Barrow Fields it's brains without hearts have set saint against sinner

His surprise is short-lived, as he does not find much interest in a lesser creature such as a fox. When he redirects his attention to the soil once more, the fox speaks - and again, he is surprised. It is not a common thing to hear. The ghost turns and regards the stranger again, this time studying her petite features more closely, hungrily, and realizes much to his own horror that this is in fact a wolf.

She speaks again - and he, still ignorant, merely parrots back to her, Grave...? his voice is a mere breath of sound. It takes another moment before the ghost recognizes the sounds (at least in part) as the same language as the creature from before; this invigorates him, imbibing him with a rabid curiosity. He drifts closer to investigate this fox-wolf and discovers swiftly that they share a scent. 

Mountains. They are from the north - perhaps not as far-off as himself, but far enough. He can taste the cold in the air around her. But, regretfully, the pale man remembers that he cannot convey what he wishes to convey - so he is silent, and his rapturous hope fades as swiftly as it has come.