The Bracken Woods there is no other word for spirit

Again he was surprised, pleasantly, by the fleet-of-feet wolf's response to him. While he gathered her scent from her resting place and the prints she had stamped into the ground, she drew nearer instead of dancing away. A wild part of him expected her to take the opportunity to disappear, for while he wasn't harmful by nature and didn't really believe in pleasures of flesh, he was still a predator and a male to boot. It wasn't uncommon for wolves to cross paths tensely without acknowledging each other, at least not where he was from. But Rionach stepped toward him instead, and when she stretched out her neck, he understood. She was as curious as he was about others.

His burnt chocolate fur rippled with tense agitation, something the nearness of any unknown wolf drew out of him, but Prophet held still but for edging forward a single paw. He was poised to dart forward should she take any unfavourable action toward him. Her soft voice lilted on the breeze and soothed some of his concern that she would turn aggressive, however, and he breathed light fog from his lips as he asked, "these woods yours?" There was no claim scent, but it only took one night for a drifting wolf to move in and begin setting up. Prophet could never be sure.