I've just written the first two sentences of a story I've been outlining for ages, and the second of them may be one of the longest sentences I've written in a while, if ever.

It was late afternoon when the three ghost-eaters came upon the dead village, where the foothills of the Apex Mountains laid down to meet the lowland plains.

Days had passed since the trio of Luminari left the valley of Silence, days of descending the mountains via mist-shrouded passes and snow-choked gullies, through scree and stone, fog and avalanche, fording treacherous rivers and silvery glacier-fed streams still swollen with the late Autumntide rains, through forests infested with leeches squirming hungrily for heat and blood, until finally they reached the lower slopes where yak grazed like phantoms in the mists, and the cries of unseen shepherdesses echoed off the distant cliffs.

Can you tell I've been doing some research on the Himalayas?