The Bracken Woods there is no other word for spirit

As he sidestepped, the fine-boned female took off, leaving him bereft of company. Prophet expected her to keep going until the silver-brown of her fur melded into the dark, never to be seen again, and so stilled his momentum to watch her retreat. She did the unexpected, though, and turned back with a graceful twirl of her paws. Their eyes locked momentarily but then the usual unease of holding another wolf's gaze crept up on him and he allowed his to drop, opening the floor up to the nameless woman. The scent of her lingered on the spot she had left and he approached it with deliberate steps, dipped his nose to the ground and inhaled, collecting vague information about her origin, her age, sex, and all those other pertinent things.

What was a name but something to refer to someone by? He didn't need it to feel like he had learned something of the skittish she-wolf. She was classified by scent and given a name in his own head—Rabbit, after the fleet thing that had catalyzed the encounter—and he had no need to further classify by name. Prophet was, however, a curious beast indeed and he took a slow step forward rather than leaving, parting a twiggy bush with one of his own svelte legs, and lowly said, "hello."