Honeyed Pasture dread it, run from it.

What Wintersbane did not understand was that there was more than just a problem. To ask such a question would do very little good when faced with the wild-eyed beast that trudged toward him. Smokestep did not halt in his approach and he did not waver, in spite of his thin limbs and gaunt features. There was something careless about him, but not in a way that teased at a lackadaisical nature. No, the pallid creature simply did not seem to hold much concern for his own wellbeing. He was already dead, after all. What was the worst that could happen to him there?
 
“She has requested that I collect you for her,” he answered the stranger in a solemn and raspy tone. Then, Smokestep shrugged his shoulders as though he expected his words to make perfect sense to the tundra wolf. It was only then that the fleeting figure of the ghost slowed his pace, but he had all but closed a vast majority of the distance that had stretched between them only moments before.