The Bracken Woods there is no other word for spirit

That single paw he had slid forward through the decayed leaf litter remained where it was, and after some time, he placed it more squarely. Rionach was not going to hurt him. If she had plans to do it, Prophet reasoned that she would have done it by now. A clever thought was never discounted but he gave others the benefit of the doubt and believed that sly tricks were left to the coyotes and foxes of the world. If hers had been to make him comfortable and then slay him when he was least expecting it, she would succeed at it.

Thus comforted by her lack of aggression, the man drew his paw back closer to his body and stood more sturdily. She spoke in a voice that was quiet and exotic to his northern ear, and also a hint of a draw to it. Prophet listened, then shook his head. "Not that I have seen," he assured, and it was true. Though the frigid north was not hospitable to man, they came often enough that even the Arctic wolves knew of them. They hunted the fat seals on the shore and sometimes even felled the mighty polar bears. They walked on spindly legs, upright like mobile trees, but shorter, and they command lesser hounds with stern words and jabs of their appendages.

Prophet had seen man but a handful of times and each time they instilled in him an unspeakable fear, but he had never been approached or harmed by one. When he couldn't see or smell them, they were far from his mind. If the slight silvery female was concerned about man, he could only imagine there was a good reason for it. "Why did you leave it?" he queried, curious to know if his guess was correct.