With the snowfall came the ghost, as if the ice took on a mortal body. Materializing from nothing but dust. The snow would not linger long where it had fallen - and nor would he, drifting as he did. Soon enough the specter would be somewhere new again, and winter would follow at his heel. 
For now things were calm. It was not yet morning, but the full-dark of the night had faded too. There was a grayness to the world, a dullness. The forest before him was dark too - holding on to the night perhaps, willing he stay upon the beach until the sunrise - it was old, it was gargantuan, but the ghost would not be slowed. The Teekon would soon be engulfed by the winter, and he would finally be home.
The wolf would eventually find his way out from the ancient forest of giants; he would cross in to the north with the hopes of pursuing the familiar chill, that which he was most fond of. For now, the creature would linger - would haunt - until he was satisfied.

The ghost drifted around the trees at a leisurely pace. He navigated the circumfrence of one, then two, then three of the massive old things before he took notice of the shadow.
She was his antithesis; there is a nervous energy hanging about her that he detects on a glance, and then he stops his gradual drift. He is the mist clinging to the trees, slipping in and out of the greyness as he approaches the wayward girl.
Has she been injured? There are wounds upon her skin - no, he thinks, just superficial. Patches of her shadow-self have crumbled away. Is that was has her so startled? There is barely any change in his demeanor as the specter closes the distance. He has no fear of her, or of this place.
The sunlight catches across his snout finally, and proves he is alive when his eyes alight with fire; but he winces back from the glare of it, ducks in to the gray, and sits waiting for her to make first contact. Whatever sort of situation he has found himself within, the ghost puts the power in to the girl's hands - for he knows how he has been received in the past, and will not put himself at risk again.

He is not a fan of the sunlight. There is nothing wrong with him for having a preference, although it is odd that such a creature would be so obviously avoidant; he seeks the cool shadow and watches her from the safety of the darkness, letting his eyes adjust again. There are blots of blue-orange across his vision but they fade, and she comes in to focus again.

Her question is odd to him. The intonation, the evidence of care present despite their lack of connection. Why did it take hundreds of miles of travel to find such a creature as this? But the ghost does not dwell; he refuses to make connections between this shadow and the last - although he is reminded of a name suddenly, as the wind sweeps between the cedars - Sithi.

Looking briefly to the sky, he watches the last of the autumn leaves tremble. It is as if the wind is giving away a secret; when he glances at the stranger (curious if she could hear what he could, if the stories of the north had been brought this far) and he only sees concern upon her features. There is no understanding. Good.

The specter clears his throat softly and with a breathy (if a bit chilling) tone states, Finne ajjin jin? Then, with a frigidity reserved only for the cold-blooded, he watched her with an expectant - perhaps even hungry - glint in his eye.

There is quiet, and then she answers - looking less concerned for himself specifically, and much more confused overall. It dawns on him at this point that the northern isles are probably too far removed from this place. Maybe they do not speak the same language? But he does his best to appear harmless to her; he is not outwardly warm or inviting, he does not wag his tail or do any physical thing to indicate that he is an ally (because he is unsure of that himself), but the ghost does not grow impatient or angry. He merely waits, and when she speaks... There is confusion all around.

Se guēsin iksis brōztagon Jin? he murmurs in response, and it is as if the chill has dropped from his voice. The language has shifted too, for in his surprise the ghost has slipped back to the old tongue of his mother - yet in hearing his own voice speaking the tongue aloud, he seems to falter, to think, and is suddenly grim. He slides closer, smooth as ice as he ducks around the sunlight, and adds: Iksis bisa aōha lenton?

He is closer, and so it is easier for him to detect the truth. The shadow is layered with many scents and while the forest is among them, it is not the strongest. There are others - many others - and the familiar mark of mountain among them. 

Something he has said has caused her to pause, to look at him with new eyes, and he wonders if perhaps she does not understand him after all - if they do not understand one another. When she pulls away from him the ghost merely stands there and watches. He does not try and explain nor does he give chase; if she is more comfortable away then that is where she must be, and he remains the observer. What little hope he held that he was not alone, that perhaps his wandering would be over, has been extinguished. The mist withdraws then - sliding backwards, ducking head, murmuring something in his foreign tongue to himself with a grim tone, and moves as if to depart. The spirit would rather leave her guessing than expose himself for real - to try and make this work - so for now he retreats.