The Dark Tower

The Salt Desert is merciless and vast, swallowing the unprepared and foolish like the ocean swallows water. It is home to a hardy people of desert nomads, and while they have a justifiable mistrust of outsiders, what the guard most of all is their legend about the Dark Tower.
No one knows where the first whispers of the tower came from, or even if they originated from the Salt Desert itself, but most tales now agree that the empty expanse was the originator. A lone building was often an ill omen in the Shadowglade. Perhaps it was based in fear of the unknown, a distrust of the lonely and isolated, or even a portent of evil left over from the clash between gods and their forefathers, but the story has spread to every corner of the peninsula.
Most residents treat it as an ill omen, a dream featuring such a sign means bad tidings or a scary story to make sure children obey their parents and stay in line. It is those among the Salt Desert that seem to recon it more than a story. To them, it is a portent of doom, of fear, a blight on the land and a curse much too strong for their gods to eradicate. There are even whispers that it is the Tower itself that has blighted the land and rendered it devoid of succor. Common descriptions describe the tower more than its actual functionality, but it is disconcerting nevertheless: a cyclopean structure that pierces the heavens themselves.
But other residents of the Shadowglade have been questioning a fact about the desert: the desert natives welcome outsiders for trade, but there is a particular parcel of desert that is forbidden to outsiders and natives of alike. There are whispers of almost a heartbeat, a ticking of the clock, like some great beast is slumbering beneath the sands. No one that goes there has ever returned.

Type

Megastructure

Izzard "Izzy" Exogryph's Second Expedition to the Salt Desert, page 4
Whereas once I gave no credence to such preposterous prattle and chest thumping, the exact history of the tower, while nebulous at best, does possess some unique variations and intricacies once one speaks to the Salt Desert's barbarous natives. Truly, I cannot fathom how my compatriots would overlook such an obvious source of knowledge on the topic. Backwards and deficient they may be, and, true, the desert is unrelentingly hostile, but one must make the plunge, pack a bag, and do some legwork. I expected some great similarities to common myths, but—lo!—my findings have uncovered some disconcerting incongruous stories that I can't wait to run past the desk of my friends.

While I made peace and broke bread with the locals, dining on some grilled lizard that was a popular delicacy of the area, I observed my guides for the best time to ask my questions. I had learned in my first voyage to never underpack cloths if I am to trek through the desert, and was not about to succumb to such folly once more; the layman may not realize, but the desert gets unbearably cold at night and it is very possibly to die of exposure alone if one is not properly prepared. It had escaped me why such a lifeless place could possess life, but it was then as I wandered a short distance from camp to a rocky outcropping where our caravan's hunter Jarro caught our meal did I see why. Creatures avoided me as I approached, but nevertheless I saw what was the early stages of frost. The Centerspine Mountains do shield much of the Shadowglade from the outside world, but it also prevents the salt desert from receiving water from the ocean that is so close to it. Barren this land may be, water found a way into desolation. As I returned to camp, and the locals were telling stories, I took my opportunity to ask about the legend that had driven me to this hellish place, but once the faintest inkling dripped from the mind of one and into another, the natives grew quiet. I knew the look before one could even say lies on the matter: it was fear. 
Backwards savages they may be, I did not take them for a cowardly lot. There is a fine line between ignorance and brutality, the latter which has commonly been ascribed to the locals, but no people that choose to live and indeed thrive in such a place can be called cowards: I have seen the Hanko Wyrm that calls the desert its home and a fully matured beast's skull in the museum in Mir. The entire line of wagons that make up our very caravan could fit in its jaws alone.
Needless to say, there is a courage to these people. I will try again later to see what crumbs I can get from Jarro. He strikes me as an amenable sort.