercy in the extreme cold desert—the hot steam from the spring circulating among the tents, providing the next breath of warmth to lungs about to freeze.
Ragged tribals, wrapped in long-solidified felt, hunch over by the spring working.
