The wind blows Tibetan from the Roof of the World. Although, the breeze is possessed of a queer warmth, like the whispers of the jinn across the wastelands and within the shadows of ruins, or the breath of a dragon as it speaks in its tongue of riddles. Oddly comforting, but also strangely chilling.
The texture of the snow becomes soft, like that of mashed potatoes. Slush and the preludes of mud. Whorls of bare ground appear for the first time in months. The winds are commonly called chinook, but I prefer their fabled, if not erroneous, moniker; the snow-eater.