There is a tale which has grown over time. Told by the old-timers of the wastes that have weathered their share of sand storms. Sand storms on Odemark are nothing to be trifled with. High winds sweeping across thousands of miles of open ground picking up anything loose and flinging it along. The wise quickly find shelter, something to hide in, behind, or bury themselves in the sand, praying not to suffocate if the wind buries them too deeply or be shredded by debris when the wind unburies them. The wind will howl and shriek and moan with sand ground into a fine dust seeping into the tiniest cracks. Those that are already mentally weakened will find their sanity eroded like the rocks being ground down, blasted by the sand and wind. The clamor becomes calls, wails, and pieces of words. The dust blowing in becomes tendrils, fingers or tentacles reaching or grasping. The dry air full of sand grains rubbing together or banging against things builds up static to such a degree that short electrical discharges flash and light up the cloud. It can appear to be eyes, or a lamp carried by someone lost. Many are those that have left their shelter because of these things. Running out of fear that something has come for them, trying to evade a monster hunting for them or just snapping because they must get away from the storm at any cost. Some go out into the storm to look for others that are lost, calling and blinded by the cloud of dust. Still more curl into a fetal position and wail with the storm, begging it to pass them by. Companions have had to restrain those of them that are maddened by the storm. Deadly conflicts have erupted between them during these dangerous conditions. Some have reported this phenomenom as though it was akin to a possession. These tales become ghost stories, or on Odemark, the Sand Spirits.