The Bracken Woods death is on the wind

It had not been her intent to wander this far north, as she'd tethered herself, in the figurative sense of the word, to the southern range. She'd done too much wandering, too much empty bloodletting, and it was time she settled her paws someplace. But habits died hard, and thus the wraith had come to the north, back up the way she'd come when she'd reentered the Wilds a few weeks ago. 

It was silent; the silence of the Wilds, the holding in of a thousand breaths after the fury of a storm, waiting to see if the peace would last. Last night's storm had waylaid the wraith, had her take cover and fade beneath the onslaught of ice an snow. There was a certain beauty after the storm, in the light that set the ice-covered needles and branches afire, the silence and the golden light. But the woman looked at none of these things, concerned instead with the male that had come to lay in her path, settled firmly atop his perch of rock.

The wraith stopped, appraising, gaze lacking any spark as it trailed once over the hulking form. He reminded her in some ways immediately of Vengeance,  but that male was gone, now, and the promise he'd made with him. She was motionless, the only sign that she had not stepped into the stranger's vision only to turn to stone being the twin columns of mist that floated before her every few moments, lit by morning's light a fleeting moment before dissipating.