You darkle, you tinct. O ye be damned.

Roland looked down from the Vista. Craggy rock sheared the harsh sunlight and cast shadows so sharp they could almost bleed you if you stepped on them. Once it had been soft shadows and shapes, where white snow put a fluff cap on each sharp rock and capped the odd conifer here and there, perched precariously on some forsaken outcrop. The river at the bottom would have been frozen. Now there was no river at all. Dust devils swirled on the empty dusty banks. Once there had been spectacular sunsets, so devastatingly breathtaking you had to stop to watch. Now it was just harsh sun plying the same route day after day without fanfare. Things changed. Time moved on. The world passed on.

and he was stuck here.

As the man in black would surely say,

You darkle, you tinct, O ye be damned.