"In my exile I often envision your eyes, wide and blue and dumbstruck, as the body of Signak our chieftain was laid before you. The werak saw how I looked at his mate, Ili your mother. To them, my guilt was as plain and sharp as the crack of spring ice. As they stripped me bare and left me to die on the glacier, the warmth of life departed me, but not the bitter will to hunt, to strive, to survive--perhaps to prove I needed no one, least of all those who wronged me. I am only at peace when I paint my marks and craft these offerings to you, though they will never touch the warmth of your hands."