Silverfox turned to face the T’lan Imass. Silence. Kruppe shivered. The air was pungent with undeath, the gelid exhalation of dying ice, filled with something like loss. Despair. Or perhaps, after this seeming eternity, only its ashes. There is, all about us, ancient knowledge – that cannot be denied. Yet Kruppe wonders, are there memories? True Memories? Of enlivened flesh and the wind’s caress, of the laughter of children? Memories of love? When frozen between life and death, in the glacial in-between, what can exist of mortal feeling? Not even an echo. Only memories of ice, of ice and no
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